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Emet-Selch, Third Seat of the Convocation, was surrounded by mountains of white, the cold of night cutting through his robes. That was — the limitless stacks of paperwork blocked his view from the window, but the light had dimmed enough that he knew it was evening. The weather had chilled enough in the last weeks to permeate the bronzy exterior of the Capitol’s halls, into a room where the resident worker should almost certainly have stoked a fire hours ago, or at the very least switched on a space heater.
Emet-Selch breathed on his purpling fingertips, hoping to stoke enough warmth to bring sensation back into them. Just one more form, one more signature, he promised himself for the hundredth time, flipping the finished pages onto their applicable pile and delving into the next.
He was inexcusably late to return home. Hythlodaeus would be annoyed. And even worse, he would be graceful and forgiving about it, quietly disappointed that another evening had passed them by.
Well, it wasn’t his fault that he’d been roped into another of Azem’s adventures, leaving him an entire three days behind on work. And on Midwinter, no less!
It was his fault that he had stayed that extra day to enjoy his time with her. After all, he saw her so rarely these days, and she was not due back for at least another few weeks. If he was to be called away, and on “official” duty, he might as well take full advantage of it.
A sharp knock at his door roused Emet-Selch from his elbows-deep focus, and he straightened, running a hand through his hair, suddenly acutely aware of how he must look — seated in near darkness, in utter cold. He snapped his fingers, setting a fire ablaze in the fireplace, and lit the aetherlamp on his desk, raking a hand through his long white hair.
“Enter,” he said, voice gravelly from disuse. He cleared his throat, and in the last second recalled to don his mask.
In entered Elidibus. The youthful man had a grave air about him this day, his mouth set in a thin line. Emet-Selch stood and bowed slightly at the waist — a formality, to be certain, but one he felt was necessary, given the state of the rest of him.
“Emet-Selch,” said Elidibus, inclining his head.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wished to ask, per a matter of curiosity. When you arrived at the Capitol this morning, was there aught that seemed amiss to you in the lobby?”
“Ah,” said Emet-Selch, thinking back to that morning, when he had awoken at his desk surrounded by stacks of paperwork that had seemed no less looming than those around him now. “If there was something, I did not notice it.”
“Fascinating,” said Elidibus, bringing a pensive hand to hover over his lips. “It seems there are conflicting accounts on this matter.”
Emet-Selch waited for his colleague to elaborate. When, instead, they stood in silence for far longer than was comfortable, at last he said, “Well? What is the matter?”
“I did not witness it myself,” said Elidibus, a wry smile growing on his face, “but supposedly the Capitol was entirely empty, this morning and all day, due to the date, which is, of course, Midwinter.”
“Midwinter.” Inklings of dread appeared in Emet-Selch’s stomach.
“Which, naturally, is a national holiday, meant to spend with loved ones and family, and on which government employees are not to work.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, his face reddening with the realization.
He had slept at work, and then worked all day, into the evening.
Leaving Hythlodaeus at home.
Alone.
On Midwinter.
Oh, he was doomed. He was in absolutely, undeniably, the deepest trouble he’d ever been in. And when Azem found out, he’d be reduced to nothing but motes of ash floating along the aetherial plane.
“I think I shall be returning home,” he said. Surreptitiously, he attempted to straighten the blatant wrinkles on his robes.
“A splendid idea,” said Elidibus with a gentle smile. “And fortuitous timing. Might I walk with you? Your spouse invited me over as a guest.”
Odd. Emet-Selch knew his husband was passing friends with just about every member of the Convocation, but did not tend to invite them over for holidays typically reserved for the company of family. Then again, Hythlodaeus’s extroversion had always baffled him somewhat. Emet-Selch was inclined to a more reclusive nature, often preferring the whisper of book pages over the gossip of people, save for a choice few.
Thankfully, Elidibus was one of those few. And, Emet-Selch had not spoken to another person for at least a day, and he found himself quite wanting for conversation.
“Shall we meet in the lobby in ten minutes’ time?” he asked.
Elidibus’s face brimmed bright with an unrestrained grin. “We shall,” he said, taking his leave.
He was reminded with a feeling like lightning struck, not for the first time, of how young Elidibus was. How singularly hopeful and admiring of his position. The previous Elidibus had been very, very old and very, very wise, and tended to err on the side of traditionalist, much to Emet-Selch’s own comfort and liking. But he could not deny that the young man who currently held the seat seemed almost preternaturally suited for the job. When presented with a quandary, he was invariably pensive, always considering his options rather than acting on impulse. He was already quite the advisor among the other members of the Convocation, providing perspective both fresh and fair.
Still, his buoyant hope and thirst for adventure reminded Emet-Selch of another colleague, one of whom he was entirely too fond. Azem was not due to be home for Starlight this year — and had not been since the first year she had been wed to the two of them. He knew she was something of an idol to Elidibus, and she spoke of him often in adoring tones.
Emet-Selch took advantage of his few minutes alone to straighten himself out, don a heavy cloak, ensure his office was settled for the long weekend. He sighed deeply as he fastened the cloak at his throat, then doused the fire with a descending waft of his hand.
Elidibus waited in the lobby, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet. His face split into a sunny grin at the sight of Emet-Selch, who returned the gesture with a mere twitch of the corners of his mouth. Rare was the day that he socialized with his coworkers, although he was often dragged along by one or both of his spouses to various social functions. He worked in close enough proximity with most of the Convocation that he felt he saw enough of them to sate his palate for niceties and plastered smiles. A figurehead he might be, but Emet-Selch did not fancy himself a politician.
“Shall we?” he asked, lifting a hand and beginning to pull strands of aether through his fingers, plucking at wisps of life pulled taut like yarn on a loom. He reached out a hand to Elidibus, who shook his head.
“Actually, if you are not in any rush, I would prefer to view the markets.”
“The markets?” He paused and the aether dissipated. It was a strange way to refer to the Shopping District, but if Elidibus insisted—
“My, you really have been wrapped up in your own end of things, haven’t you?” Elidibus giggled lightly through the veil of loosely curled fingers, and the sound was so unlike the typically pensive man that Emet-Selch’s lips parted in surprise. “It has been a collaboration spearheaded between Deudephalon, Altima, and Azem for some months now. Perhaps the missive’s arrival was lost in the shuffle of your stacks of documents? I believe most of the other seats have contributed in some way.”
Emet-Selch vaguely recalled some Midwinter project crossing his desk, but he very may well have passed it onto the responsibility of some intern or clout-seeking student, more concerned with the sheer number of crossings into the Underworld he had to monitor, plan, and execute. Unsurprisingly, and perhaps befitting the more fallow energies of the season, winter was a busy time for the man who oversaw death. He had little attentions to provide to a festival — although he hoped he had not insulted Azem with his distraction.
Pressing his hands to his heart, Elidibus continued in a tone of voice that indicated he was quoting someone. “‘To celebrate the longest night of the year, we shall illuminate our lady Amaurot with the most brilliant artistic creations Amaurot has to offer. Not those of progress, but of whimsy and joy, so that we might all recall the warmth of summer’s day in our hearts and look forward to the happiness yet to come.’ At least, that was the project’s proposal thesis. Quite stirring, wouldn’t you say?”
“If one prefers summer, I suppose.”
“And you do not?”
He slumped his shoulders, scowling under his mask. “What is there to like? Interminable sweltering heat, bringing about lethargy and irritation.”
Elidibus hummed. “But what of sunshine? And of blooming florals?”
“Pollen.” Did the Emissary not recall the horrid, previous summer months? Emet-Selch had been half convinced he would never again be able to indulge in pleasures of the olfactory. At least a third of the Convocation had been plagued by allergy sniffles, in spite of Halmarut’s best efforts to keep the city planted with only the least irritating trees available to thrive in the region.
“Water sports? The ocean?”
Emet-Selch pouted haughtily, crossing his arms. “Do not even allow me to begin on how wholly I abhor sand.”
“So you will enjoy bringing a bit more light and life to your favorite season, surely,” Elidibus offered, leading him through the massive front doors and out into the unusually bustling streets.
“Please consider that I might prefer the darkness and solitude of winter.”
“But surely a walk through the town square won’t upset you so much?” Elidibus tilted his head coyly, and Emet-Selch realized he was being teased. Or taunted. “Come now, just a brisk walk through the festivities. If you see nothing worth your interest, we can teleport directly to your front door.”
Emet-Selch frowned, even as he trailed behind the slight man in the white robe. Of all holidays, Midwinter was meant to be most private and solemn, spent with the closest family and friends. When nearly every excuse for jubilation was grasped upon, he had always preferred the weight given the turning of the year. Little compared to the quiet intimacy of sharing drink and memory, of exchanging heartfelt gifts and words of admiration or gratitude.
Of course, that such cloistered privacy often led to him creatively utilizing of many surfaces within his home with one or both of his partners might have biased him slightly toward the holiday. And in truth, he had hoped a part of his penance to Hythlodaeus might have involved such creativity.
Elidibus’s presence was throwing a wrench in his plans to rectify this ruined holiday, and Emet-Selch half wished to tell the young Emissary to kindly head home. Even as he considered the words passing his lips, though, his stomach twisted, and he scoffed, rolling his eyes to the side to hide his guilt. It was well-known among Convocation members that Elidibus had no family living in or near Amaurot. He barely had a social life due to dedicated marriage to his duties. Had anyone bothered inviting him to their home for Midwinter celebrations any prior years, or had they been spent alone, in silence?
No, Emet-Selch would not undermine Hythlodaeus’s selfless efforts. Especially not when Elidibus had already provided him a massive favor, by reminding him of the damned date in the first place.
He took a breath to inform Elidibus that he would really rather head straight home to his spouse when, upon rounding a corner, he found the words stolen from his lungs.
Although the Polyiterae District was typically bustling with academics and inventors and rhetoric enthusiasts alike, eager to trade in ideas and conversation, he had never seen it quite like this.
Packs of Amaurotines drifted from stall to stall, the thinnest threads of finery in their uniform black cloaks transformed into silk of black titanium in the glittering, drifting aetherlight, the plainest masks reminiscent of dreamy mother-of-pearl. The stinging cold air was heavy with the scent of chocolates and freshly baked pastry, newly steeped tea and spices. Emet-Selch had only ever smelled anything close on the occasional travel with Azem. For all that Amaurot boasted, exotic flavor was not one of those strong points. Even if he hadn’t been told that her hand was in the creation of this event, he might have guessed from that detail alone.
The colorful, twinkling orbs of glow floating among the dizzying whirls of snow looked so similar to his own aethersight that Emet-Selch blinked rapidly, focusing in and out of his special ability, if only to reorient himself and what he was seeing. The streets were lined with artisans of every kind, selling sculpture and invention, from small fur-and-scale outfitted creatures fit to delight a child, to strange bronze whirring machines that hovered through the air with wings that hummed and spun. Performers sang on the street corners, dressed in dazzlingly colorful robes fit for their unusual role in the festivities, the notes of their chorus like ringing crystal above the murmur of conversation.
A night of traditional serenity had become one of relaxed chatter, sharing, and a complete disregard for precedent in favor of novelty. And while this lack of convention might have normally rankled him to the core, Emet-Selch felt somewhat… charmed. Azem would have adored this. In his heart of hearts, he wished that she could have had the opportunity to come home in an expedient enough manner to have witnessed it. He could almost hear her now, the squeak of her excited voice, much like she exclaimed when she saw himself and Hythlodaeus for the first time after returning from a trip.
Wait a moment.
That wasn’t an imagined squeal of joy pulled from the trenches of his memory. It was the real thing. The fact of her presence barely registered a moment before a small hooded figure barreled into his chest, knocking the wind out of his stomach and squeezing around his middle like a vise.
“Hades!” cried Azem, turning her face up toward him, resting her chin on his chest. She was miraculously masked despite her unsanctimonious, public declaration of his name. A laughing Hythlodaeus drifted in tow behind her, lavender braid trailing out from beneath his hood.
“Azem? I—.”
His cheeks grew unbearably hot as his gaze flitted from her brilliant grin, to Hythlodaeus’s watchful eyes, and finally Elidibus’s own sheepish blush. He had been tricked!
But he bit his tongue. A lecture on manners regarding honesty would have to wait. There were far more pressing matters currently wiggling in his arms, and he would not deny her a chaste kiss pressed to the forehead. “You’re home early,” he remarked, looking at their husband over her head.
“Not that you even noticed for the first day,” she laughed.
“We spent all last night wondering when you might come home to the surprise,” said Hythlodaeus, who had edged close enough to speak at a pleasant volume, tone bubbly as ever. “When you never returned home, well, we suspected you had overstayed your welcome at the Capitol again and enlisted our vaunted friend Elidibus for assistance. Judgement, and the like. And it seems he had indeed judged that you have, in fact, no requirement at all to spend the night in your office on a national holiday!”
Ah. It seemed Hythlodaeus, for one, would not be sparing him the lecture. Emet-Selch had made the more grievous error, after all, regardless of the reflexes he tended to pull from his own mortification.
“As it turned out, Elidibus had no Midwinter plans whatsoever, so we thought it best to invite him to observe the holiday with our family, this year.” Azem unraveled herself from around his middle to catch the Emissary’s hand between her own.
“An invitation which I very much appreciate,” said Elidibus, “although I do not wish to impose, seeing as Emet-Selch had no weighing in on this matter.”
“Of course you are welcome,” said Emet-Selch, with a twitch of his lips that might pass as a friendly smile in only the most emotionally constipated circles.
Because how could he deny anything to his Azem in earnest, when she was home at last? He could spare himself one round of begging and pleading and watery eyes, just by giving in for now.
Even with his oversized mask casting somewhat of a scarlet-tinted shadow, it was impossible to miss the pink flush that bloomed down the younger man’s pale face, the bob of his throat. Emet-Selch tilted his head in curiosity, allowing Hythlodaeus to lead the group of them along the market stalls and admire the sights. But Emet-Selch’s mind was still caught on a fact he had probably known, but never consciously acknowledged — Elidibus fancied Azem.
Everyone knew that the youngest appointee admired his Convocation peers. And, in a fashion that was very much like herself, Azem had already befriended Elidibus long before his appointment and ascension to the seat. Still, Emet-Selch had not considered that the connection might be something more than professional interest.
Even by Amaurotine standards, Azem was remarkably generous with her affections. Perhaps it was a factor of her wanderlust nature, but she had an inclination towards falling in love, which her spouses were happy to allow her to indulge. Envy was not a vice Emet-Selch boasted when it came to love. He was confident, deep in the bond that ran between their souls, that Azem would always return regardless of where she wandered.
But another Convocation member, if indeed that was what she sought? The webs of connection and propriety were too messy to untangle, and he feared that such a conquest, even if distinctly casual, might result in more pain and complication than a fling across the continent.
As he ruminated on the matter at hand, he hardly even noticed that Hythlodaeus had pulled him into a short line waiting for some kind of gooey and sugary treat, while Azem and Elidibus drifted on.
“You seem deep in the labyrinth of that overactive mind,” said his husband, who pantomimed a gentle knock against Emet-Selch’s temple, requesting entry to his thoughts.
He inclined his head sheepishly, finding Hythlodaeus’s slender hand and pressing his fingertips into the soft meat of his palm. “Azem’s early appearance was the most fortuitous thing I could have imagined. It was not my intention to leave you alone for the holiday,” he murmured.
It was not a proper apology, he knew. Nonetheless, Hythlodaeus spoke his language, shifting their hands so their palms pressed flush, threading their fingers together in a tangle, his thin lips spread in a gracious smile. “It was as intended, actually,” Hythlodaeus admitted. “She was always coming home a day before Midwinter because she wanted to surprise you with this.” His free hand gestured at the warmly lit scene around them.
Across the stalls, she threaded a plushly woven, ultramarine scarf around Elidibus’s shoulders. Flirt, thought Emet-Selch.
He squeezed Hythlodaeus’s hand, a little too tight. “Are there any other lies and half-truths I’m going to discover tonight?” he grumbled, even as his free hand cupped the curve of his husband’s waist, hungry for contact now that his undivided attention was obtained.
“Just one. Don’t give me that look!” Hythlodaeus laughed, pressing a finger to his exaggerated pout. “In truth, Azem’s invitation to Elidibus was not an accident. Certainly you’ve noticed their… ah….”
He followed his husband’s violet gaze to the other couple, where Azem now appeared to either be whispering into Elidibus’s ear, or nibbling it, indiscernible from this angle. The Emissary was leaning into her contact, fingers tense in the fabric of his white robes at his thigh.
Hythlodaeus chuckled lightly through his nose. “I only intend to say, in only the most fulsome of ways, that our Azem certainly has a way of getting what she wants, when she at last decides she wants it.”
“This is not a novel revelation,” Emet-Selch said.
He recalled Azem’s extensive romantic courting of the two of them, even after they had been intimate on many levels for decades. When she wished to make her affections known, only the anti-vandalism wards on the exterior walls of Amaurot’s buildings prevented her from painting an enormous announcement — and matching flattering portrait of her object of affections — for all to see. After all, it was her antics that had illustrated the necessity for those wards to be designed in the first place.
“So the final lie we have told you, although it is not truly a lie but more akin to an omission, is that Azem has also invited Elidibus to spend the night and ring in the new year with us. In every sense of the word.”
Emet-Selch’s eyebrows rose beneath his mask. Their activities post-Midwinter were typically breathless, days-long affairs with extensive exchanging of aether and bodily fluids alike. “She really desires that?”
“Yes. And I am amenable to the idea, as well. I only wished to confirm your own complaisance. If you are at all uncomfortable with entangling with Elidibus, a discomfort for which I am certain you might have your generous pick of reasoning, I am more than happy to arrange something for just you and I.”
Emet-Selch swallowed, his chest swelling with appreciation for his husband’s ever-perceptive and sacrificing nature. But as he glanced over again to Azem, to the way she leaned in close and confident to her new lover’s face, the shy slide of a hand around her waist, the dazzle of her unending dance to someone who only just now had become a direct recipient of it, he saw much of himself in the younger Emissary.
A new year marked no better time to try something new, to embark on fresh adventures, to open his heart to those who needed it. A leap of faith — of which Emet-Selch was known to be wary. And even now, as he envisioned the potential of what could go wrong, his heart hammered in his chest. Nonetheless, there was an inkling of something else there — of anticipation, of hope.
“Actually,” he said slowly, “I find myself curious about the man our Emissary might be, when stripped of all those layers of duty.”
Hythlodaeus broke into a wide grin, twisting a lock of Emet-Selch’s white hair around a finger, his voice light and husky all at once. “I look forward to discovering that together, eminent Redeemer.”
Were it not for their very public location, Emet-Selch might have been on his knees before Hythlodaeus in that very heartbeat.
Once they had retrieved their treats from the stand, which turned out to be powdery puffs of sugar atop thick cups of molten chocolate, they reconvened with the other half of their party. Azem wasted absolutely no time in procuring headband decorations with varying antlers, feathers, horns, and ears, the wearing of which Emet-Selch acquiesced to after only the appropriate amount of hemming and hawing. He would never admit it to anyone out loud, but the fanciful sweetness of this Midwinter market was thawing through him at a nearly alarming rate.
And when, arm-in-arm, the four of them walked home all together, he thought he might prefer it that way.