[Nothing then, by that flippancy displayed in such a bizarre twirl. Hermes may very well be truly dead.
Whereas Fandaniel does not quite know the implication of that choice of words spoken unto this man, he, of course, had known them well. And the implication makes his head lower, makes him refashion and pull his makeshift hood over his head oncemore. For those words, spoken in that meeting room an age ago came to him, and frequently, during the millennia spent within Zodiark's heart.
In the midst of the shades, all wailing, all screaming, confused and pained and lamenting Hydaelyn, Venat, the most vitriolic of them even pointing their despair toward the Convocation even, all mourned the loss of everything. Yet he had reflected. He'd questioned whether anything about the decision he had made was beautiful. He'd revisited Amaurot, or what was left of it on that awful, terrible day, in his mind again and again, and he'd relived his decision in silence.
Feeling himself die, his aether siphoned from its home of familiar flesh and bone, amassed and compacted, implanted within Zodiark with so many other souls, was not beautiful. It was anything but, frankly.
...But it was not a return to the star. A detour, perhaps, to the star's will- to their savior, fashioned of their wisdom and their ingenuity- given sentience and treated as a god of their own making- which would transport them to where on Eitherys they were most sorely needed. They would be pulled out once their task was complete and-
and retrieved by those who led. Reunited with those they loved. But that was not to be.
What came later, eons later, at Fandaniel's own hand as he slaughtered their savior, slaughtered them, could be considered more accurately a return to the star- a shard of their star. Yet that was not beautiful either. It was something marked by fear, by pain, by screaming. For none of it was right. Even their end.
As Fandaniel stares at him with ink-black eyes, long stripped of all feeling save the very worst of them, he finds himself silenced. A breath is taken- long, tinged with regret- and if the other were to listen intently, perhaps he should hear him swallow.
Had he heard, had he not, it mattered not. For he speaks once more.]
...For lack of anything more apt to say, Do forgive my inadequacy. As I've mentioned, I'm quite terrible with these things, you shall not end our journey. That is the answer of all lives of Eitherys, past and present.
[He gazes at him once more, his head shaking, lightly. Well. He had fair butchered that one. But what could be said? Emet-Selch always had a far greater capacity for declarations made on behalf of an entire planet's denizens than he.]
We journey yet still. Far after your death, and far unto the future. Your hell, regrettably, [The Meteia. And the hells they took unto themselves, formed unto song.] is to be silenced. Someone we both know quite well has been given the means, and is seeing to that.
[And with Azem and their companions, he's sure, all will be well. A faint smile quirks beneath his makeshift cowl, for when has the thought of that one ever not elicited such?]
no subject
Whereas Fandaniel does not quite know the implication of that choice of words spoken unto this man, he, of course, had known them well. And the implication makes his head lower, makes him refashion and pull his makeshift hood over his head oncemore. For those words, spoken in that meeting room an age ago came to him, and frequently, during the millennia spent within Zodiark's heart.
In the midst of the shades, all wailing, all screaming, confused and pained and lamenting Hydaelyn, Venat, the most vitriolic of them even pointing their despair toward the Convocation even, all mourned the loss of everything. Yet he had reflected. He'd questioned whether anything about the decision he had made was beautiful. He'd revisited Amaurot, or what was left of it on that awful, terrible day, in his mind again and again, and he'd relived his decision in silence.
Feeling himself die, his aether siphoned from its home of familiar flesh and bone, amassed and compacted, implanted within Zodiark with so many other souls, was not beautiful. It was anything but, frankly.
...But it was not a return to the star. A detour, perhaps, to the star's will- to their savior, fashioned of their wisdom and their ingenuity- given sentience and treated as a god of their own making- which would transport them to where on Eitherys they were most sorely needed. They would be pulled out once their task was complete and-
and retrieved by those who led. Reunited with those they loved.
But that was not to be.
What came later, eons later, at Fandaniel's own hand as he slaughtered their savior, slaughtered them, could be considered more accurately a return to the star- a shard of their star. Yet that was not beautiful either. It was something marked by fear, by pain, by screaming. For none of it was right. Even their end.
As Fandaniel stares at him with ink-black eyes, long stripped of all feeling save the very worst of them, he finds himself silenced. A breath is taken- long, tinged with regret- and if the other were to listen intently, perhaps he should hear him swallow.
Had he heard, had he not, it mattered not. For he speaks once more.]
...For lack of anything more apt to say, Do forgive my inadequacy. As I've mentioned, I'm quite terrible with these things, you shall not end our journey. That is the answer of all lives of Eitherys, past and present.
[He gazes at him once more, his head shaking, lightly. Well. He had fair butchered that one. But what could be said? Emet-Selch always had a far greater capacity for declarations made on behalf of an entire planet's denizens than he.]
We journey yet still. Far after your death, and far unto the future. Your hell, regrettably, [The Meteia. And the hells they took unto themselves, formed unto song.] is to be silenced. Someone we both know quite well has been given the means, and is seeing to that.
[And with Azem and their companions, he's sure, all will be well. A faint smile quirks beneath his makeshift cowl, for when has the thought of that one ever not elicited such?]