arkitect | (noct) ic inbox

With the stage set in such a way, how could I fail to provide?

[He reaches out to take the blossom, fingertips gently catching its stem. A symbol of hope, is it...?

Only natural that she'd retain it, then. It's a very Azem-like thing.]

From my understanding, 'twas his own handiwork that he felt was so entertaining. I suppose it to be only fitting that he would be the only one who thought so.

I hope it's consolation enough, for finding out that you'll be robbed a little longer of your rest. At least your encore will be spectacular.

[Is there hope enough in that, she wonders, however slender a thread it might be? It may not be much of a future, tis true, but it's more than he had when this conversation began.]

He did give the impression of relishing every moment of his machinations. But he's certainly not laughing anymore.

[She pauses.]

Would that I could forget some of what he did, myself. But I can't.

[For now, he keeps the flower in hand, quietly turning it for a moment and watching the color reflect from its petals.]

What did he do, precisely?

Precisely?

[It's an obvious verbal feint, mostly. A subconscious remark shoved in for no other reason than to buy an extra second of time before having to find an answer. Telling, she thinks a little sourly, but it's too late to take it back now.]

His plan began with breaking Zodiark free of the brands that held him in place on the moon. They used a network of aether siphons scattered across Eorzea to consolidate a massive amount of aether in one tower in Garlemald, and then just...fired at the brands, I think. One by one to break them.

[Her lips press into a thin line.]

To buy time and keep us distracted from his aims, Fandaniel abducted me. Used some sort of technology to separate my soul from my — from my —

[Twisted in the sheets, her knuckles are white.]

He put me into the corpse of a Garlean soldier, and let Zenos take my body. He made lively sport of it, watching to see if I could catch up and intervene before Zenos reached our camp and used my own hands to kill all my friends.

Honestly-- the entire point of Garlemald may have been its eventual descent into chaos, but utilizing the remains of my empire in an attempt on our Lord, not to mention my supposedly dead great-grandson...

[Excuse the fuck out of him, but he's the source of all of that, thank you very much.

It's not difficult to see that it troubles her, though, and for a few moments he falls silent.]

...still, I suppose even that much failed to stop you, did it.

[It should be horrible to contemplate, she knows. Both the thought of what Garlemald was reduced to by the time Eorzea's armies invaded, and the offhand way he owns up to what the empire's purpose had always been — the subjugation, the senseless bloodshed, the cruelty meted out firsthand onto her people and even her own tribe —

But there's one note of ironic humor in it, too, and it keeps its roots in the sulky possessiveness of it all. Emet-Selch says my empire the same way she says my things, and if nothing else, she can resonate with the affront at having someone else touch and take and misuse what she's claimed as hers.

Seven hells, it had been one of the things that brought them to blows themselves, back on the First.]

I'm not good for much, but that does seem to be one of the few things I've a knack for, aye. Refusing to be stopped.

[...]

You know there was something...wrong with him, don't you? Your...your great-grandson. Mayhap that suited your aims, I don't know. I didn't want to have to fight him, in the end. I didn't want anything to do with him, but he forced my hand regardless.

I do know, yes. There always has been, and it certainly wasn't improved by the subsequent experimentation.

[But having him there still did suit his aims, in a way, when the intent was never to leave Garlemald stable after his death. No great loss that he died, but no great hindrance if he lived, or so Emet-Selch had assumed.

Perhaps he had underestimated how well that experimentation would work.]

Regardless, I am unsurprised he would make himself a thorn in your side. Were you able to put an end to him?

...Barely. It was a close thing.

[Too close. Terrifyingly close. She'll have scars on her knuckles for the rest of her life from where they'd torn open as she'd hit him, barely conscious of her own actions any longer, pushed to such desperation that she'd only wanted him dead by any means necessary, no matter how unwise or incomprehensible.]

I wish I'd known that trick of yours, the one you do with the aether chains. I could've used it, fighting him.

...mm. Well, while I cannot teach you creation, mayhap such a spell would be more appropriate for your given abilities.

[He says it idly, with a wave of his hand-- dismissive from the beginning, as if saying it means absolutely nothing.]

[When she'd mentioned Grani before, it had been to bait him for a reaction; now, hearing his reply, Summer can't help but wonder for a flash of an instant whether he might not be doing the very same to her in return. It's not just the promise of the spell, though, for all that eagerness floods her veins at the prospect of being taught. It's the way he sounds when he says it, a cadence to his tone that she now knows hasn't changed in thousands upon thousands of years — so much so that she she half expects him to warn her that she'd better not misbehave with the knowledge he's so graciously offering her, and winds up a little surprised when the reality doesn't bear out what her subconscious had already halfway filled in.

It's as though something that had previously been clouded-over and obscured has gradually become visible, over time. She understands better now what to look for, how to brush past the pro forma condescension and sift out the significance underneath.

This is — not kindness, not exactly. Not sympathy. But at the very least, approval of a sort. A prize for coming back alive, for being her ridiculous self, for living when everything she'd gone up against had done its damnedest to see that flame snuffed out.

He'll gripe and he'll complain about the tedium and burden of teaching her, and it will be a reward for good behavior. As much of one as coming when she'd called out for him — surely Emet-Selch of all people could have resisted the summons with ease if he'd chosen to.

Emet-Selch's designs are one tongue even the Echo itself couldn't hope to translate. It's nice to have at least the most basic of footing in it by now.]

Really? It's so simple even a child could do it?

[It's nice to have a better idea of how to speak it in return, too.]

Doubly embarrassing for me should I muddle it up, then. I'll have to try hard not to disappoint.

So you shall. I would expect no less-- else I wouldn't bother to explain it to you in the first place.

[He's not in the habit of wasting his own time on such things, and even being dead hasn't changed that; there's more of a note of approval in his tone, though, at her response. Something like this is far preferable to eager thanks, more palatable, easier to take in.

He supposes it's a part of why, despite the ways in which she (like all of them) can be utterly exhausting, he doesn't mind her presence as much as he protests he does.]

Mayhap with time, you will develop the capability of a slightly older child.

A feat for which my esteemed tutor will claim all the credit, I'm certain.

[But it will be something she can keep, even so — and one unique to this specific man, this particular shard of Emet-Selch that but for being brought to this strange and distant star, she would never have known of otherwise. Some things always stay the same, from circumstance to circumstance. The things asked of the Warrior of Light don't vary much regardless of who stands in the role, or so it seems.

But it's not the Warrior of Light who would learn this. It's just her. A skill for her and only her, because he and only he gave it to her.]

Regardless. I'm sorry that the star that endures isn't the one you loved. I hope it's some small consolation to know you'll at least have the chance to avenge the one you lost.

(noct) ic inbox

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject