Mikh'tan Moshroca (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
darlingdatura) wrote2020-11-08 12:29 am
darlingdatura) wrote2020-11-08 12:29 am
I left a rose at the bottom of the big black sea
The Scions wouldn't have agreed to this. Barely tolerated the presence of the Ascian, certainly didn't like or trust him speaking to Mikh'tan. Not that this ever stopped the little Keeper from seeking Emet-Selch out to talk whenever he showed his face. If he was ever bothered by the man's barbs and smart remarks, he was especially good at letting it roll off his back. Seemed earnest in trying to bridge the gap between them, to find some common ground. Held a hope that they could find some third option between the idea of one or the other. Something. Anything.
It wasn't such idealism that had him sneaking away from the Crystarium in the dead of night though. He'd kept a brave face on things, but it was impossible for him not to realize what was happening to him, long before anyone actually admitted it to him, long before he was starting to crack apart ilm by ilm under the strain of the glut of Light Aether. If any of his companions had any idea, they'd surely stop him but no one was expecting him to leave, to slip away to Amaurot.
For all he wasn't a creature of darkness, there was some semblance of relief in the malms of ocean water above blocking out the Light he knew stained the skies, all but prickled up the back of his neck. The Miqo'te managed several steps away from the aetheryte before he felt a surge that had the white creeping in at the edges of his vision, that searing cold all but carving it's way through him, sending him stumbling hard as he dropped his bag, grabbing for one of the railings to at least avoid hitting the ground. Tail frizzing as he let out a low, distressed noise of pain behind his hand, fingers quickly stained with the glow of liquid aether as the air positively crackled with the same energy making more of that awful white and gold creep over skin like a poison.
It would take him a moment to be able to go looking or call out, if Emet-Selch wasn't already aware of his presence. He held no real illusion that this wasn't exactly what the Ascian had been planning, but at the same time...
He didn't see a way to make this stop. Didn't want to be alone in what he was afraid would be the final days or even hours he had left as himself before the Light subsumed him.
He'd spent too much of his life alone.
It wasn't such idealism that had him sneaking away from the Crystarium in the dead of night though. He'd kept a brave face on things, but it was impossible for him not to realize what was happening to him, long before anyone actually admitted it to him, long before he was starting to crack apart ilm by ilm under the strain of the glut of Light Aether. If any of his companions had any idea, they'd surely stop him but no one was expecting him to leave, to slip away to Amaurot.
For all he wasn't a creature of darkness, there was some semblance of relief in the malms of ocean water above blocking out the Light he knew stained the skies, all but prickled up the back of his neck. The Miqo'te managed several steps away from the aetheryte before he felt a surge that had the white creeping in at the edges of his vision, that searing cold all but carving it's way through him, sending him stumbling hard as he dropped his bag, grabbing for one of the railings to at least avoid hitting the ground. Tail frizzing as he let out a low, distressed noise of pain behind his hand, fingers quickly stained with the glow of liquid aether as the air positively crackled with the same energy making more of that awful white and gold creep over skin like a poison.
It would take him a moment to be able to go looking or call out, if Emet-Selch wasn't already aware of his presence. He held no real illusion that this wasn't exactly what the Ascian had been planning, but at the same time...
He didn't see a way to make this stop. Didn't want to be alone in what he was afraid would be the final days or even hours he had left as himself before the Light subsumed him.
He'd spent too much of his life alone.
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"In the end, it matters not," he says in a low voice. "They set themselves in opposition to me. They chose their side. And now you - my poor, broken Persephone - have your own choice to make."
Leaning down, he presses a kiss to Mikka's temple. "I am, ultimately, still one of Zodiark's servants," he murmurs. "You were not able to hold the power of every Lightwarden on the First, but your awakened state may yet be of use to us. Your friends have been forced to return to the Source, leaving behind that meddling Exarch and a world which has sunk deep into despair since your advent. What will you do now...?"
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The state of things was miserable to be sure. That his friends had safely been sent home was a relief, but the despair of those who remained... that it was because of him? That hurt. Especially for why for all he couldn't bear overmuch to think on those jumbled memories.
"What if... we could free you? As you freed me?" Mikka spoke up softly, thoughtfully. "I don't expect that to change your goals, insofar as you wish to rejoin everyone, but Zodiark... I can't help but think his influence might... keep you from seeing other, better options, tempered as you've admitted to being."
He was torn, both as Mikka, and as Persephone. He didn't want to leave Emet. Abandon him to this, forsake him... but at the same time the people of the Source and it's shards... he didn't want harm to come to them either.
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"As if I would stand by docilely and allow it," he sneers. "There are no better options. Do you think my brethren and I have not considered aught else? We have had thousands upon thousands of years to try.
"...Besides which," he adds in a mutter, mouth pressing into a thin line, "removing His tempering now would only kill me."
It would be a lie to say a part of him does not want it. How nice it would be to lie down someday, close his eyes, and forget about the world.