"Don't come any closer—!" He gasps in between the sobs, his hands covering his face, knuckles glistening wet in the moonlight. "Emet-Selch has said what all of you are thinking; what more could you have to say…!"

Azem's hand hesitates, outstretched, his words like a lash. The scene from moments ago played in their mind; Fandaniel's fervent, vulnerable plea, and Emet-Selch's resolute and unyielding roar, the lustrous gold of his eyes turning into liquid fire, scorching Hermes' voice to nothing but a pitiful whimper. Azem had tried to speak, but there would be none who could interfere between them. All had been forced to let Fandaniel speak for himself, and he had been utterly, humiliatingly shut down in front of the Convocation.

There would be no further discussion: Elpis and its creations would not fall under the grace of Zodiark's protection. The creations were to become undone, their aether collected and repurposed, and the brilliant minds that trailed its pathways would be recalled to Amaurot forthwith.

"Enough of your misplaced sentimentality, Fandaniel." Emet-Selch sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Your folly has always been your excessive love for those contrivances in Elpis, but this is reality. Your duty is to those who still live, our people."

Fandaniel had excused himself, shoulders quivering, before running off into the cavernous halls. Emet-Selch had not so much as looked at him when he did, and Azem had no choice but to follow after. Now here he kneeled, in a dark corner of the garden surrounding their headquarters, with moonlight as their only witness. Azem pushed through their hesitation, the shame of standing idly by as Emet-Selch delivered what could only be understood by their comrade as a death sentence, and gently grasped Fandaniel's shoulders.

"My friend," they spoke gently, though they could not stop the quiver in their voice, "I am so sorry."

The dam had broken, and Fandaniel's sobs wracked through him with unrestrained violence. Azem wrapped their arms around him, their fingers running through his muted green tresses gently, like Venat had done once for them, so long ago now. "I am so, so sorry, Hermes. I'm sorry. We will remember them, you and I. We will remember each of them, and in a new world we will bring them forth once more— together."

There was no response, only tears and quiet, muffled whimpers. Was this all their hopes amounted to? To consign the rest of creation to memory, to sacrifice the many on behalf of the few? Azem thought of that beautiful, boundless world outside of Amaurot's marbled spires. The world that only two Amaurotines alive had been able to witness and cherish, the valleys and peaks teeming with creatures all striving to live in their uncountable ways.

Great swaths of woodland, their canopy the most beautiful hue of blue, their trunks made of twisting, translucent crystal that glowed from within. Caves harboring secret worlds and peoples, whose languages and magicks were unknown to all but them, whose tunnels bore the artwork of their lives. The nearly incomprehensible creature who had made of the deep ocean their home, so that should one fall to depths where even light cannot reach, one would know that hope shone its warm light forevermore, even at the very edge of creation.

None of it would fall under the grace of Zodiark's protection.

All of it would be consigned to memory.

Enough of your misplaced sentimentality, Emet-Selch had spit at Fandaniel with such venom. Had it been themself atop the podium instead, giving voice to their own desire to save the wonders of their star, would he have spoken thus?

Azem continued whispering their quiet, trembling assurances, tears falling quietly alongside Fandaniel's.

Eventually, Hermes stilled, and Azem carefully let him free himself from their embrace, taking a moment to wipe both their eyes with their sleeve. The man took in a shuddering breath, and then another, and Azem took his hands with care and helped him to his feet. As they stood, Hermes' lips moved to speak, but his wet and sparkling jade eyes dilated, and the words became stuck in his throat. Only a small squeak came out, a broken and fearful Thank you, my friend.

Azem looked back, and Hades turned his gaze away from them in the same instance.

"Get some rest, my friend. I shall speak with you more on the morrow." Azem said softly, giving Hermes' hands a reassuring squeeze as they did so, before turning their back to him.

They walked onward, past Hades' regretful, pitiful gaze, through the shadowy marbled halls and well-worn staircases. They heard the steady staccato of footsteps behind them, the arbiter of death following close behind.

They had scarcely walked onto the street before they heard his quiet plea, fervent and furious. "Azem—"

"We shall speak of this at home, Emet-Selch." The name tasted of metal and ruin in their mouth, but the gates of the Convocation's headquarters loomed tall beside them, and they could not forget the way he had spoken to Fandaniel mere moments ago to call him by any other name. "Lest you wish to file for a public debate upon this matter."

It was not a long walk, but being so full to the brim with words they could not yet speak had made it seem nearly eternal. The door had scarcely been latched before Hades could no longer contain himself, his voice spilling over in a thunderous downpour.

"You cannot entertain that man Persephone, his love blinds him! It holds him at the mercy of those barely animated entities in his— in his purported garden of delights." His words seem to fall over themselves, as he desperately tried to convey his thoughts before— before what? How could he know what was to come already, when the thought had scarcely come together in Azem's mind merely hours before? "Were we to waste a single soul upon those creations and find our measures for our own people lacking—"

"Hades," Azem said, gathering every infinitesimal mote of courage from within to speak, "I am leaving."

It is instantaneous. In a burst of action Azem finds Hades' hand wrapped around their wrist, his golden eyes desperate and pleading, looking deep into their own. "You can't. You will not. Your duties— Zodiark is to be summoned forthwith—"

"My duties," Azem tries to pull their hand away, but Hades' grip is unyielding. "as the seat of Azem, are to serve as pilgrim and warden of Etheirys, as pedagogic shepherd of its peoples—"

"Of our people—"

What a ridiculous, obstinate, beast of a man, this Hades was.

"Do you hear yourself speak, Hades!" Azem struggles in vain, Hades' holding them in place, as their voice tilts higher in frustration. "You call Fandaniel blind whilst tying the sash around your own eyes! Etheyris is in danger due to us, and in your desperate bid to grasp onto what you hold dear you confuse it for being all that is worth holding!"

His grip grows tighter, his fisted hand shaking with emotion. In his eyes they see the cry of a thousand, hundred souls, and in the midst of it all a brilliant sunset orange— their own eyes, reflected.

Hades began to speak in an undertone, and though Azem knew his words wished to be a whip, it brushed against them like the tide. Desolate. Pining. "All I have sought to do is to fulfill my duty, and keep us all safe."

"Our circumstances have long since transformed what our seats have come to mean to us," they answered, as sure as the rocks meet the wave, "or is the keeper of the Underworld meant to endeavor so faithfully to shut its doors?"

At the question, they saw the rage twist and coil his features, the accusation in his eyes sharp and withering. It was unthinkable for him, to imagine welcoming all of them into the great river of souls with open arms. If only he would look beyond the ends of his means, Azem thought to themself, and listened to what voice led him there in the first place.

"Face the truth, Hades," Azem's voice quivered, "it is that selfsame love which you so heavily censured Fandaniel for, that shapes your duty now."

Silence hangs heavy on the two of them, as if the steady flow of time itself had slowed to a crawl, its tendrils slacking and resting atop their shoulders, until— Azem snatches back their hand, nursing their wrist, while Hades' follows their movements with a pained expression, the lines etched atop his brow appearing dark and severe under the lamplight. He is as if a golem, his limbs moving in practiced motions through rote paths as he paced about the room, one hand holding his head.

"So you have—" He pauses for a moment, exasperation stealing the words on the tip of his tongue, his hands waving in the air as he struggled to keep hold of his thoughts, "You have fostered this idea of leaving, of throwing yourself upon the pulpit of this star and doing what, exactly?"

He was not wrong to question their plan, but the imputation implicit in it did not hurt any less for it. Always he had needled and questioned them, always had they looked with contempt upon the fellow children of this star. The precious jewels which the seat of Azem had ever endeavored to polish and preserve, nothing but pebbles upon the path to Amaurot's gates. How could a man whose eyes saw so much, fail to appreciate so little?

"To ascertain the effects of stagnated aether upon the rest of this star," Their reply was bitter, stilted. As if this were a report given to the Convocation, and not the conversation between two equals Azem always found themselves yearning for, whenever arguments arose. "and provide succor for those suffering under its effects."

"If you were to aid us in quickening the aethereal currents upon this star, in summoning Zodiark, there would be no need for such an unneccesarily dangerous journey." The man speaking to them had ceased to be their partner, Hades. Before them paced Emet-Selch, his tone commanding and austere.

Well, surrounding them were not the halls of the Convocation, and therefore no protocol to bind their words into decorum. "And damned be those lost in the wait, is it?"

"Even virtue turns pernicious when misapplied, Persephone." His tone is even, constant, and it is infinitely more frustrating for it. He had taken the reigns and turned their argument into a debate— but Azem cannot remember ever stating their intent as a question. "We need you at the Convocation, for us to give this most grave of circumstances anything less than our best would be of the utmost folly!"

"Hades," they try to speak with finality; they would not debate with a man who could scarcely listen, "the Convocation will succeed in its summoning, and I shall ensure the rest of the star lives to enjoy the fruits of your labors."

"You are not listening to me!" His voice grew shrill, exasperation causing him to throw his hands up. Like saltwater swells breaking against the crags. Over, and over. Constant. Violent.

"And you are?!" The tide recedes, the water frothing and white in its movement. Then ever so slowly, coming to a still.

Silence. The pacing stops, Azem's breathing slowing down with it. Gently, imperceptibly, the tide shifts, the storm clouds part, and the tightly closed bud of their hearts begin to soften. Hades walks close to them, taking the wrist he had grabbed earlier much more gently this time, before bringing it to his lips.

"I'm sorry." He whispers it into the vein thrumming above the arch of their cupid's bow, pressing a kiss to it. "I know I cannot stop you, and I know you cherish all those who walk this star, but— but the Convocation needs you."

"The Convocation needs Emet-Selch to coalesce the flow of souls into Zodiark." They correct him, their eyes struggling to look at the way his brows quivered, the force of will he exerted at speaking those words. They know what he means to say, what he wishes he could— Azem would have scarcely believed him capable of expressing his feelings to this extent, nearly a few moons ago.

"I—" Hades took in a breath, before pressing Azem's hand onto their face with a wretched shiver. The words seemed to catch his in throat, and Azem felt the quiver of his lip through the soft skin of their palm.

It had always been like this, between the two of them.

Words left unsaid, feelings traded through glances, communication occurring solely through the Levin-charged touches they shared behind closed walls, or under the cover of billowing robes and darkened corners. Should they had taken their true forms, it would have been easier, more natural and painless— in the supraliminal coalescence of their beings, there would be no secrets. They could surpass their earthly constraints, and know what the other felt as if the other's blood had pulsed through their own heart.

But here they stood, spirits constrained in the trappings of their own making.

Instead Azem is forced to imagine the shape his lips would make, the way it might feel against their palm, if he had said it. The soft tap of Don't, the stretch of his lips against leave, the soft kiss of the me into the metacarpal veins of aether. Could they have transformed, perhaps he would have even managed an I need you. His voice would have vibrated through each wisp and tendril, and in the effervescent glow of all of his eyes, lucent and bottomless, he would show every feeling he'd sequestered away into the crevices of his heart.

The world would bend to your will much more easily were you to be honest, Azem thinks, you stubborn oaf.

Instead they bring their free hand to hold his face gently, saying, "My vows are sacrosanct."

In their cupped palms, the words sparked like pearlescent aether currents, Hades' skin burning hot underneath. Azem sees him reach for them, feels the large palms of his hand coming to rest softly upon their own face. His thumbs traced their round cheeks, fingers gently pulling their faces closer, until their noses touched, and all Azem could see are his dark pupils reflecting the orange glow of their own eyes; the day's final rays of light, the whispers of the evening sun devoured by a raging, all-consuming gold. "As are mine."

Like a grapevine coiling about its rotting pergola, their stubborn stems holding their world together out of a desperate, all-consuming desire to persevere. It was plain for all to see, that Hades was attempting to reattach the quickly fracturing status quo, unable to accept anything different to what had been there before. All while sight unseen, an unstoppable flame ambled onward to snuff out their existence.

They had so loved the grapes neath the volcano's shadow, but they had loved the smiles and music of the folk who had nurtured them even more. There was more to wine than grapes, more to growing than sunlight and water. Azem had come to be blessed to learn such truths. Try as they might have to impart this to Hades, they had failed so miserably that now they found themselves upon the precipice. Hades' words like pomegranate pips, a tart sweetness on his lips, and his lover half-turned, one hand reaching out to the world above.

"And when are you planning to leave?" Hades asked, his breathe warming the air between them, so close they yet stood. The unspoken me lingered between them, suspended.

"Soon. There are yet plans to be made, and—" Azem hesitated, but Hades gave them no quarter. Should they seek the man's honesty, they needed to do the same. "Venat will seek an audience with the Convocation soon, as you know. I will hear my mentor's argument, and make the final preparations then."

"And which side of the aisle will you stand, when she speaks?" His tone rang so hollow, the sound tearing through Azem's heart like a red-hot iron. Courage, they think to themself, hold fast to your beliefs.

"Neither." A plain response, but each syllable is a thorn, and Hades shudders as they lanced him.

"So you leave me with days." Hades laughs, a pathetic and desiccated sound, humorless in its entirety, before moving their arms around them in an embrace. His head moves from under their hands, nestling into the crook of their neck. "Keeping in spirit with the the times we live in, are we."

"Are you so unsure of your carefully laid plans?" Azem wraps their arms gingerly around him, a hand resting at his nape. "You've had me for nearly half a year now, that is certainly longer than usual. I think you've become spoiled."

The tide swells, waves crash, and the rocks shed a layer of history and memory, new shapes borne from the encounter. The white-haired man in their arms said nothing, his hold around their chest and waist as solid as stone.

"Hades,"His name sounded impetuous on their lips, when brought to bear against his silence. The man did not stir, but Azem felt his hands hold tighter, "I will return. In the darkest of days, you need only think of me, as I will think of you. There is hope— we need but hold fast to it."

Once more the tide crashes against the rock face, leaving nothing but salt water rivulets against the surface when it recedes. In their arms they felt the quiet quake in Hades' shoulders, and for a brief moment it was as if they had melded; aetherial essences overlapping, their hearts beating in unison. In the silence, Azem only ran their hands through his unkempt silver tresses, frayed and tousled by the sleepless nights, the long and arduous debates at the Convocation.

After a brief respite, the man stirs again, breaking their embrace and straightening out his robes. On his cheeks there is but the faintest stain, but Azem can feel the damp skin of their neck cooling rapidly; vague traces of an unimaginable occurrence to anyone outside of these walls.

"You will tell me your plans, once they are finalized." He says quietly, hands busying themselves with the wrinkled sleeves of his robe, before looking directly into Azem's eyes. "I will see you off when you go, as I have vowed to do always."

"Of course." Azem feels themself smiling gently, and the creases in the corners of Hades' mouth lighten somewhat. "You are always the first one to know of them."

There could have been no sweeter days, no softer touches nor gentler words shared in those final moments together. Even in the dark, the laughter echoed, as well as the secret dreams and esoteric yearnings that words could never quite capture. Perhaps it had been the warm glow of hope's light, or the sweet taste of love's delights— the moments seemed to melt into each other, the separation between the self and the other blurred, forced apart in the day only by their duties.

A debate at the Convocation, a promise and a plan crafted with Fandaniel, a tome compiled into a crystal for Azem's travels; the days were long, and the nights awfully short in comparison. Venat's knowing smile, as their eyes met across the great hall of the Convocation, the self restraint in Hades' tone when they proceeded with their debate; hopeful winds of changes yet to come.

Until the time comes for them once more, and parting's bittersweet sorrow threatens to darken what few sparse memories they could yet make. In the distance, the sun peaks through Amaurot's spires, across her yet pristine roads, yet unblighted by the despair that steadily encroached upon their lands. It could have been a parting like any other; Azem could have been leaving with no specific destination, and Emet-Selch would have returned to paperwork that could have belonged to any one of the other Seats.

Except this time, Azem carried a larger satchel, and the shadows under Emet-Selch's eyes ran deeper than every before, and the wind blowing again them made the heartache worsen with its bite.

"Go forth and—" Hades says, the words halting, "And come back to us safe."

"Have faith," Azem responds, smiling, "and all will be well."