Chapter Text
"If you had the strength to take another step, could you do it?"
Ardbert's hand feels malms away as she reaches to grab it, her skin burning as the Light sears her from within. But she manages to grasp onto him and allow his soul to become one with hers as it originally was so long ago.
Then, their combined soul reaches out and pulls, and she isn't sure if it's the Light or the absorption of Ardbert's soul, but she's being stretched in all directions to the point that she fears she's going to shatter.
Until the resistance ends, and that which she is pulling answers her call and arrives. In this world of white, she's facing a group of fragments that resonate with her. Fragments of her.
One by one, they reach out for her and vanish. The one saturated with void energy hurts when they rejoin, but the pain of the Light and soul merging is already so intense by then that the added pain is enough to push her into numbness.
And despite the battle of Light and Dark raging within, she feels whole.
And she's…
The Light fades and she's standing on a floating rocky platform across from an unfamiliar man, but the name Emet-Selch comes to mind. Not that he resembles her Emet-Selch all that much. Maybe a bit in the face and eyes.
The world in the distance is Etheirys, but the fire falling from the sky can only mean that this is the Final Days. That can't be right though, can it?
Memories float to the surface and show her that this is not real. This was all made by Emet-Selch.
He's staring at her. Is it because her mask has fallen to the ground? Not that he's wearing one. Her robes are still in place as well, and properly modest unlike the robe-adjacent ensemble he's wearing, so he has no right to be appalled at any part of her appearance.
"My mind has memories that say you are Emet-Selch, but you cannot be Hades… He would never have me relive the Final Days. He would never test me in such a heartless manner."
A stab of pain shoots through her skull like an icepick, and she takes a stumbling step forwards to avoid falling.
Her body is burning from the inside, tongues of fire licking from just beneath the surface of her skin. The cacophony of voices from memories overlap each other and roar in her ears, fighting to be seen and heard by her. So much so that as she sees Emet-Selch's mouth move, she hears no words from him.
The way his eyes are wide and filled with a combination of worry, surprise, and slight anger is so Hades, it makes her smile.
She takes another unsteady step towards him, the metal lining the toe of her boot scraping against rock as she struggles to lift her foot off the ground rather than slide it forward in a shuffle.
Another icepick stab shoots through her skull, bringing her to her hands and knees. A wave of memories play out in front of her eyes, and she's keenly aware that they are hers, but not wholly. The emotions of most of them are rather dull, except for one set. Yet, all together, the flood of them has her head spinning.
Emet-Selch's knees come into view as she stares at the ground. The weight of his hands coming to rest on her shoulders feels far away, like it's happening to somebody else.
Her organs all feel like they're twisting around each other, and she tries to curl in on herself as if it would alleviate any amount of the agony searing her body from within.
"What's… happening to me?"
Emet-Selch doesn't know what happened despite seeing it play out right before his eyes. In an instant, the Warrior of Light is transformed into Azem.
Fully. He sees how her soul is pieced back together. How the edges of each piece meet the edges of another. How one section is saturated with the darkness of the Void, and he hates to admit that he is uncertain about what that will do to her Rejoined soul.
Even her physical appearance adjusts. The slight differences of the Warrior are replaced by the familiar features of Azem. Her clothes and mask even appear, like she's been pulled straight out of the past and set in front of him. The one thing that doesn't change is her height. Azem is perfectly recreated in front of him with the Warrior of Light's height instead of towering over the mortals as she would have had she been plucked right from her own time.
Which means she isn't a relic of the past, but has been recreated to fit the present.
No matter the questions he has, when consciousness slips away from her, he pulls her into his grip. As she was in obvious pain, he tries to be gentle in his hold of her. Yet he fears that she'll be gone again, so he clutches her close to his chest with a desperation he almost forgot is possible to feel.
As far as he can tell, her soul is not at risk of shattering anymore. The Light roils within her–and most certainly cannot be comfortable–but the piece of her soul from the void-covered reflection looks to be counteracting it well enough for the moment. Given the internal war in her soul, it's no surprise to him that her skin has a feverish burn and her face is flushed.
"Step away from her, Emet-Selch!"
The Crystal Exarch, with his hood down and wound sluggishly bleeding now that he's gone and reopened it, walks towards them with his staff as a support. Though he's in obvious pain–and Emet-Selch is frankly amazed that he's awake at all–he continues his slow pace towards them.
His words make Emet-Selch clutch Azem closer. "I will not let go of her."
The Exarch's mouth sets into a thin line. "Then, I shall–"
"Shall what?" Emet-Selch asks, cutting him off. "Take her by force? You can hardly stand. Besides, if I wanted to kill her, wouldn't I have done so by now rather than hold her?"
"You could have killed me, but opted to incapacitate me instead. How am I to know that you aren't biding your time to kill her later?"
"Surely, even you can see that she is no longer the same. In fact, if you are so close with her, tell me her name. If you can, I will hand her over to you without a fuss."
It's a bit of a gamble, but he is unable to remember what she was called before Rejoining into Azem. Whoever the Warrior used to be, Azem has overwritten her so completely that the name used by the majority share of her fragments has been wiped away from existence. Given how similar the feeling is to the time in Elpis that Kairos erased his memory, he has a theory and the Exarch will be testing it for him.
The prolonged silence from the Exarch is his answer, and the distress on his face as he realizes he cannot recall the name of his precious hero is more than satisfying to witness.
"As I suspected," Emet-Selch says. "Well, as she may have memories that make her view you lot favorably, I will hold to my promise of being an ally in the case that she managed to contain the Light. Your Warrior has fully Rejoined with the fragments of her soul. How or why, I know not, but she is not the person you once knew. She is the person I once knew."
"Rejoined or not, she is not an Ascian!" The Exarch tightens his grip on his staff.
Emet-Selch scoffs. "Of course, she's not. She fought our decisions bitterly until the end, even back then. Regardless, she is now Unsundered and has distanced herself even further from the realms of what you mortals are able to comprehend."
"Then, what are you planning to do with her?"
Emet-Selch adjusts his grip on Azem, keeping one arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, to lift her with him as he gets to his feet. "It may be hard for you to believe, but I'm not planning anything nefarious. What happens next… I shall allow her to decide it."
"You know that we can't trust you."
"I do know that," Emet-Selch says. "So, I'm going to tell you that I'm taking her back to the Crystarium, though I won't be making it easy for your Scions to break in and spirit her away from under my nose. They should learn to have a proper conversation instead, really."
Before the Exarch can reply, Emet-Selch snaps his fingers and sends him and the Scions to the Crystarium. He aims vaguely for the empty area in front of the Crystal Tower, not particularly caring about accuracy for them.
He only sends them to safety, and where they might be easily found and given medical treatment, as a courtesy to Azem. How cross she would be with him if she found out he left the friends of part of her soul in a recreation of the Final Days. He certainly doesn't want to have an argument right after he gets her back.
Another snap, and he takes Azem back to her room in the Pendants.
This is unexpected. He had hoped to test the strength of her sundered soul, and in doing so returned it to its Unsundered form.
Unexpected, yet not unwelcome.
Azem lies on her bed, a cloth wet with cool water carefully placed on her forehead. She hasn't stirred, but he doesn't think she will for a while. Being bombarded with thousands of years of memories from fragments of her soul can't be an easy process for her mind–or body, given the state of her soul and the Light within–to handle. Should something happen to her soul because of it, he will be there to fix it to the best of his abilities.
In the meantime, he watches her, amazed that Azem is right in front of him after twelve thousand years apart. And not just a fragment of her, but all of her. He would have taken her to his recreation of Amaurot, but he didn't want to risk upsetting her at the memories of their former home.
Though, having her rest in Amaurot would have saved him from listening to the Scions attempt their break-ins to the room. They are welcome to continue wasting their energy against his wards, but the sight of their souls lingering outside is rather tiresome.
He'll have to choose a few of them to speak with, but which ones to choose? Most of them he finds to be rather intolerable. Which is unsurprising considering there were many times he questioned Azem's choice of friends when she regaled him with tales of them from her travels.
He'd already tried talking to the Exarch. Sort of.
The gunbreaker is not an option, hot-headed as he is. He will not be interested in talking, and shielding an indefinite number of attacks is a waste of Emet-Selch's energy.
The twins… No, too emotional. Too protective of Azem.
That left the astrologian, sorceress, and oracle. Truly, he isn't enthusiastic about any of his options.
While he ponders who to invite in that won't be inclined to try killing him on sight, he walks over to the large mirror in the room.
He doesn't want Azem to see him as Solus. Not that he isn't proud of what he managed to accomplish in this body, but it was yet another life he suffered without her presence. He needs her to see him as Hades… as her husband.
The Garlean Third Eye fades from his forehead as his hair turns fully white and lengthens until it reaches a little below his chin. The color of his eyes adjusts slightly, and a subtle glow emanates from within them once more.
How many years has it been since this face has looked back at him in the mirror?
The robes… he has to change them. What's the fashion these days? The non-Garlean fashion?
He settles on a style he recalls seeing along the line. A robe that's more of a tunic with a high cowl that flares out at the bottom, but is cut to show his pants and boots beneath. Black with gold embroidering looks good, doesn't it?
He discards the thought of gloves. He will not be missing any chances to feel the softness of Azem's skin or the lush strands of her hair. Not again.
With a sigh, he figures it's good enough. Azem was never one to care about appearances, though their society didn't allow for individualism like this. Still, he assumes his luck in regards to speaking with the Scions will improve if he looks decidedly un-Ascian.
It takes only a glance at Azem's sleeping face to make his efforts feel worthwhile. Everything that happens next, it will be for her. He will follow her to the ends of Etheirys, because the last time he let her leave without him resulted in an absence lasting millennia. He cannot bear to be apart from her that long again.
He glares at the door, however, and the souls that keep plotting beyond it. Gritting his teeth, he adjusts the warding of the room and writes out one simple note that he slides under the door saying:
The astrologian, sorceress, and oracle may enter.