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Every death starts with a question.
The notion seems ridiculous, even to Emet-Selch himself—he still remembers days when death wasn’t even a part of his dictionary. And yet, as he’s set adrift once more, the question comes back, nagging at the back of his skull. To ignore the question is to linger. To answer it is to move on.
Emet-Selch hears all the answers. Little do people know just how loudly the Underworld sings.
And yet, it could only be through Hythlodaeus’ meddling to have them all make room for his own voice. The pull of his soul is not unlike a stubborn hand tugging at one’s sleeves. Emet-Selch moves two steps backward, and Hythlodaeus takes three steps forward, pulling him along. Such was their way, always and forever.
When all the voices die out, the ground under them becomes solid, and Emet-Selch opens his eyes.
Some souls, annoyingly persistent more often than not, are capable of creating entire realms under the sea of stars. Such realms are nothing more than waiting rooms, but not even Emet-Selch is completely immune to their beauty.
An endless meadow stretches before them, and above stars, finally unpolluted by the light of ever-busy souls, trying to find their way in the darkness.
A familiar voice speaks directly into his ear, “You will grow to miss them, my old friend.”
When Emet-Selch turns around he sees a grinning youth, his long hair gathered into a high ponytail. How young was Hythlodaeus back then? Surely, it had to be from the time they’ve joined Academia, and before the magicks of a certain overzealous student set them on fire. Emet-Selch spent thousands of years with Lahabrea, and yet he still refused to admit it ever happened.
“Oh?” Hythlodaeus grins, running his fingers through the ponytail. “How sentimental of you, Emet-Selch.”
Hythlodaeus himself has of course no means to transform. If anyone could reverse him to his younger self, it could only be a formidable mage, and even Emet-Selch can’t blame it on the Underworld’s trickery. It’s hard enough to transform your own body—to transform another, one would need not only a tremendous amount of aether, but also a most intimate knowledge of their body.
Knowledge and skill which, save for Azem, only Emet-Selch could possess.
“This reminds me of some other alternations you inflicted upon me back in the day,” Hythlodaeus continues in a teasing tone. “Remember that time after Azem came back from Elpis, and offered to give me—”
“That’s quite enough of you,” Emet-Selch groans, hiding his face in his hand. “Your current…exterior represents a fond memory, if you must know. Nothing more, lest you allow your mind to wander.”
“The first time we’ve met,” Hythlodaeus smiles fondly. “I remember. Forgive me for teasing you so, old friend.”
“I still remember your very first words to me,” Emet-Selch takes a step closer to put his hand over Hythlodaeus’, still stroking the ponytail. “I see it too. Don’t be afraid, can’t you see how beautiful they really are?”
And yet the shimmering souls of the Underworld could never compare to those of his dearest friends.
“Did I ever tell you,” Hythlodaeus says. “That I could tell from the very color of your soul that we were going to fall in love?”
“Ridiculous,” Emet-Selch snorts. “I do not doubt your soul-seeing talents, but how could you possibly tell?”
“Trade secret,” Hythlodaeus grins. “Perhaps, if you ever train your sight to be as good as mine, you’ll be able to see it too. You can even become my disciple, oh most eminent.”
“And Azem?” Emet-Selch asks, merely rolling his eyes at the comment. “Could you see it in them too?”
“Naturally,” Hythlodaeus nods. “Azem was born to love us both. To love was the greatest gift we’ve ever received from the star.”
Somehow Emet-Selch cannot find it in himself to doubt his words.
Hythlodaeus’ eyes narrow just slightly, straining to see further than Emet-Selch could ever reach. “How funny,” he says, his tone suggesting everything but. “That you, out of all people, would try to fool the rules of this place. Unless—”
Unless he refuses to see it.
Of course, a question of his own lingers on the tip of Emet-Selch’s tongue, pulling on the very seams of his soul. To rest in peace is the most fervent wish of every being to ever walk the star.
Emet-Selch has long forgotten he used to be one of them.
“Even after all these years, you choose to torture yourself so,” Hythlodaeus’ chuckle lacks his usual cheer, but his eyes are full of love and kindness, and it’s enough to put Emet-Selch at ease. If it wasn’t for the slight turbulence of his aether, Emet-Selch would believe Hythlodaeus to be unaffected by the sudden change of the atmosphere. The two of them created this world together. Of course, it would answer to something so silly. “You wish to know, then ask. You’ve waited for twelve millennia to ask me this one question.”
Under the watchful gaze of his friend, Emet-Selch feels small. Smaller, and smaller still, until nothing remains of the imposing figure. His identity as the Thirteenth Seat seems to shrink within until there’s naught more than Hades left.
He reaches out and finds his hands to be small. The mask he puts on his face is plain white. Hythlodaeus’ kind laughter makes him shrink even more. “Come now,” he hears him say. “Things are not as grim as that. I’ve told you before, haven’t I?”
Yes, he told him. How many things were said back then, under the burning sky? They’ve lived far longer than the current residents of the star could imagine, and yet it seemed like all that time was filled with mindless chatter. It was only then, as they watched their home’s tragedy unravel that they’ve decided to only say things that hold meaning.
The words were terribly naive, and cruel in their simplified meaning. Promises that would be more suited for children.
I’ll be back. I’ll find you. Stay safe. Live.
The shorter the phrase, the more desperate the plea.
Hythlodaeus takes his small hand in his with a warm smile. “Up we go, no brooding! Don’t you want to see yourself? You’re quite adorable, if I dare say so.”
They cross the meadow until they find themselves on a small bridge. Emet-Selch crouches closer to the ground, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the gentle waters.
He reverted to a child, a spitting image of his son when he was ten years old. The child truly belonged to Solus, but as he held him for the first time, he realized if he ever fathered a child during his days in Amaurot, they would be equally perfect. Back then, it wasn’t that they didn’t talk about it. Hythlodaeus nagged with his usual persistence, but Emet-Selch kept stalling—we have time, don’t be impatient, look toward the bright future we’ll build for them, surely there are things more important than that…
He pulls the hood over his head with a sigh. “I was a fool.”
Hythlodaeus clicks his tongue impatiently, kneeling next to Emet Selch’s crouched form. “All of us were fools. Personally, I intend to become a little smarter now that I have nothing but time. Some people say you only learn by asking the right questions.”
For a moment, they both hear Azem’s laughter ringing through the meadows, loud enough to make the ground shake. ‘Only curiosity can bring us salvation. Aren’t you two tired of sitting behind your desk all day?’
“Did it hurt?” he asks in a small voice.
The right question to give Emet-Selch a semblance of peace. A childish, foolish question. Azem would like that for sure.
Hythlodaeus doesn’t laugh, his eyes crinkling in a brief ghost of a smile. “Yes and no.”
Before Emet-Selch manages to open his mouth, he continues, “You see, this place might be my doing. I would often end up here—asleep but aware of its presence. A meadow you and Azem would have loved. A place where I knew you’d wish to find me. One way or another, it didn’t feel to me like twelve millennia. It simply felt like…stasis. An unpleasant dream, but not a nightmare quite yet. Perhaps that’s why I created this—a home for us to come back to.”
On the other side of the river, there is indeed a small cottage that Emet-Selch somehow failed to notice, or perhaps Hythlodaeus has hidden it from him intentionally. It looks a little different than a traditional Amaurotian home, but it’s lovely regardless. Undoubtedly an inspiration he took from the current Azem’s lodgings.
“You were never able to create spectacles such as this one when we’ve trained back in school,” Emet-Selch accuses childishly. “You’ve barely passed basic aether manipulation classes.”
“Maybe I just had some hidden talents?” Hythlodaeus grins. “And I have more tricks up my sleeve, I’ll have you know.”
He gathers the unsuspecting Emet-Selch into his arms and somehow, Emet-Selch can’t find it in himself to struggle. He lets his eyes close with his head pressed against Hythlodaeus’ chest, lulled by the stable heartbeat. Hythlodaeus’ magicks are still weak, but Emet-Selch feels their gentle flow buzzing under his skin, so familiar that it almost feels like his own.
When he opens his eyes, they’re both back in their adult bodies. Hythlodaeus feels for his signature braid, letting out a pleased hum. “This turned out better than I expected. Say, aren’t you proud of how far I’ve come?”
“Hythlodaeus,” the name feels so foreign on his tongue, and only then does he realize he hasn’t said it out loud for thousands of years. “What is all this? Surely, we’re past the theatrics. Don’t you have your own questions? Your own doubts about all of this?”
“I’ve never had any doubts,” Hythlodaeus says. “No doubts, no regrets. Not when it comes to you, or Azem.”
“Then it doesn’t bother you,” Emet-Selch persists. “That back then—”
It always held him back—even in his nightmares, he never went as far as that moment. The taste of ash on his tongue, a vibrant red sky beautiful in his terror. A fist clenched to keep himself from reaching out. The echo of Hythlodaeus' footsteps as he walked away. The words he said under his breath to keep himself from screaming them out loud. Anything to keep himself from begging on his knees to have him stay.
The curse of their kind was ever their unshakable belief in another’s resolve. And he wanted to believe in Hythlodaeus so badly.
Hythlodaeus cocks his head to the side, seemingly unaware of Emet-Selch’s inner turmoil. “What doesn’t bother me?”
“That I never said it.”
He does a poor job of hiding a smile. “Said what?”
Emet-Selch doesn’t answer, closing the distance between them to place a gentle kiss on Hythlodaeus’ mouth. Their lips barely move against one another, too content with each other’s presence to rush through it. He briefly wonders if back then they’ve ever kissed like this. They were so young, so foolish, so full of lust, and too content with the luxury of time they thought they had to enjoy each other fully. Hythlodaeus tastes like fruits of the faraway islands where Azem would often take them, even if his brain insists he shouldn’t taste like anything at all. And yet, the kiss is what keeps him from saying it. A promise he was always scared to truly fulfill.
That’s why when he parts, inhaling the flowery air carefully, the first breath he actually took since setting his foot in the meadows, they’re the first words out of his mouth: “I love you.”
It feels silly to say it after all this time.
But of course, Hythlodaeus knew from the moment they’ve met. Perhaps that’s why he never needed to say it. They were always so busy, too busy, and when it really mattered it would become nothing more than a poor excuse to keep Hythlodaeus at his side. Their people never wed. They never made ceremonies or silly little rituals the way people after them did. There were no Twelve to bow to, no gods to fear.
To say these words was enough. Their people never lied about spending the rest of their days together.
Hythlodaeus’ smile is brighter than the stars, brighter than any soul Emet-Selch has ever seen, including Azem’s. “I love you too. And I do hope when our friend comes here, you’ll greet him with the very same words. Don’t even try to be childish about this! Even I can get cross with you, you see.”
“So you’re still resolved to—”
“Together,” Hythlodaeus says. “Or not at all. I’m content to wait and watch them from the sidelines. All the beautiful lives they’ll live until perhaps, someday they’ll decide to call it their last adventure.”
Emet-Selch can’t help but smile.
Such was Hythlodaeus’ way—he would never doubt that they’ll stay at his side. Ever optimistic, ever confident about everything except his own skills. But even that, he finally managed to overcome. If it were him, stranded in the rift for twelve millennia he would undoubtedly be the same as ever, keeping his brethren from falling apart.
Because in the end, he would always believe their souls would find their way. They would be reunited. A belief that comes not only from foolish hope—Hythlodaeus’ insight into their souls goes far deeper than Emet-Selch can even dare to imagine.
But still, there are yet some things only he would know. Not as the Thirteenth Seat, but simply as Hades—the one for whom the Underworld sings louder than any other.
He snaps his fingers.
The flowers, slowly one by one fill with light, their color too familiar to remain unrecognized.
“Too bad they don’t have soul sight to appreciate the gesture,” Hythlodaeus laughs. “But thank you, Hades. I’m sure they’ll see the light from the deepest ends of the Underworld.”
“Azem’s last adventure,” Emet-Selch sighs. “Whenever it comes, it’s bound to give even you a headache.”
Hythlodaeus pulls at his hand but says nothing. Slowly, they begin their climb toward the cottage. There’s no wind, and yet the flowers still chime like little bells with every step they make. To live is to ascend towards the heavens. As the hill becomes steeper, Emet-Selch becomes sure Hythlodaeus didn’t miss the irony of that.
It’s only when they’re at the top that Emet-Selch speaks again. “And after? When they’re set adrift in the rivers of Lethe, will they still remember to greet us?”
Eternity stretching out like a boundless sea. Hythlodaeus’ hand tightens in his for a moment, only to lace their fingers—the final weapon against the inevitability of waiting.
“There is no doubt in my mind,” Hythlodaeus smiles as he looks upon the paradise of their own making. “That even if they do forget, they’ll always come home.”