I left a rose at the bottom of the big black sea

[darlingdatura]

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.

Comments

[emet_sulk]

He could hardly ignore the overbearing presence of Light as it entered his domain. It drew the eye, prickled at his senses. A calamity struggling to remain contained by the fragile soul of the Warrior of Light. Emet-Selch emerged out of the rift from his hiding place as they fell heavily against the railing. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone like the lonely ticking of an antique clock as he drew as close as he dared to Novrandt's new would-be Lightwarden.

"It will hurt the more you continue to struggle against it, you know."

He was almost proud of the way he managed to keep his voice even even as pity swelled in his breast. He really, truly wished they had been strong enough for this.

"Just let it go."

[emet_sulk]

He could hardly believe he's doing this. Acting to save the very thing he had condemned? It went against everything he has been working for. His mind spun excuses for his own behaviour as he stalked the shadows, eavesdropping on key parties as they discuss the unassailable Light. The people had been quick to surrender hope after the creature had proven its inexorable strength against the combined might of Eulmore's and the Crystarium's armies. Despair had set in, as expected - as planned - and the First would soon have been ready to rejoin the Source.

The Scions had initially tried to remain in the First, but the increasingly tenuous connection betwixt body and soul forced them to confront the impossibility of doing so. Making use of the Nu Mou hermit living in the elves' old palace, he helped craft a way for the Scions to return home and then followed them there.

Emet-Selch shadowed the Scions' activities. A trickier feat than it sounded considering there were not a few Echo-blessed amongst their allies. The prevailing mood in the Rising Stones was sombre. They had lost their strongest ally, and supposedly, that meant the Eighth Umbral Calamity would strike in the near future. This only cemented Emet-Selch's theory that the Exarch somehow came from the future. But that was neither here nor there now.

But as was the mortal way, everyone picked themselves up and strove to find a means to avert calamity on the Source instead. Garlemald would need to be dealt with: either by victory in war or in parley. One of the twins however, restless for action, voiced her desire to resume trying to find a means to reverse tempering. Emet-Selch latched on to this desire desperately and began to plot.

There was little time left. He would lose Azem if the First was swallowed in calamity, and there was no guarantee that their next incarnation would remember aught about him or about themselves.