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The night had been cold and blissfully uneventful; a rare occurrence in Lakeland, as of late. With worn-out fingers, Montblanc was untangling the tempestuous mess of his hair—a ritual the miqo'te indulged in before sleep whenever he could afford it.
He sometimes wished unruly hearts could be tamed as easily.
“Emet-Selch,” Montblanc said to moving shadows.
The man has come unprompted, as was his wont. His visits were frequent, and not all unwanted; tonight however—Emet-Selch hummed somewhere behind him, and Montblanc wished he hadn’t come at all.
“Would you let me help with that,” Emet-Selch offered.
Never did Montblanc surrender so hastily to the man’s inexplicable whims. Exhaustion was running deep in his very bones—yet something stirred in him, deeper still. He himself had carved the comb he handed the ascian.
Then, ungloved fingers ran and ran and ran; through his hair and mind alike, undoing braids and barriers both. Emet-Selch was awfully quiet, as was not his wont—and it felt—it felt like halcyon days and memories of old Montblanc could not quite remember. It seemed like an impossible truth was gnawing at his soul—timeworn and broken into pieces, light pouring through the cracks—yet forever out of grasp.
Emet-Selch eventually brushes his hair aside, fingers soon gently running on skin instead, and Montblanc can’t breathe—he’s unbelievably vulnerable now, his already half-open haori the only armor against none other than the most dangerous, powerful of all ascians—
—who yet looks at him with a fondness so painfully honest it frightens him, frightens them both.
“Emet-Selch.”
It is but a desperate whisper, tight-laced with sorrow and need and hope, and so—and so the unyielding Emet-Selch gives way at long last.
“Oh, damn it all—”
The third time, the title barely escapes Montblanc’s lips at all, as the man buried between his legs bites and digs and tugs oh-so-expertly at the seams of his tattered soul. Emet-Selch has his body in clutches, his for the taking, and so he does; with abandon, and greed.
They’re like moths to a flame—scars laid bare for none other to see, as they come undone again and again and again—and it tastes like ashes, and honey, and warm, fresh blood; feels like ages ago yet doesn’t—until there’s no more to be tasted nor felt but yearning—for a home long lost to the ruthless tides of time and sea both.
Magic is woven in the dark, afterwards; Emet-Selch thinks of a flower, its color ever familiar.
And as the sun rose anew, so did the Warrior of Light. Petals shimmered in the sunlight, catching his good eye—then, as the truth of it unfurled and the ghosts of many, many kisses faded from his lips, Montblanc wept.
The past of another and his present, entwined—no telltale happy ending in sight nor any choice left but to tear the skies asunder once more, till Light takes him—or them all.