enchilahabrea-blog

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etosvitri‌:

“No, it’s not,” Demi says, choosing not to give voice to the thought that “asshole” is still a curable disease among Ascian-kind.  Or maybe it isn’t, and that’s why they’re called Ascians.  It doesn’t matter, really, except to her own desire to antagonize a former enemy, which at the moment would not be helpful to what she came here to do.

“But y’said yourself, you’re stuck here, malms and malms away from them that need help, so unless either of you–” she turns to her brother as he’s shooting another glare at the man “–have any ideas, we’re sunk.”

Tallyn shrugs, “To wake the Archons?  No.  Nor do I have any ideas on how to circumvent one of Urianger’s binding spells.  We’d need the man himself, or someone with an extensive enough understanding of his spellwork to undo the magic, and since everyone we know who might be able to is either comatose or unwilling…”  The glare shifts to his sister, who gives him a mad grin and reaches for her linkpearl without another word.  He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop her from calling Natan.  The man isn’t going to say yes.  In a thousand years he wouldn’t say yes to this, but if he fights Stella now she’ll only act more stubborn.  Better to let her hear a no from the man himself.

Which leaves him in the tense and awkward position of being an Ascian’s only company, while his sister’s off trying to get through to their last remaining Archon (and when he hears her excited “Nate!” he can’t help but be relieved that at least one is still with them).  He grumbles and moves off to poke around a stack of books, but the silence hangs heavy and it isn’t long before he’s making a reluctant attempt at conversation.

“So…who are you, exactly?” he asks.  “Or–who were you?  I can’t imagine you don’t already know our names, but…  Honestly without the mask I can’t even guess at your identity.”

“Names are funny things,” he says, in lieu of answering directly. “Using one can give you power over someone - ignoring one can distance yourself from others. From the very idea that who you’re speaking with deserves such an acknowledgement.” Absentmindedly, he plucks his spectacles off and cleans them with the sleeve of the tunic he’s wearing, mind drifting first to battles past and then farther and farther back. 

“I never bothered remembering names unless I needed to use them. It’s far easier to distance oneself from mortal life by avoiding those entanglements.” He shakes his head, mouth twisting a little bitterly, then he sighs. “I’ve no more idea your names than you do mine. But for what use it may be to you, you may have my name: Tiridates” He glances in the direction the girl went, then nods to himself. 

“Your white mage friend has already had his fill of me, I’m afraid,” Tiridates says, and raises an eyebrow in expression of oddly tired amusement. “He was rather... displeased with Urianger for seeking his help when my former compatriots made my position clear. But if your sister can persuade him, I’ll lend what aid I can. If nothing else, I do pay my debts.”

[enchilahabrea-blog]

etosvitri‌:

Tallyn answers with a guttural snarl, and it isn’t until he feels Stella’s arm across his chest that he realises he’s taken a step forward as well.  The siblings exchange a look, and he calms some.  Not enough to fully stifle the black that’s leaking out, but enough that it isn’t too threatening.  Yet.

“‘Cause he’s a bleedin’ heart,” Demi says in a flat voice.  “Once Uri decides you’re his, s’nothin’ that’ll change his mind, but he’s not stupid.  He knows most of us’d try an’ kill y’on the spot, given what y’used to be an’ what your…friends?  Er…co-workers did to us an’ ours.  ‘Course, now you’re claimin’ y’aren’t one of ‘em anymore.  Don’t know if that’s believable, but right, sure, might as well play along for now.  How’d one of their kind get cured?”

Tallyn rolls his eyes and mutters angrily under his breath.  This is stupid.  If the probably-not-former Ascian can’t or won’t tell them how to save the Archons then what are they even doing here?  The thing is only going to lie to them, or attack, or do something mad, and for all his bravado today isn’t a good day for heroic antics.  He’s pushed himself hard in recent days, and the crash is coming faster than he’d like.  If he doesn’t end up bedridden by sundown it’ll be a miracle, and that’s only if he avoids getting into trouble now.

“I’ll not disagree with that,” he says, leaning back against the bookcase and watching the children through half-lidded eyes. Perhaps they should frighten him more, given past history and their respective abilities, but Tiridates is simply... tired. “He’s too kind by far - whether that sort of thing is a weakness or a strength depends on who you ask.”  Of course they don’t believe him - why would they? He hadn’t thought such a return to existence as his own was possible either, until it happened.

At least today he’s aware of the date, and where he is, and who and what he has been. Some days, he still... he slips farther than he would like. Though perhaps if this had been one of those days, the boy wouldn’t have caught on to his nature. Or, more likely, he would have, and he would have been confused and unsure of how to cope with their hate. Fortunately, knowing means he expects exactly this.

“‘Cured’ implies it was a disease, and proves your ignorance. To have a blessing an a gift stripped away is more akin to a curse than the cure you would consider it. I know little more than you as to how - perhaps if she cast one of her chosen aside, you would have an example you’re less likely to kill before questioning. But I don’t believe it was my circumstances you wished to ask about.” 

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etosvitri‌:

Demi shrugs, “Not sure.  We all felt it, but only the Archons were taken.”  Why is that, she wonders?  Why only the Archons, and not the Warriors of Light?  They all heard the voice, so why didn’t all of them go?

But Tallyn isn’t really listening to the discussion of what to do about their comatose family.  He’s too focused on watching the man before him, in case something happens, and on puzzling out just why the aether in the room feels so familiar and unsettling.  Why his every nerve is on edge and his own mana is threatening to lash out in self defense.  If nothing else, it’s important he solve the mystery before worry makes him do something he’ll regret.

“Knew y’were hidin’ out here,” Demi says, her shoulders sagging in disappointment (of course a binding wouldn’t fade with Urianger’s say-so, and he isn’t around to say so).  “Didn’t know y’were stuck.  There goes that notion.”  So much for finding answers out here, unless… “You’ve been here a while, yeah?  Know any books that might have clues?”

Then Tallyn catches the man’s eyes, and lets out a sharp hiss as he reaches for his sister.

“Tal, wh–”

“Stella that’s an Ascian!  What in the seven fucking hells is an Ascian doing here!?”

The younger one is smart - smart, and wary, and well he should be... were there truly a threat here to be cautious of any longer. There is not, however, and it’s best this be dealt with now, before it can escalate into a scene. (Especially, he thinks, if Azad is nearby. The boy has been quite taken with utilizing every hidden pathway in this place of late and Tiridates is no longer certain at all where or when he’ll turn up.) “Do try to calm down. Your friend would be most displeased were you to accidentally damage one of his books.”

...Never mind that most of them are warded against the hazards of magical flareups, anyway. That isn’t the point. “I had rather thought the man had the sense to warn his allies of a potential threat,” he muses, then shakes his head. They’ll not harm Azad, of that much he can be assured, and really... that’s all he can expect or even ask for - he’s made himself a direct enemy far too often to expect civility.

“Why he chose to conceal information from you isn’t my business - but I’m afraid you’re only somewhat correct. I am as mortal as either of you, in no-one’s flesh but my own.” 

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etosvitri‌:

“N'uma cilme hyarya,” she says in a soft, husky voice, before clearing her throat and speaking up, stronger now.  “We’re not in a position to turn down information.  So whatever you’ve got’s good.”  The Archons are gone.  Their bodies lie empty, their souls pulled to gods know where, and Demi can’t stand the waiting anymore.  Alisaie and the other Scions have their connections, but they don’t know about this man, and while she has no reason to believe Urianger’s pet project will know anything remotely useful, she’d be a fool not to give every avenue a shot.

“Stella, who is this?” Tallyn asks, eyeing the man warily, his hair standing on end in answer to the power radiating from the air around him.  It’s weak, he thinks, weaker than it might’ve been once anyway, but familiar.  Familiar in a way that makes his skin crawl, and while he came along to make sure Stella got back to the Kienkan soon, he has to wonder now if this isn’t about to take an ugly turn.

But she simply shrugs at him, not taking her eyes off the man they came to see.  “They’re gone,” she says, assuming he’ll know who she means.  “All of ‘em.  Called.  Wanna by who, an’ how to get ‘em back.  Sooner rather’n later.”

“...Called,” he says, echoing the word in a flat voice. He doesn’t ask who the siblings speak of - there’s no need. These two would not come here if their comrades were well, and would not seek him out themselves if Urianger were not among those in danger. “If it is what you are implying... That takes a great deal of power. Do you believe it was an enemy striking at you? Or a desperate cry for aid from somewhere beyond your ken?” 

It could be either situation, he thinks. Neutralizing the Archons would go a long way toward aiding Lord Zodiark’s cause, and while he may no longer be connected to his former brethren or privy to their current activities, they have ever been thorough. But it could just as easily have come from elsewhere, another group or entity entirely, so long as they bore sufficient ability to reach out to another’s soul.

“I’m afraid that without examining them, there is little specific I can offer - and as I am bound to this place, such action is impossible.” Tiridates (that is his name, now, now and forever more, strange though it still is to hear) shakes his head, peering at the children over spectacles with eyes that are a little too old and a little too alien - he may lack much of what he was, but some marks on a soul do not fade.

[enchilahabrea-blog]

The doors into the Great Gubal Library don't open loudly, but the presence of the two youths who walk through them is no less forceful for the quiet. With her brother on her heels, the girl strides up to the man she knows has been living here for some time, her eyes red and puffy from crying, and levels a hard stare at him before speaking. "We need to talk."

It has been some time since the man  currently residing in Gubal received the final, unpleasant confirmation that he was of no more use to his god, no more than a simple (if ancient and uncommonly intelligent both) mortal, rescinded from his position for once and for all. Ironically enough, it doesn’t bother him as it once did, though he still longs for the power he once had, the ability to manipulate others at his whim and send them spiraling toward their own destruction. Still, he supposes he can be content enough with this lot, since it’s far better than being trapped in a device of his own design or having his very being consumed.

You take what you can get when those are your other options.

He turns at the sound of footsteps, flinching momentarily and resisting the urge to reach for magic to defend himself. This is a sanctuary as much as a prison, and he’ll not endanger his position here due to nerves. “I rather imagine you would not seek me out unless you had some greater purpose,” he says, sliding the book he had been holding onto the shelf with a hand that trembles rather more than he would like it to. “I must warn you, however, that there may be little I can offer no matter the debt I owe. Being as I am now means I am no longer bound to another’s will, but neither do I hold the same knowledge as I once did. Bear that in mind if you intend to question me.”

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soulsincrystal:

Azad is half asleep, like he’s been for the past…while, he thinks. He’s not sure, really, he just knows that he’s super tired, and he’s been waiting for Papa to wake up, but he doesn’t want to sleep and then have him wake up while he’s sleeping, so he’s been trying to stay awake. Even if he’s very tired, he just wants to be up when his father wakes. Just to know, for sure, that his father is okay.

He starts when he feels his father shift, and then beams at him when he hears his voice. “Papa,” he says fondly, burrowing close and leaning into his father’s hand when it ruffles his hair. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was worried, I was really worried. But you’re okay, and I–” His voice cracks, just a little. “I was scared. But Mister Urianger made them go away, and then he got a friend to come and help heal you.” He hadn’t really asked who the blond man was, but he had the same marks on his neck as Urianger did on his face, so he figures he’s very safe.

He shifts again and drapes himself on his father in a gentle hug – he knows he’s still hurt, and doesn’t want to make it worse, so he just squeezes him gently, leaning his head on his father’s shoulder. “You’re safe now,” he promises him. “Mister Urianger and his friend are gonna make sure of it.”

And the best part is…it’s a bit sad to say, but the best part is that when he looks in his father’s eyes now, he can’t see any of the not-really-his-father anymore, can’t see any of the Ascian, That’s good, that means he doesn’t have to fear. His father is his father forever now, only his father. That’s reassuring, almost as much as his father being healed and recovering.

There’s a distant sort of amusement at the idea of the Scions protecting him, Tiridates realizes, but though it draws a half-smile from him, there is no scorn left in the man resting on the bed - the hatred, the spite, the burning desire for vengeance upon every soul that dared to live and thrive when his own fate had been so cruel... they’re all gone, and right now he is even too tired for the fear and uncertainty that had gripped his weaker nature to rear their heads.

It’s a queer, empty sort of feeling, as though he’s been scrubbed raw and stitched back together when he hadn’t even been fully aware there was a divide. Long fingers tangle themselves in his son’s hair, and blue eyes watch red with a sort of fond indulgence that he’s not known for a very long time. “My son,” he says quietly, and it’s a simple statement of fact, of acceptance that he could never quite reach while at war with himself. 

“You’re unharmed...?” He can’t be sure, not as weak as he is, but the boy seems alright. Tired, but his aether is intact, which is what is most important. A glance around the (blurry, given his spectacles were destroyed) room does not provide him a glimpse of a Scion, however, so he draws his son closer with a wince. “...It isn’t ... it isn’t safe with me,” he says, forcing the words with an effort that leaves him on the edge of breathless again. “They may return.” And if they do, he cannot shield Azad a second time.

[enchilahabrea-blog]

@soulsincrystal

It is some time before the injured former Ascian wakes. When he does, there is a heaviness to his body and an ache in his chest that makes him regret having done so. Breathing is not quite so difficult as he last remembers it, but it is still harder than he thinks it should be, and he realizes he is resting in a slightly-inclined position to ease some of that strain. It takes him a moment before he can recall what happened to him or why he hurts, but when he does - when he does, there’s only small dregs of the cold fury he otherwise expected, replaced almost entirely by a sad kind of resignation.

He reaches for that detachment, that pride that he has always associated with his stronger self, but they are absent, as is any sort of longing to return to Zodiark’s service. Instead,there is only a very faint whisper of pain, of betrayal, and not even the feeble echoes of strength that had been coming and going since he had been restored in this physical form. 

The aetheric wounds were too much, then - there is nothing left of the Celebrant, of Lahabrea. And even if there were, his god has forsaken him. For better or for worse, his path is now clear: he is Tiridates now, and will be from now on. 

... He’s surprisingly alright with that.

Though it’s possible this is because of the warm weight he can feel pressed against his side, the sleepy red eyes that he sees as he peels his own open, fighting back the lingering pain to run a hand through reddish-gold hair. “Azad,” he says, and though it’s little more than a whisper, the relief he bears at seeing his son whole is carried in it all the same.

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shroudedscholar:

When the healers retreat from their now-unconscious patient, Azad wiggles free from his new friend’s arm – hugging him briefly but tightly – and scurries off to curl up with his father. He’s unconscious, and still breathing funny, but he looks like he’ll be okay, and that’s – that’s good enough. He’ll be okay, the Ascians didn’t take his father away, and honestly he might have his father back for real and for good now. That’s something to be grateful for, despite the circumstances of it.

Meanwhile, Ardyn looks genuinely amused at how sheepish Urianger looks, and does his best not to laugh. He’s only just met the man, that would be rude. “There wasn’t exactly time to consider that,” Urianger mutters petulantly, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “And it’s far from the last time I did so and you know it.” All the same, he offers Natan his hands and attempts to avoid his gaze, looking like a scolded child. A small part of him is glad, though, that he’s letting himself be a brat like this; moons ago he’d never have dared. Then again, moons ago he’d never have willingly cast anything close to black magic, either. A lot has changed, and for once most of it for the better.

“A focus?” Ardyn asks curiously, shifting closer to watch the two of them in an implicit acknowledgement of Nate’s offer to explain. “We don’t have that where I come from. Well…in a way, I suppose. Only certain people – myself included – can use magic, and that’s mostly infusing other things with the energy required for the spell– usually turning drinks into curatives or putting elemental magic into flasks containing the spell.” He pauses a moment to think, and a very sheepish look of his own settles on his face. “Granted, those with the ability to use magic in the first place can cast it without those…”

He’s going to just…leave it there and avoid discussing that topic further, to be honest. That way lies admitting how incautious he’s always been with his magic, even before he was immortal. Even with the buffer of the coat Stella had given him, that had some protection from his own magic (protection that had long since worn off, given how old and repeatedly-repaired the damned thing was), he’d always…well. He isn’t certain he could count how man time he’s set himself on fire purely by accident or without thinking. “I-In any case,” he says, clearing his throat – and earning a bemused look from Urianger, who has already caught on and is thoroughly amused – “You have a rapt student, Nate. Go on ahead.”

The man on the couch does not stir when the boy cuddles up to him, save for a slight twitch of his fingers that is almost imperceptible. He does not wake, but he seems to settle, that much calmer and steadier now that Azad is with him. Some part of him knows that the child is there, and that’s enough to let the impossibly-ancient soul rest, seeking the healing that is still desperately needed.

For his part, Natan already has Urianger’s hands in his when Ardyn’s words register with him, and he almost drops them as he turns to level a glare at the redhead. “...You’re speaking from experience,” he says, tone flat. “How many times did you set yourself on fire?” And why, he wonders, is everyone he cares for an idiot when it comes to avoiding self-injury? The old healer doesn’t really expect an answer from the former king, and so instead he just grumbles something irritable under his breath and takes Urianger’s hands up again, explaining to Ardyn what hes doing while he’s doing it.

Mending these burns is at least simple, and it’s nothing like treating the damage inflicted by channeling the black without a soul crystal, so it doesn’t take long even with the white mage taking the time to walk Ardyn through every step. With that done, green eyes light up, and he drops Urianger’s hands to jab a finger into his chest instead. “Now, you owe us an explanation,” he says, scowling. “What in the hells happened that left a man with aetheric wounds like that? For that matter, you could have informed me you were picking up strays again!”

He pauses for just a moment to give Ardyn an apologetic look - really, he shouldn’t have to witness this old argument, but it comes up often enough that he might as well know it happens. It’s certainly better than to give him any false ideas about what the people he’s beginning to get to know are like. (And Natan knows he’s being grumpy. He’s tired and stressed and worn thin from so much healing in so short a time, and he’s worried, because whatever did this is a danger, that patient is probably still in danger, there’s a child potentially so, and did Urrianger ever intend to tell him he’d taken in someone with some kind of target upon his back?)

[enchilahabrea-blog]

shroudedscholar:

Urianger doesn’t quite quail underneath Natan’s scowl, but he does wince and shift slightly to tuck his hands behind him. They aren’t irreversibly damaged, of course, just a bit scraped raw from magic cast without a focus (stupid for all disciplines of magic, but especially so for the black) and it’s more embarrassing than anything else. He’ll be fine, really, but he’s going to get scolded. Especially once he explains who the man on the couch is.

He glances at Viola and nods to her as Natan works, and with a sparkling backflip she switches herself to Selene to cast Fey Wind – she knows that helps speed the casting of spells that tend to take longer to muster the mana for. Namimi, too, where she’s sitting, stands to help; the nice red-haired man that came with Natan had sat down with Azad, so she could scurry over to add her magic into the pot. She ruffles through her deck and calls the magic of the Ewer and the Arrow, adding the former’s mana regenerative powers and the latter’s spell quickening to the faerie’s (and perhaps a quick cast of Time Dilation to draw out the effects of the cards). The poor dear is pretty badly wounded, she thinks, so as much help as can be given is very necessary.

Urianger, once his mana isn’t drained dry any longer – Namimi’s spell helps – aids in patching Tiridates’ aether; gods, the spells that did this are terrible. But he’s not really needed any longer, so he steps aside to speak with Ardyn. By now the man’s got Azad tucked into his side, and there’s a faint smile on his face that speaks of someone who loves children. That does much to warm him further to Natan’s beau, and he sits next to him. “I suppose I must apologize for us meeting like this,” he says with a wry smile. “There is hardly a dull moment here in Eorzea, it seems.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ardyn says, enjoying the man’s voice. “I did get the impression that despite it being a bit less….awful than my world, this place has its fair share of strife, and you and yours are constantly in the middle of it.” He smiles, absently ruffling the boy’s – Azad, he’d said his name was – hair. “I don’t mind being in the middle of it with you.” He turns, then, to keep watching the other two heal, openly awed and fascinated. Urianger…can’t help but smile at that, despite the worry he still feels for Tiridates. He has to wonder how magic works on his world, that he wears such a face of childish amazement at the healers at work. It’s rare, to see someone so genuinely enamored of the art like that, like someone who’s never seen it before in their life. 

All the same, there’s not much else to be said at the moment, not until the patient is stable. Azad peers out from Ardyn’s embrace, watching along with the man (he’s kind, he thinks, and old, and very sad, and reminds him of his father with the darkness at the edges of his aether, so he thinks he can trust him when he comforts despite being a stranger) as the other Archon and Miss Namimi heal his father.

At some point during the healing, the injured man - all Tiridates, now, the last of his power as Lahabrea bleeding out through the aetheric wounds his former brethren inflicted upon him - loses his tenuous hold on consciousness, slipping away from the waking world entirely. The state he falls into is too deep for dreams, and yet somewhere in the stillness, he senses someone watching over him, and rests the better for it.

Natan notices when consciousness leaves the man he is treating, but there���s really no time to comment on it. He loses himself in the spellwork, only pausing to give Viola and Namimi each grateful smiles for their help. The man’s lungs are in a terrible state, and even with the most careful healing... well, it will be some time before he’s recovered. With any luck, he wasn’t a fighter anyway - so long as he’s careful not to overdo it, he’ll be in no real danger, and that’s what really matters. 

After a while, there’s really nothing more he can do, save let the man rest - and it’s then that he levers himself upright and moves toward his other patient, leveling Urianger with a look. “Alright. He’ll survive, but he’ll need to rest. Now, Urianger - let me look at those hands, and we can see about moving him somewhere more comfortable afterward.”

He moves over to the elezen, to Ardyn and the child he’s still sitting with - something in his heart does a little flip at the sight, because it’s terribly endearing - and holds out his hands. “Let me see what you’ve done to yourself,” he chides his friend with a scowl. “And Ardyn, if you’d like, I can explain what I’m doing while I work on this bloody idiot’s hands. Casting without a focus, Urianger? Really? I thought you’d learned your lesson about burning yourself with magick!”

[enchilahabrea-blog]

shroudedscholar:

“I don’t mind,” Ardyn reassures him from his position leaning his chin on Nate’s shoulder. “Far be it from me to prevent you from helping a friend in need. And I’m glad to help; I’m used to stranger meetings, anyway, and I’d certainly be willing to help.” Nate’s right – he’d love to see Eorzean healing in action, and from a master no less? Of course. And besides, he’s still too enamored with the giddiness of the whole romance thing to want to leave the other man’s side. (And thirdly, he’d like to help Nate and his friend all the same.)

Upon their arrival, Urianger has gingerly moved Tiridates to a couch rather than the floor, and he’s kneeling beside him and doing what he can while Viola sits by his head, still tethered via the aetherpact. A small boy, about ten or eleven, with Allagan red eyes and short red-blond hair, sits near tears by the foot of the couch being comforted by a red-haired lalafell in Sharlayan robes. Everyone looks up as the two men enter – Ardyn thoroughly distracted and charmed by the immensity of the utterly beautiful library – and Urianger breathes a sigh of relief and stands.

“Natan,” he says gratefully, eyes flickering to his companion and taking in his appearance – scruffy and somewhat the worse for wear, with wine-colored hair, amber eyes, and a limp and dressed in dark clothing; hm – before looking back at his dear friend. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” He gestures at his patient, stable but still badly wounded, and looks…tired. Tired and worn and with hands that look a little like he’s stuck them in too-hot water. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything…”

“It’s alright,” Ardyn puts in, already circling around to crouch down beside the child – and keeping one eye on the tall (and quite handsome) silvery-haired elezen as he does so. “I’d never begrudge anyone who needs help.” He was a healer himself, after all. He knows how important the job is. And meanwhile he’ll see if he can’t calm the poor boy down…

Every breath for the man resting on the couch is agony, only a sheer, mad sort of stubbornness has let him cling to consciousness as long as he has. Lahabrea has ever been a tenacious sort, and it seems that broken or not, Tiridates still has the utter refusal to give in that allowed him to reach for Zodiark’s call in the first place. Even with that stubbornness, however, he lacks the amount of air needed to speak, to either curse the lesser Ascians sent for him or to comfort his distraught son, and can only remain still, watching the Scion and the ceiling in turns, though blue eyes gone hazy with pain turn toward the new arrivals, a curious wheeze in his breath as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.

That is an Archon, he can tell, though one his last host remembered as dead -  the companion he cannot identify, and finds himself without much reason to care. Instead, he lets his eyes close, devoting what little energy he still has to trying to breathe, no matter how much it pains him to do so. He’ll not surrender so easily - not to this. Lahabrea - Tiridates, really, given he is no Overlord any longer and likely never will be again - refuses to give in to oblivion that easily.

Natan, meanwhile, watches Ardyn go to the child, eyes Urianger’s hands and scowls at him, because he knows what his friend’s done to himself now and he’ll have words with him later, and then moves to the side of the far-more-critical patient in need of his care. “This is him, then,” he says rather than asks, because it’s sadly rather obvious. And what’s been done to the man is... aetheric wounds in addition to physical? Someone didn’t just want this one dead, they wanted him to cease existing. 

That is very old, very dark magick, and he raises an eyebrow at Urianger - he’ll need to hear this story later, probably over drinks - before kneeling beside the man on the couch and beginning to work. “Still awake, are you?” He asks the wheezing figure with a frown. “Let’s get you breathing easier, and then you can sleep while we do the rest of the work, hm?” He reaches out with magick, feeling for the aether of the environment around him, then casts a Benediction. He tries not to use that particular spell, potent though it is, for how much it draws out of the environment... but in this case it’s clearly needed, because most of it is drawn into the aetheric wounds rather than the physical, keeping the man from losing any more of his essence.

Which leaves... everything else. Gods be good, but he has his work cut out for him today.

[enchilahabrea-blog]

shroudedscholar:

@enchilahabrea

The call from Namimi had woken him from a doze over his research, and immediately he had leapt to his feet in a panic, teleporting into Gubal as fast as possible. The idea of an Ascian in his library – his library! – was s horrifying enough idea, but two? Two attacking their wayward brethren, attacking his son? Worse. He had to get there and get to them before– he would not lose Tiridates, he would not lose Azad, not after he’d fought so hard to save them.

He runs into Namimi and Azad when he gets there, the former frightened and the boy terrified and weeping. “It will be alright,” he promises. “I’ll save your father.” He would, too. Save the mortal who had been a man and then a monster and a man again, because that was done for him once, and any victory against the darkness is a good one. He sets off all his wards as he runs, sets as many of the mammets and poroggo as he can upon the Ascians, and – gods, is he glad for his crystal – gathers the fires of the Black up inside him, throwing it out at the two intruders as he enters the room. He isn’t even entirely sure what spells he throws at them, half-remembered magic from dozens of Mhachi spellbooks he’d perused all those years ago as a spy, but they’re gone when the smoke clears and he runs to the side of the fallen figure that remains. “Tiridates!” He calls, summoning Viola. “Speak to me if you are able!”

The man left huddled on the ground in the wake of the attack is conscious, but barely, and quite frankly he wishes he wasn’t. The spectacles that had been perched on his nose have been tossed against a wall and shattered, his clothing and body rent and battered by wind and objects tossed at him by that wind, and there is something terribly wrong with his breathing, the sound strained and rattling loud enough to be noticeable from a distance.

Blood drips from a cut across his forehead and into his eyes, forcing them closed, and there’s a blueish cast to his features that make it clear he is not getting enough air - and then he coughs with a keen of agony, bringing up blood from wounds unseen but severe. A trembling hand wipes blood away from his eyes so that he can squint at the approaching Scion, a quiet sort of relief in them. If he is here, and the Lessers are not, then... it’s over. The chosen of the Light are strong enough to drive away what he could not. 

Which means that his son is...

Another wheeze escapes him, and he feels strength leaving him, knowing that if this flesh fails him there is no refuge to flee unto, and even were he to try, there wouldn’t be enough left of him for him to serve Zodiark. Not, he thinks, that he has any interest in doing so now. His god has cast him out - he’ll not waste time with sycophancy. Air. Why - why did it have to be - he can no longer think clearly, the desperate attempts to breathe only aggravating the injuries causing the problem in the first place. But Azad is - Azad is safe.

 This time, he’s succeeded in what he’d meant to do so long ago. Maybe that means something. 

[enchilahabrea-blog]

soulsincrystal:

Azad all but barrels into his father with a cry, wrapping arms around him and peering from behind him at his pursuer. It’s an Ascian, he knows that, and they’re after– “He wants to hurt you,” he says urgently. “Both of us, he said you were a-a traitor.” He doesn’t sound confused or like he doesn’t understand; he does understand, he knows what’s going on. But he is scared.

The masked Ascian – recognizable to the former Overlord as one under the command of Fandaniel – steps forward, unreadable. “You are like the hardiest of insects, Celebrant. Nothing seems to kill you, and you have long since worn out our Lord’s favor. Two chances were more than enough, and because of your failures the Light has regained too much ground – and because of your failures the Light destroyed both the Martyr and the Majestic. Thus you have been condemned.”

He doesn’t seem to be interested in discussion – in fact, as he lifts his hand for a spell, his words seem more like a verdict for execution passed, and even then not his own but his master’s. Azad swallows, tugging insistently at his father’s clothes. “Papa,” he says, voice frightened. “We have to–” Heat at their backs is a horrifying reminder for Azad, and he lets out a frightened noise.

“There’s two of them!” He cries, turning to face the one that appeared behind them. He isn’t anywhere near a master at anything yet, but he’s been taught enough very basic magic– his spell is easily batted aside, though, and the second Ascian begins to cast a spell as well.

Fandaniel’s. Of course they would be his. As if that arrogant fool had done half the work for their lord as he had, recent failures be damned. The anger and offense that rise up in him at being treated as a mere insect and a nuisance (not again, never again) are quickly brushed aside, however, at his son’s cry, at the awareness that there are two and he is, for the moment, completely and utterly outmatched.

This condemnation is not merely one of the flesh, he is aware - it is meant to be an annihilation, one so complete that nothing will be able to restore him to even a shadow of his original self. It’s a fearful thought, but worse is the knowledge that they will quite happily go through Azad to get at him - and that is something he cannot allow. Not as Lahabrea, not as Tiridates. He gave himself over to Zodiark for vengeance when all was lost - but here and now, he has something to protect. And so he will.

Half-turning so his back is to the doorway he came through, he pushes Azad inside and calls upon what magicks his flesh remembers, what whispers of his own nearly-spent power he still has, and even without anything to channel it through he knows he must hold these lessers here, somehow.

“Run,” he tells the boy, who has spent most of their time here exploring the library, who may know paths he does not. “Find the lalafell -” there’s no time to remember her name, not when half of him doesn’t care and the other is focused entirely on the magicks flaring up around them. “Tell her to call her Scions. They’ll protect you. Go.”

 If Azad gets away - it’s enough. It’s enough.

[enchilahabrea-blog]

soulsincrystal:

Azad is– well, he’d like to say he’s happy. Really, he can’t ask for any more than this! He’s alive, and more importantly he’s a person, two arms and two legs and a face (and fingers!), and he has his father. The father he’d lost all those thousands of years ago, when they took him and his family and did horrible things to them all. And Miss Namimi, the librarian lady Sir Urianger has keeping an eye on them is really nice, too, she’s teaching him how to be a librarian. He hadn’t really realized there was more to it than just reading a lot and knowing where books go. But it’s fun!

But…he’s still…he worries about his father. Sometimes it is his father, sad and quiet after everything the world did to him, but sometimes it’s someone else– something else, and he’s not stupid. He’d seen that security footage in the aetherochemical facility, seen the masked people and their fight with those others. He knows what his father became, especially now after doing his own research and asking questions of Namimi. He knows what an Ascian is, who they work for and what they do. He can’t at all blame his father, though; trapped in his node, sometimes he was so angry he wished Allag would just go away forever, the world would go away. And his father was hurt way worse. So he gets it, even if he knows his father’s done awful things.

So the not-quite-his-father he sees sometimes, angry and bitter? He gets it, but that’s not what scares him or worries him. He doesn’t want his father to go back to that entirely, to go do more awful things and leave him. That’s part of why he’s been reading so much, hoping he can find something to make his father stay his father. But he doesn’t know how.

He’s curled up with some books on one of the big squishy chairs, trying to remember what the spell was Miss Namimi taught him to call one of the frogs to get him some cocoa…when a chill goes down his spine and the air in the room darkens and grows heavy and he leaps out of his chair as two figures appear in the room. Azad squeaks out a swear in Allag, knowing them for what they are immediately – the black masks mean they’re not important, he remembers, but they’re still here and one of them throws a fireball that very nearly hits him. He flees, and he hears one of them say something about ‘find the traitor, i’ll handle the brat’ as he runs. 

Traitor…? –Father! He has to find father, and he has to hurry! “Papa!” He shouts as he runs through the halls, eyes wide and knowing there’s danger at his back. “Papa!”

Even millennia and a sharp left turn into depravity later, the father in him knows the sound of a child - his child - in terror. All thoughts of note-taking and mockery shoved aside, he stands and moves for the sound of that scream, surprising himself with how quickly this mortal form responds to his demands. He doesn’t let the momentary shock stop him or even slow him, however, and the moment he spots his son - his son, be he Tiridates or Lahabea, that boy is his and he’ll not let harm come to him - he grabs him by the shoulders and swings him about until he’s standing behind him.

And when he sees what was chasing him, something deep within him cracks. He knows a lesser Ascian when he sees one, after all, senses them with the remnants of his old existence - and even their power, at this moment, is greater than the mere whisper he can call upon, trapped as he is within his own flesh. But if they are here to harm the child, then... well, some things he’ll not allow. Not again. 

“Azad,” he says, voice firm, an edge to it that gives away his own uncertainty in this moment: are they here to take him back into service, or are they here to eliminate him, his torn feelings and nature having lured him too far from lord Zodiark’s call to be of use any longer? “Stay behind me.”

[enchilahabrea-blog]

@soulsincrystal

Sometimes, he feels more like Lahabrea. Others he feels more like Tiridates. He never knows which persona he’ll be from one minute to the next, and quite honestly it’s exhausting - a strange thing in and of itself, after so long of never feeling tired, nor caring when his hosts felt it. The one thing he’s certain of is that he wants it to stop, to let him settle, to give him his power and his influence and his unfeeling, uncaring duty and devotion to his god, or to wrest it away from him entirely, with not even the desire for it to tempt him ever again. (Which one he wants, of course, depends on which mood he is in, and only contributes to his exhaustion.)

At the moment, however, he’s in one of the rare moods that wavers between the Overlord and his near-mad devotion and the broken shell of a man who had everything, even his own body and soul, ripped away from him in the most gruesome manner possible. The result is... startlingly similar to the man he used to be, once upon a time: a touch arrogant, yes, but with reason for his confidence and no ill-intent. He’s taking notes on a book written about Allag, gleefully correcting everything the author is mistaken about (which, quite frankly, is nearly everything), and taking perhaps a bit too much pleasure in mocking the ridiculous hypotheses people put forward.

There’s no real reason for him to be doing this - he’s simply bored, waiting for this aggravating limbo to end. Though... he supposes it is nice to see Azad happy. He, out of everyone else on this terrible farce of a world, deserves to be happy. Hm. Perhaps he should go see what the boy is up to, once he’s finished this...

[enchilahabrea-blog]

Can a (mostly) former ascian be bored out of his mind? Apparently so - though perhaps it’s a bit more than that, because it is beginning to sink in that Lahabrea’s god has, for all intents and purposes, apparently abandoned him. Or perhaps Lord Zodiark is simply testing him - testing his devotion to serve, with ties to his mortal life dangling before him once more.

But why would he? Has Lahabrea not done exactly as he was meant to, for more millennia than most have ever witnessed?

Agh, if only he knew what he should do! 

And every day that passes, his grip on his true self loosens, that damned weakling side of him gaining more presence as he forgets his power and rights as an overlord. Even now, he can feel it slipping further away, and in a fit of pique, throws the teacup he had  been staring absently into at the wall. The sound of it shattering is briefly satisfying - but even that ebbs away along with his grip on himself, leaving only a quiet resignation and distant sort of frustration that he keeps bouncing between states and a halfhearted desire for it all to simply stop.

...He should probably clean up the mess of tea and shattered porcelain before any more time passes.

[enchilahabrea-blog]

shroudedscholar:

“…I see,” he says after a moment – and he does. Oh, it is so much more than he had thought. It’s not simply a matter of a man being uncertain and afraid of being human again after so long as a monster, of a man wanting the power and strength so denied him in life. It is a matter of Zodiark, of being bound by his vows. “Then we will simply find a way around that.” He sounds determined, undeterred by the knowledge – it will help a broken man, and it will strike a blow against the dark god, won’t it? To lose an Ascian, especially one who’s done so much damage this era…and it will be the best revenge against the monster who harmed his son: make him human again. Make him unable to harm another person as he had Thancred.

He knows it’s a little cold, but he has little room for softness now. Maybe later, but now it’s easier to be pragmatic.

Though he does soften somewhat, and reaches out to him, placing a hand on his. “It’s not up to you to judge what Azad does or doesn’t deserve,” he says simply. “It is his choice, and he’s chosen you.” To think there was this much self-hatred within this man– it’s surprising, but perhaps it shouldn’t be. “As for what you deserve…it’s not up to me, I suppose, but it’s not up to your god, either. It’s up to you, and if something prevents you from making that choice for yourself, then it is up to us to end that.” And he will, whatever it takes.

“You do not forsake a god,” he says, but there is no strength in his words, none of the rush of anger and need to defend the honor of Zodiark that he might have expected. Just a man who no longer knows how to be one, caught between loyalties and unable to cut ties with one for the sake of the other. Tiridates, or Lahabrea - whichever name, whichever identity he is, if he is even either one - knows that the Scion is not aiding him out of true kindness.

... well, perhaps kindness toward Azad, who is innocent in all of this and suffered far more than anyone should have.

No, he is acting to disable a threat to his own, which is understandable. Yet... it is frustrating, since it marks him more openly as Lahabrea’s enemy - yet Tiridates is in his debt, and - He winces, unable to reconcile the differences within himself and so thoroughly caught that he cannot focus on being one or the other... at least, not until the lingering pieces that make him Lahabrea retreat, and Tiridates is left as himself, the shattered facsimile of a man who should have stayed dead.

“...If you cannot,” he finds himself saying, and the pain in his voice is undisguised, the words halting and mistimed, running together in some places and catching oddly in others, “If I am beyond your aid, however you ... choose to give it, please. Look after him? Whatever else comes. He... deserves a life, after so long...”

[enchilahabrea-blog]

shroudedscholar:

“You don’t have to,” Urianger says patiently. “He will help you willingly, without being asked, because he is your son, and he loves you. No matter who you are or what you may have been, he loves you, and he wants to see you well. I’m sure he wants his father to be more than this again, to be the man he remembers – or at least a man able to smile again – and I sincerely doubt he sees what you’ve done or not done as any kind of strike against you.”

Just like he’d needed Thancred, this man needs Azad. He sighs, though. “I can try to convince you all I like, do everything in my power to help – and so can he – but in the end it must be you that makes the choice to walk this path,” he says. “But rest assured, I will try my best to get you to make that choice, because it is a better one for all of us – a better one for you.”

“The man he loves cannot exist,” he counters, unaware of the slip his tongue as he turns an almost-pleading gaze upon the elezen, despite the part of him screaming that this is an enemy, one bound to the light, one he cannot look to for aid. “There is no such choice - not in the manner you speak of. Attachments to mortality are cast off upon ascension. Regaining them is to forsake the vows taken, to forsake a gift bestowed.” It’s more knowledge than he would, under normal circumstances, be willing to give an enemy, but as one with the echo it is entirely possible that She would simply give one of hers that information, anyway.

To forsake his gift - his status, his very existence as Lahabrea, however delicate it is at the moment... it would be to consign himself to being weak. Pathetic. Useless and fragile and frightened, unable to protect anything at all without his lord’s gifts of power and influence and the ability to twist the hearts and minds of man to act according to his will, his god’s will. “Is dealing with such a pitiful creature something Azad deserves?”

... He doesn’t quite realize he’s spoken that last thought aloud until it’s already been said, and when it hits him he seems to shrink in on himself even further, blue eyes going distant and glassy.