Chapter Text
You lay on the ground, bleeding, your weapon broken and useless. The spectral warriors who’d fought with you are gone; destroyed, banished, returned to the wherever and whenever from which the Crystal Exarch had summoned them forth, you don’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve lost the battle and Emet-Selch... no, Hades has won, and now you can only pray that he will finish it and kill you before the Light screaming within you can burst out and complete your transformation into a Lightwarden. Your life is forfeit but there is still a desperate hope that the First may yet be spared, and you cannot help but cling to that thought in your final moments.
Hades himself still looms over you, the massive dark wings and scything talons of his monstrous true form pulsing with swirls of black and violet aether, his many tentacle-like limbs writhing in the air. Watching you, waiting as if to be certain of his victory, to satisfy himself that you have no tricks up your torn and bloodied sleeves, no final burst of strength with which to defy him should he let down his guard. He needn’t wait much longer. The Light is boiling inside you and your resistance to it nearly gone.
“Please,” you gasp, “just end it. Kill me, make your victory complete.”
A sudden terror seizes you at the thought that he may have intended this end all along, for you to become a Lightwarden and set upon your friends, ripping into their bodies and devouring their aether as he watches. The Scions had tried desperately to aid you as you faltered during the battle, only for Hades to flick them away like annoying insects. Now they lay helpless on the ground nearby, bound and tethered by that strange dark, writhing aether which coils about their bodies like chains. You know they are alive, all of them, but either they are unconscious or Hades has somehow prevented them from speaking.
Why else would he let them live, if not to amuse himself by forcing you to end them?
You are snapped out of your macabre thoughts by a deep rumbling sound that seems to echo across the emptiness of the void on which this battleground was wrought, and you realize that Hades is laughing. Aether coalesces around his huge form in wreaths of mist, and he steps out of the haze in his mortal guise. Emet-Selch walks towards you, a satisfied smile twitching on his lips.
“Oh, my dear hero,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “My victory is already total and complete. Why wouldn’t I wish for you to share in it with me? I never intended to kill you.”
He gazes down on your trembling, prone form, and you are suffused by horror as the Light wracks your body once more. You cannot stop it, haven’t even the strength to scream.
“Mmm, I think not,” he says, his voice barely registering through the fog of pain and terror and hatred that your world has become. “You’re of no use to me as a Lightwarden, hero. It seems I’ll need to offer my assistance once more; do make an effort to appreciate it this time.”
He bends down and easily gathers you into his arms as the dark aether swirls about him once more, enveloping you both in violet-tinged blackness. As his Darkness touches you, the Light bursting forth immediately recedes and you can’t help the desperate sound of relief you make, or your undignified squeak when he tips your chin up and presses his lips to yours. Your mouth opens unbidden before reality can catch up, and when he licks at your bottom lip and slips his tongue inside, his aether follows, filling your mouth and sliding down your throat, rushing into your body as if chasing down the retreating Light.
The cool Darkness surrounds you and blooms inside you, denying the Light everywhere it touches, snuffing it out like a candle. Light continues to spill from your skin but the Darkness is there to meet it, soothing the burning heat, calming the boiling flood of it inside and out. Through it all you are dimly aware that Emet-Selch is still kissing you and you cling to him like a lifeline, shivering in his arms as he nips at your throat with teeth that are sharper than they should be. Whatever scheme he has in mind, it will be preferable to completing the transformation and murdering your friends.
Hours, days, eternities pass this way, the Ascian’s Dark aether absorbing your Light as he kisses you. Or perhaps it is only a few minutes, but eventually it is done. The excess, hungry Light inside you is entirely spent and all that remains is the spark of Her blessing, as it always has been. You are completely, utterly exhausted, but now is not the time to give in to oblivion’s sweet call. You will not become a Lightwarden, but there is no time to savor the relief that comes rushing in at your escape from that fate. After all you are still defeated and in the hands of your enemy, and in a most literal fashion. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, indeed.
Now that the Light no longer seethes and boils within you, you’re becoming very aware of the more physical hurts you suffered during the battle. Your body aches, it hurts to take a breath and you know one or more of your ribs are broken, as is your arm from the moment when a grasping tentacle snapped your weapon into pieces. Your blood stains Emet-Selch’s clothing where he holds you pressed against him, the bright red matting the fur of his overcoat’s collar and soaking his sleeves.
Following your gaze to the bloodstained mess you’re making of his Imperial raiments, he heaves an aggrieved sigh. “You fought well, hero, though you must know it was a rather pointless gesture. Allow me to tend to the damage your futile efforts have wrought.”
He shifts your weight in his arms and bends down as if to set you onto your feet, but your half-stifled cry of pain causes him to pause, realizing the unlikelihood that you will be able to stand on your own. “So fragile,” he murmurs, placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head, and you blink in confusion. Then you’re gritting your teeth in pain again as he moves you, laying you down onto something soft-feeling that cradles your body, supporting your neck and the back of your head, your shoulders, waist, under your knees… with a start you realize that Emet-Selch has loosened his hold on his mortal form just enough to allow the tentacle-like limbs to reappear. They hold you aloft easily and gently, suspending your broken, bleeding body in the air before him, and a look of genuine regret comes over his face.
“Be still,” he chides as you wriggle in the hold of the strange appendages, trying to see where they connect to the rest of him. You feel uncomfortably exposed and so very helpless, held up like this as Emet-Selch examines you. One gloved hand comes up in the beginning of a familiar gesture, but he halts before the expected snap, a pained expression crossing his regal features. Delicately wrinkling his nose at the formerly white silk now colored nearly crimson with your blood, the Ascian pulls off first one glove and then the other, dropping them to the ground with an expression of resignation. You can’t help but notice that his pale hands have tips of gleaming gold, wickedly sharp and closer to claws than fingernails.
He snaps, and your eyes widen in shock. Your armor, your clothing, has vanished, leaving you clad only in a thin undergarment that covers your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his gaze. You instinctively try to bring your arms up to cover yourself, but your wrists are being restrained by the tentacles. Caught between embarrassment and fear of what he intends to do, you let out a little whimper and then immediately begin to flush, humiliated by the sound. You are accustomed to being strong, powerful, in control. You walk without hesitation into dangers no one else is capable of facing, and you are no stranger to pain and injury, fighting on even when your body is grievously wounded. You stand tall through grief and fear and horror, letting others lean on your strength.
You’ve never felt this helpless before. Not even when you were a green adventurer taken captive by the Amal’jaa, waiting to be sacrificed to the primal Ifrit long before you knew Hydaelyn’s blessing would protect you from tempering. At least then you had a chance to fight. Now the battle is long over, you have lost, and all that is left is to endure. You cannot even struggle, held firmly in the grip of your enemy with your broken body displayed nearly nude for him. You squeeze your eyes shut and are horrified to feel tears trickle unbidden down your cheeks.
“Shhh.” You feel his fingers gently brushing away your tears, a cool slide against your skin as the surface of one lethal claw touches your face, carefully keeping the razor edge away from your delicate skin. You open your eyes, expecting to see a mocking smirk. Instead Emet-Selch is watching you with concern in his golden eyes, and you can’t help but feel the emotion is genuine though you don’t understand why.
“You’re going to bleed out unless your wounds are healed soon,” he says, “and for that I’ll need to touch you. I have not lied to you, my dear, so please trust me that I mean you no harm. I intend to keep you and I’d prefer my prize alive and undamaged.”
Your eyes widen and new panic begins to thrill through your veins at this last declaration, but it doesn’t matter whether you trust him or not; there’s nothing you can do to stop him as he begins running his hands over your body. His touch is light, barely brushing against your skin, and it leaves behind a cool, shivery sensation that raises tiny hairs on your arms. Now and then he presses down gently on particularly painful areas, his hands warm against your chilled skin, and you realize he’s healing injuries inside your body as his aether washes over you, finding the places where you’re bleeding and repairing them.
After only a few moments the shivery feeling recedes, taking your pain with it and leaving your body entirely good as new, and you wonder why it surprises you that Ascians should possess such potent healing magic. Your experiences with Emet-Selch, after all, have taught you how very little you know of the powers they command -- a thought that is borne out yet again when he snaps his fingers and a veil of dark aether surrounds you once more, as you struggle in the unyielding grip of the tentacles that still hold you fast. It sinks painlessly into your skin and you feel something solid beginning to coalesce around your neck, constricting until it encircles your throat firmly but without discomfort. Realizing with horror what it must be, you tug desperately at the tentacle restraining your wrists and this time Emet-Selch releases you, allowing you to grope blindly at your neck, fingers scrabbling to find a catch or fastening. There is none, of course. The collar is formed of a smooth unbroken substance that cannot be true metal; it is warm against your skin and pulses very faintly in time with the frantic beating of your heart. You know without being told that it will not come off unless Emet-Selch wills it.
“Enjoying your new jewelry, my dear?” he asks, voice radiating satisfaction and smugness. You glare at him in helpless defiance and his smile only widens. “Ah, but allow me to explain. That, hero, is an obedience collar. A personal creation of mine of which I admit I am rather proud. You’ll find yourself quite incapable of defying my wishes, though for now we’ll begin simply: you are not to attack me in any way, nor will you lie to me. I’ve given you only the truth and I expect to receive it in return.”
“You absolute bastard,” you spit out, grinding your teeth. Now that your injuries are healed you find yourself itching for a weapon, just to prove him wrong.
“Now, now. Petty insults are beneath us, my dear. Do at least aspire to a veneer of civility. I am well aware that beneath the warrior’s strength lies a woman of beauty, wit, and charm; I’ll not have you hide yourself from me.”
Your mouth drops open in momentary shock -- Emet-Selch finds you beautiful? -- and he takes advantage of your distraction to release the hold his myriad tentacles have on various parts of your body and let you slide unceremoniously to the ground. You sit there gaping foolishly up at him for a moment before recalling your current state of undress; flushing, you cross your arms over your chest to cover your breasts. The gesture does little to hide your generous curves, but you refuse to let your nakedness bother you any further. It’s exactly what he wants, for you to be embarrassed and off-balance, and so you aren’t going to give him a single onze more of your pride.
Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow at your futile attempt to cover yourself. “Did I not just say that I won’t have you hiding yourself?” he asks, letting out an exasperated noise. “Fine. If you’re so reluctant to have me look upon your body, then by all means.”
Another snap of his fingers and a bundle of white cloth appears in his hands; he tosses it at you unceremoniously and you scramble to catch the soft material before it can land on the ground. Unfolding it, you find that he has given you a dressing robe of rich silk, embroidered in glimmering silver thread and trimmed with fine lace. It crosses your mind to refuse the gift out of simple spite, but you know you’ll feel more comfortable dealing with him once you’re no longer completely exposed, so you put it on. The silk whispers against your skin as you tie the sash around your waist, and it occurs to you that you have never owned anything so fine.
“Thank you,” you say, deciding that there is no point in antagonizing him. He smiles, a genuine expression of pleasure that you have never seen on his face before. It makes him appear softer somehow, and you admit to yourself that Emet-Selch is rather pleasing to look upon, has always been so.
“You are most welcome, my dear,” he says. “You’ll soon discover that I take very good care of that which is mine. If there is anything you desire, you have only to ask; I do aim to please.”
“Anything other than my freedom, I suppose,” you shoot back, uncomfortably reminded of the precarious situation you’re in. You don’t want to belong to him like some sort of prize or a shiny new toy, but he's already demonstrated that you cannot hope to match his power, even surrounded by strong allies. Now you are alone and unaided, and he’s put a damned collar around your neck as if you were an unruly pet. You haven’t yet tested its ability to ensure your obedience, but you have no doubt that it can and will.
“Aside from that,” Emet-Selch agrees, still smiling. “Come now, is it really so onerous to find yourself in my keeping? Are you afraid, hero?” He cocks his head to the side, studying you curiously, as if he truly cannot understand your objection -- but his golden eyes are smirking at you. You’ve never seen anyone smirk like that without the expression touching their lips, but he’s doing it.
“Perhaps this will reassure you, then. I swear to you that you will come to no harm from me nor any other while under my aegis. I’ve no interest in an unwilling partner, and I do not share.”
A great swell of relief rises unbidden within your chest; until this moment you hadn’t been able to admit to yourself how much you feared the very real possibility that he meant to take you as an unwilling concubine. The strange collar pulsing gently at your throat would force you to obey, to spread your legs or open your mouth as he wished, and you would be helpless to fight back. Emet-Selch has never lied to you and indeed, he has no real reason to do so now, with you so completely under his power. You believe his promise that he has no interest in rape, and something inside you finally relaxes.
“What of my friends?” you ask, needing to test how far his goodwill extends. The Scions, along with the Crystal Exarch and Ryne, still lay unmoving where they had fallen during the battle. A closer look proves that they breathe easily as though asleep, and surely would have risen by now had Emet-Selch not found it more convenient that they sleep.
“What of them? I assure you, I’ve no use for that pack of irksome meddlers,” he says, sounding put out. “Although I would like to know how your so-called Crystal Exarch ever managed to send my Tower through the rift of time and space. It is my Tower, despite whatever claim he may believe he has; I designed and built it, it is infused with my aether, and I assure you that it did not have that ability last I checked...” Emet-Selch’s eyes widen for a moment as he trails off, and then he laughs unexpectedly.
“Clever, very clever. I had wondered how he managed to escape without my knowledge. The Tower was my creation and my aether suffuses its very crystal. Your Exarch has gone and bound himself to it, and so it is my magic that now keeps him alive, though I very much doubt he was aware of it. I unwittingly gave him the keys for his own escape, as Amaurot would recognize him as it does me.” He shakes his head in amusement, clearly pleased at having solved the puzzle.
“His name is G’raha,” you say quietly, “and he’s my friend. Please, don’t hurt him. You said that I could ask for anything.”
Emet-Selch makes an annoyed sound. “Of course you would spend my goodwill on behalf of your friends. I will not touch them, hero, if only because doing so would provoke your anger, and I do not wish to cause you distress.”
He raises a hand and snaps, and instantly the sleeping forms of your friends vanish from where they lay. Startled, you give him a questioning look. “I’ve sent them back to the Crystarium,” he says. “We will pay them a visit in the coming days, and I expect you to convince your merry band that it would not be wise to effect a foolish attempt at your rescue. I will not have you stolen away from my keeping.”
“Now, come with me,” Emet-Selch tells you. “I imagine you would like to rest, and we may speak further in more comfortable surroundings.” A dark portal opens before you, swirling with black and violet aether, and he takes your hand and helps you to your feet. Another quick snap of his fingers, and much to your dismay, he now holds a long silvery leash that is attached to the collar around your neck. He tugs gently at it, and having no other choice, you follow him into the portal.