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Azem’s familiar is quite the anomaly, Hermes decides.
His encounter with them, Meteion and the Elpis flowers lingers pleasantly in his mind, among other things. It’s exceedingly rare for someone like him to meet a kindred soul, but to find one in a familiar, let alone one belonging to a member of the Convocation, is an entirely other matter.
A very rare, very unusual matter indeed.
It does not help that Meteion’s behavior is minutely different than normal, either, he thinks. She looks at him with a slight, knowing smile, but Hermes cannot for the life of him understand why – or rather, it’s more that he does not want to even entertain the thought. No, not when his chest feels so very tight, and not when his own familiar seems so very interested in his current predicament.
So, as usual, Hermes decides to throw himself into his work as a distraction.
Paperwork here, a request to review a concept there, and his typical walk-around of Elpis’s myriad facilities fall into the daily cycle, but what he does not anticipate is the wandering of his thoughts as he pores over a researcher’s report.
No, what he does not anticipate is the gentle hand with which Azem’s familiar took when approaching the lightning sprites, or how their eyes lit up with curiosity and joy when he spoke of them in tender fondness. He did not anticipate another seeming to share his passion for such small creatures, nor for them to thank him so wholeheartedly for sharing his thoughts.
The way with which the corners of their eyes crinkled in joy when he praised them, the gentle, subtle upwards curve of their soft lips ...
He wonders then, what it would be like to kiss them.
That very thought is enough to make Hermes jump in his chair as he pulls himself back from daydreaming, and he feels pure ice run through his veins when the door opens unexpectedly, Meteion standing in the threshold, practically buzzing with delight.
That selfsame ice turns to a veritable wave of butterflies fluttering about the confines of his ribs when he notices her hand grasping the hand of the very same familiar who occupies his thoughts.
“O-Oh!” Hermes starts, mouth opening and closing as he hastily gathers the mess of papers upon his desk and makes to stand, gaze flitting between his own familiar and Azem’s. “I did not expect you to join us today – t-that is to say, I am pleased you are and you are of course, more than welcome to do so –”
Hermes’ rushed greeting trails off as Azem’s familiar’s laugh fills the air, subdued and good-natured as Meteion pulls them through the doorway and into Hermes’ office proper, the doors closing behind them.
“I did not want to bother you, as I am sure being the Chief Overseer has its many duties, but a little bluebird insisted I come visit you,” the familiar replies, their smile reaching their eyes. “She told me that you would like for me to accompany you again today as you go about your work. I would be more than happy, and honored to do so, Hermes.”
It is there that Hermes thinks his heart may have skipped a beat. Or two. Or mayhap even three.
He decides he likes the way their eyes crease at the corners when they smile, and with how sweetly they say his name. It makes a warm feeling blossom in his chest, one he fears to put a name to as he offers a weak nod and a smile of his own tugs at his lips.
But in the same vein, a trickling stream of thoughts unlike any other passes his mind and he feels a pit begin to form in the bottom of his stomach as they fit together like pieces in a puzzle.
The knowing smile Meteion has given him ever since he’s spent more and more time with Azem’s familiar.
His constant daydreaming of them, of showing them all the little miracles of Elpis, of watching the sun set on the horizon, together on a day of learning between the two of them.
The warm, welcoming, delicate feeling flutters in his chest and spreads to his very fingertips, blossoming like a bud in the spring.
By the star , Hermes thinks, trying his best to keep his face neutral as he rounds his desk and makes idle talk while the trio heads outside. He really is far more eccentric than his own peers, if his hypothesis proves true.
Shortly after they leave, Meteor begins to scurry ahead of them, peering at all manner of flora as Hermes and Azem’s familiar linger behind at a languid pace, easy conversation flowing between the two. Hermes discusses a few rather interesting creations that he looks forward to reviewing, namely some sort of plant-based creature known for its skill in song.
On this topic, he begins to speak in earnest, only spurred on by the familiar’s encouragement and vested interest. Time seems to pass both slowly and all too quickly as they make their way to Anagnorisis from Poiten Oikos, to a little grassy area at the boundary of the fencing. There, situated by a few rose bushes, is a statuesque creation hovering on wings of vine, strumming a lyre and singing a gentle song.
“This,” Hermes begins, gesturing to the docile creature, “is one of our newer creations. I have been put in charge of monitoring it, as the creator of the concept had to attend to unexpected duties in Amaurot. Though it does not have an official name as of yet, Meteion has come to call it Zoe – life , seeing that through its song, it nurtures and encourages the growth of flora around it.”
Here, Hermes throws himself into an impassioned explanation of the bewinged creation as it continues its song, seemingly unbothered by the two standing in such close proximity to it.
Azem’s familiar, or rather, the Warrior of Light, keeps their face schooled into that of interest, though they cannot deny that it bears striking resemblance to that of the elite mark found in Labyrinthos.
Both parties’ attention turns to a certain blue-haired girl as she practically prances towards them, two Elpis flowers clutched tightly to her chest. “I’m back!” she announces with glee, gaze switching between the pair as the wings atop her head wiggle in delight. “I wanted to … get a gift for the both of you to … m - match !”
Behind her, two unexpected guests linger a ways away, the white-haired one looking rather disgruntled, and lavender-haired one laughing behind his hand before he pulls his friend behind an inconspicuous bush.
The warrior catches a glimpse of them, but it seems Hermes has not, gaze affixed to the blossoms in the bluebird’s hands.
“I saw Mister Hyth … Hythlodaeus, and Emet-Selch! They helped me find more … Elpis flowers! Mister Hythlodaeus told me they would be …” Meteion trails off, insistent on following her creator’s wish of using her words. “They would be good gifts !”
Meteion does not need Hermes’s verbal admission – the amazed look painted across his features is praise enough. In her nature as an entelechy, behind the stark surprise, lies a glimmering sense of joy in her creator’s soul.
The warrior is the first to react, taking the proffered blossoms and holding one out to the Chief Overseer, a warm smile on their face as they thank Meteion.
And as Hermes takes it, his face mellowing into one of contentment, the glow from the flowers practically bathes the trio in its rosy light.
Rose-pink for love , is what he had learned in his studies on dynamis as he had learned.
And for a flower that had only dulled to black for someone like him, perhaps this was not an unwelcome sight.
No , not when Azem’s familiar’s glowed the selfsame shade in his presence. Of course, not that they would know the meaning of such a color, not when the knowledge of dynamis is so scarce.
Hermes finds himself going through a veritable ocean of battling emotions. Here, the truth lies plainly for him to see – of course such flowers cannot lie, but to engage in something so very … taboo , especially with his position, is practically unheard of.
At this hour, most researchers have retired to their respective rooms after a day full of study, and Hermes begins to wonder if this was all planned in meticulous detail.
Despite being caught in a web of emotion, the flower clutched in his hand still radiates a gentle pink hue, and it is by the warrior’s gentle hand upon his that he is finally pulled out of his thoughts. Both seem unsure of what to say, basking in the truth laid out so very bare between them both.
So the warrior does what they do best – speaking in action, rather than words. With tender hands do they boldly take Hermes’ blossom, reaching up to tuck it behind his ear, their fingertips lingering to brush against his cheek before pulling away to do the same for their own.
The warrior looks at him with the same knowing smile that Meteion had earlier, and as Hermes seems to flounder for an explanation, an offer, or just plainly something to say, Meteion takes one of his hands, and one of the warrior’s, joining them together and looking at the latter, chirping away.
“You should join us tonight! Hermes promised to make candied apples! If… if you can eat, you should try them! I’m sure Hermes … would love it!”
There’s a far-off cry of joy from someone who sounds suspiciously like Hythlodaeus, and a groan of annoyance from Emet-Selch.
Azem’s familiar seems pleasantly pleased by the offer, but there is no indication that they’ve picked up on the underlying intent of Meteion’s words.
It is then and there, that Hermes knows for certain that everyone but Azem’s familiar is privy to his feelings.
What a week this is turning out to be.