Archive of Our Own

He wakes shaking from the dream, sitting upright, and gasping for air. The sudden disorientation of the smell of familiar wood polish, cotton, and old leather, where he expected the alien smells of the elf trees’ bloom, terracotta, and wool makes the moment worse. He was home, in his own bed, safe in his own house in the Mist wards. 

Safe? The thought makes an almost hysterical laugh bubble up. D’var Tia, Warrior of Light and Darkness, safe? The only thing stopping another laugh is the constriction in his throat. At what price now? What costs this time?

It’s been less than a week since he stepped through that portal in the Ocular, and found himself standing in Mor Dhona. It’s been less than two weeks since the events of Amaurot. The cotton fabric of the sheets bunch into the palm of his hands as his fists clench. Less than two weeks, and he can still see the burning skyline behind his eyelids and feel the axe handle in his palms if he tries. A month ago, he was nearly a Lightwarden, a monster that would have destroyed a world. The sheets are the only thing stopping his claws from digging into the soft flesh to add more cuts to the growing collection on his palms. 

Fighting to slow his breathing, he tries to think of anything other than the last few months, yet all around him are reminders of his absence. Dust on shelves that had been clean, a dead plant by the window which had been about to bloom, a half-finished sketch of a new bracelet on his desk that he can’t even remember the rest of the design for now. All he sees are where his life stopped here, and he awoke in the First, shadowed in pale light.

The pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains of the window is weak and thin, a welcome change from the searing blaze that he’d had to see in the skies above the First for so many months. A slight draft of cool air makes him realize that at some point during the night, the small fire in the stove that heats the room had gone out, and the chill and damp of the early fall La Noscean night had settled into the air. To be honest, D’var finds the cold wonderful, a blessed change from the heat of the First’s sun. It had been high-summer there, when he left, the worst of the heat was just coming on, the locals said. Would the weather be different now that the perpetual light was gone? Rain, fog, and clear skies had surprised them, he remembered. That, somehow, calms his breathing, thinking about the children laughing in the rain in the Crystarium. 

Letting his body fall back, head sinking into the feathered pillow - dodo, real dodo feathers, the smell of home - the Seeker looks up at the beams overhead. He dares not close his eyes, else the dream will come back. He scrubs at them with the back of one hand, trying to deny how much they ache from lack of sleep, then runs the claws of the hand through the messy strands of his hair. Was there so much grey in it, before the First, he wonders. He’d had a shock looking in a mirror yesterday, and seen the long, pale streaks running through most of it, and even grey now in his tail fur. Part of him wants to pluck out every fur that is the wrong colour, to put himself back right, but he knows they’d only grow back again. 

Would you still measure my worth and find me wanting, even now? 

D’var’s jaw clenches tightly enough for the tip of a fang to break the skin of his lip, the unbidden, unwanted thought making him jolt. The taste of blood recalls the taste of ash, ozone, and aether. And the twisting knife of warped memory the dream had been made from is all he can think of, where the eyes looking back were not the already dimming gold, but rather pale, the light of life, too, going out of them far too fast for him to stop. Curling in on himself, knees to chest and tail wrapped tightly at his feet, he tries to shut out the blend of memories his mind had created to torment himself with.

Liar.
I didn’t kill you....                    You were already dead....                   I had to kill you...
You killed us. We died for you.

Most of the morning is overcast, but as the day grows warmer the clouds burn away, letting the sun illuminate the little cove of the Mist wards. D’var does not wince at the light, he hasn’t done that since the first day back home, but he does find shade near the pier to sit, listening to the gulls scream over some scrap of fish. With his eyes closed, the world feels at peace, the warm sun and cool salt breeze all he wants to know. He sits there for long enough for the shadows to have moved once he opens his eyes. The change of angle in the sun makes the water glint like gold and silver inlays on a smooth surface. 

The breath freezes in his throat, and he swallows thickly, the smell of salt in the air now too much like the hint of brine in the Tempest, the flickering light suddenly too much like the hateful light shining through the sea overhead, and the light of lamps on brass and stone. A breeze stirs, and he feels the slick, smooth glide of gloved fingers, impossibly soft, along the bare skin of his forearm. 

The Seeker stumbles to his feet, half falling over, to reach the side of the planks before the small breakfast he’d eaten comes back up, falling in retching chunks to the surface of the water below. Even once the last of it is up, he wretches again and again, waiting for the burning feeling of his own soul cracking, waiting for the aether to spill out, white and cruel into the water. Nothing comes up but bile and acid. 

His soul is his. His soul is whole. 

His soul is more than whole, more than his. 

Still only barely more than half what it should be. 

Rolling to his side, he lays on the warm, dry wood of the pier, and wishes he could see Ardbert’s face smiling down at him, once more. Even knowing, even having seen, the shade had still given his soul over, given D’var back a part of himself he had never known he was missing. Maybe because he’d known. He wished he’d been able to ask the hyur before that last moment. How did it make you feel, knowing what I’d done, and then doing what I did? I know you saw. I saw you watching. Did you ever want such a thing? Would you admit to it?

A shadow, cool and dark, blocks the sun overhead, and D’var pushes himself into a sitting position to look up. A late afternoon storm is rising over the bay, threatening rain sooner rather than later. He needs to wash the taste of vomit and bile from his mouth, needs to not be seen here on this pier in full view of his neighbours, needs to be out of this light and wind and back inside. But the energy to rise simply isn’t there. He can’t bring himself to move, to even stand. Instead, he lets the cold breeze blow over him, and tries not to shiver. The memory of the smell of cocoa mixes with the memory of the smell of brine. And what would you think of my faithlessness? You’d remind me that you’re gone, that I’m alive, to live, is what you’d have said. Even still, would you forgive me?

In an abstract way, he knows he’s falling apart. The stress on body, soul, and mind over the last few months may finally have been enough to break him. Even if they insist his soul and body are healed, his mind still crumbles, he can feel it. After ... after he’d killed Thordan, it had been much the same. He barely remembers those months between Azys Lla and the meeting with Vidofnir, the time a haze of grief. Others had mourned, made their offerings of sympathy, and then expected him to move on. They hadn’t known. There hadn’t been time for them to know. And had they known, would it have repulsed them? This time, it was worse. So much worse, watching those who should comfort you rejoice in what you’d been forced to do by their very actions. This time, there was no one who could ever know. The revulsion would be absolute.

Where are your damn high expectations of me now? He thinks, as the first of the rain begins to fall. Heavy drops, hard enough to sting the skin as they hit, feel like a blessing to him as the storm wall washes over the shoreline. The rain is cold, unyielding, and it washes away the smells from the air and the tastes from his mouth, washes away the prickle of touch against his skin, washes away the tears he’s fought off for most of the day as they finally fall. 

Which of us are you mourning?
Only you.                                         You, my friend.                                     Always you.
Liar.

The energy to stand and return home comes as the rain is passing. Like a soft-headed fool, he’s sat in the deluge for more than an hour, at least, and he’s soaked to the skin. Once inside, he strips off sodden clothes, hanging them up half-heartedly to dry, then finds a blanket to wrap himself in before heading to the basement of the small house. The hearth is still laid with the makings of a fire - how many months ago did I do that - which he lights. The flames catch quickly to the dry wood and kindling, spreading and rising. He turns down the lamps, and wanders to the plush red couch before the hearth, collapsing onto the cushions before curling up further into the blanket. His tail lashes slowly, thumping out against the cushion a tattoo of agitation, the only sound besides the crackling rise of the fire. 

A hand, long fingered and strong, reached over and soothed the thrashing of his tail against the edge of the bench. D’var had started, reaching for his axe as he sat up, only to stop, realizing that Haurchefant was sitting next to where he had curled up in a makeshift bedroll on the bench, hands now raised in full view, empty, worry creasing his face. 

“Apologies, I had not thought through my actions...” That voice, warm like the fire burning in the braziers in the intercessory’s corners. 

“No, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting...” something so intimate “... anyone to touch me.” D’var forces himself to sit up, legs tucked, blankets draped around and over him, with a chill in his gut he can’t shake. Everything still hurts, and he’s not even sure he could lift his axe right now, even after the attentions of the chirurgeons to the injuries in his shoulder and arm yesterday. 

Haurchefant slowly lowered his hands, one seemingly carelessly placed lightly on the blanket covering D’var’s left calf. The concern written in the pale eyes made his heart hurt. He didn’t deserve anyone to look at him like that, not now. 

“Sometimes,” the elzen started, then looked away from D’var’s face, “Sometimes it can be hard to let one’s guard down after things have gone so wrong.”

“How would you know what it’s like?” D’var snapped. He froze as he suddenly saw where Haurchefant’s eyes were focused. Thick leather-bound volumes, none the same size, each with a year numbered on the spine. He’d picked one up, earlier, only to find it full of name after name, each with a date, place, and note of manner of death. The names came in groups of fours and fives, but sometimes whole pages shared a single date, all in the familiar handwriting of the elzen sitting next to him. He felt his ears flatten, shame replacing anger. Fuck, I’m an ass. 

But Twelve forfend, that damn man had only looked at him with that too soft smile, and gripped his calf slightly through the thick folds of the blanket. “You will find, my friend, that most of Ishgard knows more of loss than anything else.”

“I know.” D’var paused, and his eyes caught on where the hand pressed into the blanket over his leg. “I came here once, before,” He waved a hand vaguely. “I remember how green it was here. It was so beautiful.” Haurchefant’s quiet sigh told D’var all he needed to hear. 

His balled fists clenched the blanket, and D’var felt his tail thump hard against the bench. “I’m sorry. I just, I’m not-”

An almost painfully tight squeeze from the hand resting on the blanket covering his calf stopped his words. “You are safe here, now, my friend.” In the pause, D’var heard the quiet settling of coals in the closet brazier. “You are safe with me.” The words were much quieter, almost a whisper. 

In retrospect, D’var now knows how slow he’d been to realize what had really been said to him that night. 

The rooms he’d been given in the Fortemps manor were larger than anywhere he’d ever had as his own. He’d protested they were too much, but still been given a bedroom that would have housed a quarter of his family, with a bed so large he felt swallowed in it, linked on one side to a sitting room that was just as large, and the other a bath that, while strange in the design, had hot running water without the need of a servant to bring buckets. All of this to himself, and he was only a guest in the house, a refugee. The rooms felt cavernous, and he tried to spend as little time as possible inside them. 

He returned late that evening, having spent perhaps a bit longer at the Forgotten Knight than was prudent. D’var knew that he could too easily sink into drinking each night away, but being at the Knight was safer for him, he rationalized. There was the pressure to watch his back in public, for one, and then the long walk across the city back to his rooms, for another, which kept him from drinking too heavily. He shed his coat and cloak at the door, carefully tucking them over his arm to put away, as the servants were long in bed, before walking - a bit unsteadily - into the main room, through which he had to pass to reach the hallway where his own was located. 

The front room was not empty. Silhouetted by the low burning fire in the hearth, a familiar figure was sitting in one of the armchairs. “Haurchefant...”

The elzen looked up, folding the book he’d been reading and set it aside before standing. “My dear friend,” in the low light, D’var could still clearly see the soft smile that always accompanied the words, “When I arrived, I was told you were out for the evening, but thought I’d wait up for you.”

“I hadn’t known you were coming back from Dragonhead,” the words sounded slurred to his ears, and he’d felt the flush of embarrassment rise up over the flush of the drink. 

“I had only to deal with a few matters after my absence to Cloudtop,” he said, and in a few long strides the elzen closed the distance between them. D’var looked up, aware again how the differences in height seemed more marked at times like this. “I will be absent from the post more in the future, and wished to make sure there was nothing of pressing need. All the better that I may be here for you, my friend.” A hand, light in its touch, settled on D’var’s upper arm, asking a question D’var could not decipher. 

“Come, let us retire to your sitting room, perhaps?” He gave an unsteady nod in reply, and found himself being guided towards his rooms by Haurchefant’s hand upon his arm. As they had walked, the elzen had bent slightly, bringing his lips nearer to the upturned ear closest, and whispered, “I’ll not judge a man for being in his cups, but I worry for your safety, my friend. If you must, while I am here, we may drink together.” D’var felt his ears flatten, angry for a moment, before the genuine sentiment behind the words filtered through. He had only nodded, not looking up at Haurchefant, not wanting to see what was in the expression on his face. 

Haurchefant had led them back to D’var’s rooms, and then set about seeing that D’var was comfortable. D’var sat on the velvet upholstered settee he’d been pointed to, and watched first as Haurchefant stoked the low burning fire back into more heat and life, hung up both coat and cloak he’d taken from the miqo’te’s hands, as well as his own, then poured drinks for himself and D’var from the small liquor cabinet. When he’d returned, he sat the drinks down on the small side tables to either side of the settee, before joining D’var. 

The moment had stretched out, long and quiet. D’var found himself watching Haurchefant as he sipped the drink in his hand, and had been aware that for the first time in his memory, the elzen was not wearing his chain and armour. The shirt and trousers were simple, utilitarian, but of fine make, and the cut flattering. Watching the long-fingered hand that gripped the glass of the short tumbler, and the purse of lips as a sip was taken and swallowed felt strangely intimate, in a way D’var was unfamiliar with. 

“Is your drink not to your liking, my friend?” D’var had started with surprise, the low, soft voice breaking the silence. 

“I,” he’d paused, swallowing, trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth, “I think I might have had enough already,” he confessed, and felt that same hot flush again. 

The look Haurchefant gave him was one of surprise, “Ah, forgive me for assuming, my friend.” D’var had waved a hand. “Would you indulge me, just a while, that I might sit with you while I finish both of these then? I could very much use it, I fear.” And the elzen’s long arm had reached across D’var, the sleeve just brushing the front of his shirt, retrieving the second drink and pouring it into his half-finished one, followed by a long drink from the tumbler.

They’d sat together in silence then, D’var watching each sip and swallow, Haurchefant seemingly pointedly not taking notice of the eyes watching him. The fire burned low, needing fuel and stoking, yet neither rose to tend to it. He watched in fascination as a flush crept over the pale, sharp cheeks, noticed a tooth worry at the lower lip between sips, saw the slight twitch in the grip of fingers on the glass. It was only with the last sip that a single, furtive glance strayed to D’var’s eyes, then quickly back away. D’var felt his tail thump once, hard on the edge of the upholstery, the outward sign of his intent thoughts slipping through his usual control. Haurchefant startled at the noise, looking towards D’var with surprise-widened eyes, then looked sharply, pointedly away, the blush spread visibly along his face and ears. 

Floating on that edge of drunkenness which felt like pure sobriety, D’var reached out a hand and put his fingers around the top of the glass, and lifted it from Haurchefant’s fingers before setting it down on the side table. Haurchefant’s gaze followed the glass and hand, then settled with a look of perplexed amazement to meet D’var’s own eyes. 

“So, now that I have indulged you,” D’var began, only to suddenly be cut off by Haurchefant’s own words.

“Forgive me, I think perhaps I have stayed too late, my friend.” There was a hitch in the voice, an edge of anxiety that he could never remember having heard before. Haurchefant rose from the settee, turning away. 

“Is something wrong?” He asked to the elzen’s back. Did I do something wrong? He wanted to ask. 

With a quick step Haurchefant walked to the door, pausing before opening it, turning back to look at D’var. “I will see you on the morrow, my friend.” Haurchefant opened the door, “All is right and proper as it should be.” The click of the latch of the door as it shut behind him seemed only to underscore the lie. 

It is only after the war’s end, as an aside in a conversation with Aymeric, that D’var realizes the incredible social taboo Haurchefant had broken that night with him. 

He came back from the floating hellscape of the Aery into a city boiling over. It had only been Ysayle and Haurchefant who had stemmed the tide of even more bloodshed, while D’var found himself, exhausted and body nearly to breaking, pushing through to get word spread in the city. At sunset, he at last escaped to the rooms he’d been given. 

Everything had hurt. Under his thick gloves, he’d found lacerations into the pads of his fingers from the bowstring which cut down through the hard-won calluses he’d developed over the last months. His bad shoulder burned like fire, reminding him again why he’d had to switch to the lighter weapon after the injuries sustained escaping Ul’dah. No amount of magic poured into it or salves from the medics had made a difference in the pain. Every inch of his leathers had ash and soot on them, as well as the ichor and blood of countless dragons and heretics. Bruises and burns made his tan skin a mottle of greens, yellows, and reds. Along one leg, just above where the boot buckle had caught an electrical discharge, a tree-like burn branched upwards along the skin. The nerves must have been burned out, for all he felt was a tingling numbness around the wound. 

All of this he took stock of as he stripped off his gear for cleaning later, followed by the thick padded layer he’d been wearing under it to stave off the cold of the high altitudes. He dug through his pack, found a relatively clean set of smalls to change into, and then wrapped himself in the thick robe that had been left for him in the room. He’d applied dressings to his fingers, clumsily, and cleaned the worst of the burns before applying a salve supposed to work wonders on dragon-fire burns. Exhaustion and the sudden ebb of the wave of adrenaline he’d been riding brought him to a crashing halt before he could do more. 

D’var was never sure if he had dozed, or simply let his mind go blank, but enough time passed that the fire had burned down in the grate of the mantle in the sitting room when a knock on his door startled him. He’d made some sort of sound, not really anything more than an acknowledgement, before the door swung itself open violently and Haurchefant - looking little better than D’var himself felt - strode through. The elzen snagged the door with a hand, swinging it closed behind him with a violent slam, before stalking over to where D’var was curled on the settee. Haurchefant’s pale eyes burned with intensity in the firelight, his face a twist of an emotion D’var couldn’t read. Before he could react, Haurchefant reached out, grabbing him by his good shoulder and the front of his robe on the other side, and hoisted him to his feet. Even then, Haurchefant still had a full head and change in height on D’var, a fact that he realized he’d never quite noticed before, not until those pale eyes were glaring down at him like this. The moment stretched, D’var half tensed, ready to flee or fight, if need be, before suddenly he found himself pulled into a crushing embrace, the elzen’s face burying itself against his good shoulder, muffling a sound like a sob in the fabric of the dressing gown. 

D’var froze, unsure how to respond. Haurchefant must have felt the tension in his body, for he relaxed the grip, and met D’var’s eyes again. The faint dampness of tears was visible on his face. 

“Haurchefant,” he started, but was cut off.

“How dare you. How dare you go off into the wilds, with only that boy and that crazed dragoon to protect you!” The words held less heat than fear, and D’var realized belatedly that he should have perhaps thought the plan through better. “I thought-”, suddenly his voice was quieter, voice nearly lost in emotion, “I thought that I had lost you. I thought I would never-” He cut himself off, tightening the embrace again. 

Had he been less exhausted, his brain might have picked up on the situation faster. D’var found himself held, dumbly unable to respond in a coherent way to this outpouring of emotion. As it was, all he managed was to say, “Haurchefant?” 

The elzen released the embrace, slowly, his hands still resting on his shoulder and chest, no longer gripping the fabric. D’var saw his expression shift from the twist of emotion to suddenly guarded, afraid of something he’d seen on D’var’s own face. D’var felt his ears twitch back, the sudden shock of the realization hitting him nearly like a physical force, and for a too long moment all he could hear suddenly was the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. 

He realized Haurchefant was speaking, his brain slow to catch up with the words, “-and it would be well within your rights to never wish to speak-”. With his good arm, he reached up and placed a bandaged hand against Haurchefant’s face, cutting off whatever he had been about to say, replacing the fear and rejection with a look of bewildered surprise. 

“It’s alright. I’m alright, Haurchefant.” His own voice sounded off, thick with an emotion he had trouble to put a name to. 

Before he could find more words, the much larger elzen hand covered his own, pulling it forwards, letting Haurchefant place a careful, light kiss on the palm. Pale eyes watched D’var’s expression with a mix of hopefulness and hesitation. D’var nodded, small and hopeful, daring for once to let himself feel that surge of attraction and emotion. It must have been enough, as Haurchefant let go of the hand, only to reach with both to touch D’var’s cheeks, running the pads of his thumbs along the fine line of a scar beneath both eyes, almost following the lines of his tattoos. 

He felt himself shiver at the touch, pushing into the warm, sword calloused hands, eyes half closing. The warm flush of breath against his skin, and then lips, impossibly soft against his own wind-chapped lips was all it took for the last vestiges of restraint to fail. D’var pushed into the kiss, teeth fighting to catch an edge of lip, tongue pushing into the impossibly warm mouth that opened for him with no resistance. He looped his good arm up around Haurchefant’s neck, holding him closer, pushing up on his toes to get better leverage. It was perfect, everything he wanted, everything he’d never allowed himself to want. Or, it would have been, had not the leg with the electrical burn chosen that moment to go out from under him, pulling him down into an undignified heap on the floor, and almost pulling Haurchefant down with him. D’var caught himself on his good arm, barely, saving himself from complete ignominy. 

“D’var!”

D’var started laughing, the worry and concern on Haurchefant’s face turning to confusion. “Var,” he corrected, trying to get back to his feet, taking Haurchefant’s offered hand and pulling himself up. “I think we’re well past the formality of a full name.”

He closes his eyes against the light of the fire, and feels his claws dig into the upholstery under his hand. He knows there are tears on his face. The memories hurt, but he would trade any pain to have one more night. 

To his credit Haurchefant had sent immediately for a house chirurgeon, though how he found one that wasn’t assisting with the rest of the city’s wounded D’var dared not ask. It had taken more aether than he’d thought anyone had to spare to handle some of the worst of the injuries, and D’var had to tell the young healer repeatedly that dumping aether into his damaged shoulder wouldn’t heal it any better than any other time someone had tried the same. He’d come to terms with the fact he’d never lift his old weapon again.

“I can see my concern was rightly placed,” Haurchefant says once the house chirurgeon had left them. “You use too much of yourself, my friend.” The expression on D’var’s face must have said more than he intended to. “No, it isn’t right that so much gets asked of you, with you having nothing of your own, not even care for your own self.” 

D’var shook his head. “If it isn’t me, who else is there? Everything,” he waved a hand vaguely, “seems that it must require me, and no one else. And if I burn myself at both ends, then I guess that’s why Hydaelyn puts into me whatever it is that she does. So, I can keep doing it.” He flexed his hands, looking down at the faint lines where the deep cuts of his bowstring had run, bisecting the calluses, then clenched his fingers tightly, feeling the tips of his claws in the meat of his palm. “Ever since she chose me, that’s all I am.” 

Haurchefant reached out, taking his closed fist in hand, and slowly pried open the grip to interlace his fingers with D’var’s own. D’var couldn’t bring himself to look up at Haurchefant’s face, knowing he’d see pity or disbelief or even anger there. He couldn’t stomach the idea. Not now. 

Haurchefant’s voice was soft when he spoke, barely a whisper, almost as if the words weren’t even for D’var’s ears. “Being chosen by duty is a heavy yoke to have around one’s neck. Worse still when it is one you cannot remove.” D’var looked up sharply, the elzen’s tone so unlike what he was expecting, what he’d heard from so many others. Haurchefant was looking into the low burning fire in the hearth, the expression on his face made strange by the firelight. “Some are born to that burden, yet shrug it off without a care for it. Others take it up upon themselves out of ignorance of what it means, unknowing how heavy it truly is. But when it is set upon you and feels right? When you know that you were made to carry it, to wear that burden until you are all but bone and ash?” Haurchefant paused, swallowing thickly, eyes still fixed on the fire. 

D’var remembered the shelves of books back at Dragonhead, filled with the names of the dead, remembered the fierce protectiveness Haurchefant had shown for him nearly from the first moment they’d met, years before. He tightened his grip on the elzen’s hand slightly, an unspoken understanding, and Haurchefant’s pale eyes finally turned and focused on him. 

“You are more than a weapon, more than whatever it is she wants of you. Let me care for you if you will not care for yourself.” Haurchefant bent towards him, taking his face again in his hand, guiding him into a kiss that was nearly chaste, softer than D’var could stand, almost. He chased after it, refusing to let this softness stand in the way of hunger. 

He curled tighter in on himself, remembering those words. Haurchefant had understood him too well, was cut too much of the same cloth. All but bone and ash, there had barely been that left, after the Ishgardian customs had been seen to. 

D’var melts into the touch of a sword calloused hand as it runs the length of his spine, coming to rest just above the base of his tail as a thumb hooks under the upper edge of his smallclothes. He lets himself be pulled forward and down, legs straddling the taller elzen’s lap, lets his tail curl against the swell of a well-muscled calf, lets his head fall forward to be supported on a broad shoulder before he turns, dragging just the tips of his fangs against the line of a thin scar in the pale skin of Haurchefant’s neck, just above the shirt collar. He smells of smoke and oiled metal, and under that the sharp smell of lye soap curls into D’var’s nose. Thin, clawed fingers work the last of the buttons of Haurchefant’s shirt free, and D’var reaches greedily for the hem of the undershirt, pushing it up as the other man awkwardly shrugs out of the first layer then second, each hand only letting go of his grip on D’var’s back once he’s freed the other to take its place. 

He remembers warmth and strength, the sudden realization of just how deep his emotions actually were. D’var feels his tail curl around his own leg, trying to fight the mix of emotions trying to swallow him. 

D’var couldn’t look away. Haurchefant, looking up at him with an intoxicating mix of lust and love, focus and bliss, could be his whole world, if he let it. Damn all of them, damn the world, damn the dragons, damn the cities, for this he’d happily let them all burn. Just to see those pale, clear eyes looking up at him with that look. 

He wrenched his eyes away, lids shuddering closed as he felt the tip of one finger circle his entrance, slick with some sort of oil Haurchefant had produced from somewhere. Supporting himself on hands and knees over the prone elzen, the prickly softness of the down-filled coverlet under his knees and hands a counterpoint to the nearly burning heat wherever fingers touched him. The sound from his throat was half sob, half groan as the finger breached him. The second, stretching, reaching deeper, made his arms give out under him, resting his face on the broad, firm planes of Haurchefant’s chest, his hands curling to dig a clawed grip around well-muscled arms. 

A hand brushed through his hair, a thumb running the length of an ear. Words, part whisper, part deep rumble, a stream of praise and adoration, spoken just loudly enough D’var heard them like a heartbeat. 

For you.
Always you.
I love you.
From the first time I saw you.
For you.
Always you.

His universe shatters with the sounds of aether and steel mixed into the wet, horrible sound of torn flesh. He’d braced for the hit, knew it was coming, knew the thing would tear through him, knew how much it would hurt, knew that he’d likely not survive it. His eyes had closed, ready for it. And waited. 

A breath.
    A moment. 
            And that sound. 

Everything shatters around him. 
Everything shatters within him. 

He forgets the fleeing madmen in the airship above him.
He forgets the stumbling feet of those around him.

The clatter of the wood of his bow hitting the metal of the catwalk, the pain in his knees as he feels his legs give out under him, all of this is outside the bubble of what matters. Haurchefant is still moving, barely, and one of the other soldiers is turning him to lay on his back. D’var sees the wound, knows without needing to be told that it is fatal. He knows how much aetheric wounds hurt, knows the feeling of flesh flaking and burning, crystallization of its own lifeforce as the aetheric corruption breaks it down. The hole is a rent torn through chainmail, padding, and flesh, burning with white-blue light, and seething with black char. That he can see the metal of the platform through the wound is enough. The eyes of the soldier who turned Haurchefant over, who is now holding the elzen in place as a spike of pain causes him to tense, meets D’var’s eyes as he reaches them. They both know there is no use yelling for a healer, no use trying to do anything more than make these last few minutes slightly less agonizing. 

(He never does learn their name. He remembers the clear, brown eyes, the tilt of the nose broken once and badly set, a scar on the lower lip, pale against tan skin. He searches for weeks, but no one remembers their name.) 

D’var carefully touches Haurchefant’s shoulder, resting a gloved hand on the chainmail, and Haurchefant’s pale eyes flick towards him, fighting to focus against the pain. Distantly, D’var is aware of Aymeric’s presence now, taking over from the soldier. Even injured, D’var can see well trained movements that take over Aymeric’s body language, the clench of jaw that speaks to knowing how bad the injury his friend has taken really is. D’var has no such training, no such discipline. He was not, never has been, a soldier the way they are. Aymeric’s eyes look up at D’var, and it feels almost like permission has somehow been given to him. With his teeth, D’var pulls the other glove off, tossing it aside, and reaches with bandaged fingers, trying to wipe away the flow of blood at his lips. 

(The bandages that Haurchefant had helped him re-tie that morning are still wrapped around his fingers and palm when he takes off the glove. Haurchefant’s blood joins his own on the cloth. When he changes them next, he tucks them away carefully, hiding them in the bottom of his pack, tied in a clean handkerchief that had been Haurchefant’s.)

The pale skin is already cold to his touch, the lips even colder, a hint of blue already rising in them under the blood. Haurchefant’s eyes focus on him, and the clarity in them pins D’var in place. There’s a cold, gloved hand suddenly reaching for him, finding his wrist, and encircling it with long fingers. There’s a slight rasp, a drawing of air, and the sound of a crackle of aetheric damage spreading with the shift of muscle and tissue. Aymeric has his arm under the opposite shoulder, and with a nod at D’var, he shifts Haurchefant’s torso slightly, trying to let more air flow through the less damaged side. D’var feels Haurchefant’s grip against his wrist tighten as a spasm of pain and another cough brings up a splatter of aetheric stained blood. 

(The image comes back to him again, much later, one night in the First. Had it tasted the same to Haurchefant? He can only wipe away the trace of light aether mixed with his own blood from his lips, hoping that the wracking pain of the light inside of him is nothing like the pain Haurchefant felt for those few minutes. He couldn't stand the thought.)

The grip relaxes, and there is another crackle of flaking aetherized flesh. The air smells of lightning and blood, D’var can even taste it with each breath. Haurchefant’s eyes search D’var’s face for a moment, and then his lips curl up slightly. Words form, strained and carefully chosen the air between each syllable as fragile as the flaking, burning flesh of the wound. Pale eyes blink, fighting to focus, and then seem to look at something beyond D’var’s shoulder. He sees, knows, the exact moment as life leaves them. There isn’t even enough strength left in the body for the last breath to make more than a bubbling crackle of spent aether. Aymeric’s grip tightens, pulling slightly at the limp shoulder under his hand, pulling the body away from D’var’s touch. 

(One night, a few nights before he finds himself on the battlefield of the Ghimlyt Dark, Aymeric visits him alone in the tent set aside for their champion, their hero. Aymeric looks flustered, embarrassed, but finally says Haurchefant had told him about them, hours before he’d gone to confront the Archbishop. He thanked D’var for his reserve that day, not wanting any more shame on his friend’s memory than there already was. The twisted care in the words made him want to be sick. He understands now, how much Haurchefant risked in loving him.)

D’var feels his own mind flake away like the greasy, too-white flakes of aether peeling away from the wound. He only knows rage and howling heartbreak, yet is moved by none of them. He sits, curled up into his own body, unable to move, until the soldiers are moving the corpse. He reaches out a hand then, touches the skin of one cheek, but it is already too cold and lifeless to even remind him of the living man. He sits there, his own few wounds untended, his bow forgotten a few steps away from him, until the sun sets, and the moon rises. The pale grey of the moonlight is the last thing he remembers clearly until after Estinien’s return to them. 

(“You killed an Unsundered that day, Warrior.” The comment is almost offhand, picking up a topic they’d discussed before. 
“No, I only killed Igeyorhm. I got revenge on the one that killed Lahabrea, if it matters.”
There is a half-hearted shrug, one he’s learning to read as meaning far more than it says on the surface, even as he feels the Ascian pluck the memory from his mind. “You were within your rights, if I must be honest. But it is-” the echo splits, and D’var hears two voices speak for a moment, the strange way it often handles a double meaning of a phrase, “good to be reminded that you are capable of such destruction (pleasing to see you are capable of such a mercy).”
Nothing more is ever said about Igeyorhm and Lahabrea.)

How could you have done this?
I had no choice.                                   You asked this of me.                           You gave me no choice.
Liar.

He hears the words Alphinaud says, the accusation, hears the man’s shame and anguish as he tries, so hard he tries, to deny what they nearly became. 

“We fought and we fought and we fought, until there was no one left to fight. We won,” The strange hyur’s voice is raw, ragged with anger and grief, “And yet now our world is being erased from existence!” D’var can only gape, his side still bleeding from the man’s axe, as the Midlander stares at the red, glowing crystal clutched between his fingers as if it is a lifeline. “We did everything right, everything that was asked of us, and still - still it comes to this!” 

“There must be some other way,” he tries, wincing as the breath he draws to speak tugs at the wound. “We can find some other way.” 

“You of all people should understand,” The Midlander snarls, and for a brief moment, D’var sees himself as those at Carteneau Flats must have seen him at the front of the lines, how Lahabrea must have seen him amid the wreckage of Ultima, wreathed with flame at his back, eyes burning with determination. The familiar leathers and furs he had worn, the curve even of the axe at the man’s back so familiar it makes his shoulder ache, the phantom pain of the injury throbbing in time to his pulse and the burning pain in his side. “We cannot - we will not falter. We were tricked into bringing our world to the brink of destruction, and now we must save it.”

The other warriors gathered around the man nod, speaking to support him, but all D’var can do is stare into his eyes. He sees himself - he knows this man - and cannot explain more than that. He feels the flood of aether as they offer themselves, their crystals, into this familiar abomination of a spell -

(What had become of the dunesfolk man who had held the shield of magic before him at Carteneau and his colourful swearing? What had happened to that young highlander archer, with her too kind eyes? The elzen with shaking hands who had leaned heavily on their stave even as spell after spell had torn through enemy lines at their command? The Sea Wolf with a shield as large as her heart, her hugs as warm as summer sun? He remembers searching face after face for those familiar features he cannot remember. Why can he remember them, yet their faces are gone to him, as much as his own seemed to have been gone from so many others’ minds?) 

- tastes the horrible rotten taste of aether in the air and screams, watching the crystal that has tumbled from his grip rise to meet theirs, glowing, drawing on his aether without his will behind it, Urianger’s pale eyes watching, calculating, a single nod seeming to push the spell over the brink -

(oh, not again, 
please, not again, 
don’t make him watch this again, 
don’t make him be a part of this again)

- only to find himself standing in a place he recognizes, he remembers, the place between worlds where he has met only two people before, its shifting, iridescent landscape drifting with motes of aether. He hopes, just for a moment, that he will open his eyes and see the strange reflection of the Minstrel, that Other who knows him, remembers him, but no, he hears Her voice, the voice that tears at his soul with every word, commands him with every syllable.

Hydaelyn, who asks an impossible price, who grants an impossible gift. 

When D’var stumbles back into reality he collapses, tears tracking through the mud and blood on his face, screaming blasphemy and cursing Louisoix’s name.

Of course he had known who the warrior was.

Of course he had known who all of them were.

He knew his own soul just as clearly as he knew his face in a glass, most days.

He had known all of their faces, all of their souls. 

He still wakes screaming from nightmares of Carteneau, after all.

His heart is broken. His heart is shattered. 

                    His heart is more healed than it has ever been, no longer alone.

      Still only barely more than a tangled mass of scars. 

After all, he still wakes screaming from nightmares of Carteneau.

Even here, a world away it haunts him.

He remembers it as clearly as the falling stars in the sky years ago.

Even here, he remembers all of their souls, all of their faces.

He had always known who the Warrior of Darkness was, of course. 

Seven lives had bought this world only a hundred years? He stares at the glowing echo of the familiar hume, this fragment of his own soul trapped in a purgatory of his own making, wanting to disbelieve, to argue, to scream. Seven lives, and all it bought was a hundred years for this pathetic bubble of false safety to cling to. But after all, Louisoix’s insanity had barely bought them five years of false peace at the price of thousands of lives, was this calculus not so much better? Milfina had taken after her teacher far too well, but learned every wrong lesson possible. But none of them had deserved this fate, none had deserved to suffer like this, D’var thinks, watching the glowing echo of the man he now knew as Ardbert stare anxiously at a basket of sandwiches.

“From the Exarch? With that mirror of his, he can watch your every move, you know. He’ll probably think you’re talking to yourself.” The Midlander’s, Ardbert’s, he corrects himself, as there are no Midlanders in this shard, pale blue eyes watch him, angry and afraid, even after all this time, and D’var hears the bitterness, the betrayal in his words, as he had each time before when the shade had made its presence known to him. The spirit still wears its betrayal on its sleeve, the long years of suffering alone, unseen, unheard, and seeing and hearing his friends’ names turned into curses, his own spat in the dirt, have done little to help. “Still, he is keeping you well fed, and judging by his people’s faith in him, he seems to be a decent sort.” 

D’var snorts at the comment. “Even the kindest soul can be a monster for the right reasons.” He remembers Louisoix before Carteneau, remembers how kind he had seemed. But he also remembers the hell - 

(don’t make him be a part of this again,
don’t make him watch this again,
please, not again,
oh, not again)

-he had found deep under Dalamund’s Talons, and the Primal the man had let himself become in the name of that same kindness. Phoenix might think itself still the man, in some ways, but D’var had seen enough with Shiva and Ysayle to know better now. He is grateful he does not remember much of how she died, in the end.

“Not that it matters,” the Hume has still been talking, it seems. “It is Emet-Selch we should be concerned about. Even our bid to try to save our world, when we met before, was a ploy by them. The damned one in white appeared, saying the Rejoining was the only way, the only hope, to save our world. Yet they orchestrated the flood, puppeted us along through every step of causation.” 

D’Var started at Ardbert’s words, ears folded back nearly to his head, before the truth of what the Hume had said sunk in. He’d known, in abstract, the involvement of the Ascians in leading the Warriors of Light to do what they had done, and how it had brought them to the Source once before. They’d done much the same time and again on the Source in parallel, he knew. 

“They cannot be trusted. None of them.” The abject hate he had heard in that voice, the involuntary clench of the jaw which bit off the last of the words had told him all he thought he needed to know on the subject. 

Yet the man had continued, “But Emet-Selch had one thing right: one should not fight blindly. That's what we did. And it cost us everything we held dear.”

In reflex, D’Var had reached up to put a hand on Ardbert’s arm, but felt only the warm tingle of the aether -

(washes over them in waves, the power of the spell radiating from the heavens. D’var can only watch, open mouthed in horror, as it begins to fail, the bindings blasting free from the reforming prison around the monstrous primal. The spell around them shifts, a familiar, horrible feeling of his aether being pulled, the ground falling out from under him, the others around him winking out of existence one after another as he screams and screams until his throat is nothing but aether)

- that seemed to give the shade his form. He’d swiftly tried to change the subject, and talk had turned to the food, then stories of past adventures. An hour later, D’Var had thought he could barely see the lines of anger and sadness that usually marked the man’s face.

“I should let you rest, my friend.” D’Var’s flinch had been involuntary, the words too close to a memory he tried never to touch. The concern on Ardbert’s face had flashed for a moment, blue eyes wide with worry, and then he had reached out an ethereal hand to touch his shoulder. The flicker of emotions at the frustration of being denied even that point of contact had snapped D’Var out of his own head. 

“Sorry, just -,” a friend, a lover, someone I lost, someone I loved, a price I paid in blood, “- a memory.” Ardbert had nodded, seeming to understand. Without another word, he had stepped out of D’Var’s line of sight, vanishing in the strange way he did sometimes. 

Liar.
I never lied to you, did I?                                   I had to lie to you.                               You never lied to me, did you?
How could I have done this?

The fire has burned down to hot coals, the lamps still burning low enough to prevent the room from being thrown into complete darkness. His skin feels too tight on his body, wrong as it so often has felt since he’s been purged of the light aether that had tried to kill him. Or perhaps it is that he no longer fits into his hide any longer, his soul grown too large, too close to whole again, after all that was said and done. And yet still, a tattered scrap compared to what we should have, isn’t it, he wonders. His claws catch in the upholstery, digging into the soft, rich material, and he forces his fists to uncurl, to relax, lest he ruin it. He lets his fingertips run over the surface, hearing the whispering pass of his own fur and skin against its texture. It soothes him in a way little else has managed. 

“So, is this material Garlean, or something you created?” The question seems to throw the Ascian, golden eyes widening just for a heartbeat before narrowing above a twisting sneer. 

“I ask if you have any questions about the secrets of the universe, and you ask me about my clothing?” D’var can hear the way the indignant, mocking tone is a cover for something else now that he knows what to listen for. Emet-Selch glares, as if expecting the miqo’te to back pedal, to abandon the question under such scrutiny. D’var does nothing of the sort, and lets a too long silence stand between them. 

It only breaks around the man’s single, sharp sigh. “The distinction is moot. The technique was one that I guided the Garlean craftsmen into rediscovering, though with significant modifications given their lack of ability to properly manipulate aether naturally. You will find that is true of nearly all modern materials in the Empire. They are nearly all things I merely reintroduced. I am particularly fond of this material,” he gives an almost self-conscious brushing of his hands over the heavy black robe-like garment he wears, “And was quite pleased at this version’s outcome. Not every civilization I have nurtured manages it quite so well.” 

D’var smiles, pleased at just how much information that single question had gotten out of the Ascian indirectly. “It is impressive material. Nothing seems to dirty it, and it doesn’t wrinkle. And you sure don’t seem to be bothered by the heat of this place in it, despite how heavy it seems.” As if to mock D’var, he feels the way the sweat and grit chafes his skin under his clothes as he shifts his weight. Even here in the Crystarium, water is too precious to waste bathing in, and the blazing white sky beats down ferociously at all hours, offering no relief. Not even the inside of the lower floors of the Crystal Tower is any cooler than anywhere else, though he suspects the upper floors to be different, given how perfectly put together the robed Exarch always seems to be. 

The Ascian smirks at him mockingly. “Ah yes, I do imagine you are noticing how unbearable this place is, since you, unlike your colleagues, are actually here in the flesh.” Golden eyes seem to glance at something unseen, just behind D’var, and the man frowns slightly, a habit he’s been noticing more frequently in the few conversations he’s had with the man since his sudden appearance here a handful of days ago. But the expression vanishes as his eyes refocus on the Seeker’s face, as it does every time, giving him too little time to study it to learn its meaning. This time, the small frown inverts, a slight, almost playful smile curling the corners of his lips, before he raises a hand and snaps his fingers, the sound far too loud in the Ocular’s space for the gesture. 

D’var feels the wash of aether over him, yet there is no ozone smell, none of the crackling feeling he associates with powerful spells, none of the - none of the things he dislikes about being a target for any but the most necessary healing magics. Instead, he feels blessedly cool, and, better still, clean for the first time since he had found himself here weeks ago. The grit and sand are gone from his hair and clothing, his skin feels as clean as if he’s stepped from a bath minutes before, and even his teeth feel less disgusting. 

“Consider this a gesture of good will,” the slouching man says, his voice too pleased with himself. “While the rest of these things skitter about in the dirt, there is no reason you need to feel as base and animal as them while your cohort does not suffer the same penalties.”

D’var flicks his ears, regarding Emet-Selch before he decides that gratitude is the best response. “That is so much better, thank you. You even got the burrs out of my tail,” he says with a laugh, running the long fur of its tip between his fingers with a pleased hum. “What happens to all of the matter you remove?”

“I think you are not capable enough to understand that level of aetheric theory,” he says dismissively. 

Even now D’var cannot help but laugh at the memory of Thancred swearing that burrs kept appearing under his armour, and the way the Ascian had smirked behind the hyur’s back. The laugher sounds broken, too wet with the tears still closing his throat, but laugh, still, he does. 

The door to his room in the Pendants clicked closed behind him as the Seeker pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the headache which had come roaring back thanks to the heat as he’d walked across the Crystarium ’s courtyard. He turned to the door, pressing his head against the blessedly cool wood, and squeezed his eyes closed, watching sparks of light dance behind his eyelids. Whatever the others may say, even with a shoddy as his own sense of his internal aether may be, he knew was already dangerously out of balance, and he could ill afford the pounding of his own pulse nearly blinding him like this. But with all they had learned in the Greatwood, and the news awaiting their return to the Tower, it seemed there would be little time for him to manage this new symptom, just a few hours, until their plans for their venture to Eulmore could be finalized. Enough to rest, even sleep if he thought he was able. 

A throat cleared somewhere in the room behind him, and D’var turned, sword rising, with a speed hard fought from his failing body. He blinked a dazzle from his eyes, thankful he only dealt with the lamp light, not the now shuttered window, and saw the slouching, dark figure of Emet-Selch. The man had pulled the small chair from the desk near the foot of his bed and now sat, chin resting on knuckles, arm propped on a folded knee, golden eyes watching him in a way that made the Seeker think of a hunting eagle from back home. 

“You know, had I been anyone else, you could be dead now.” The voice was dark, amused, but D’var was too exhausted to play this game now.

He walked across to the too large table in this too large room, and poured water from the covered pitcher into a terracotta mug. Only after he drinks the last swallow does he reply. “You aren’t the first Ascian, first Unsundered,” he corrected himself, “to show up in a room I’d been given unexpectedly. It stopped surprising me after the second time, I think?” He poured the mug back half full and drank, aware of how the man watched every motion. 

Emet-Selch gave a sharp, derisive snort. “Lahabrea rarely had good manners, even before the sundering. I apologize for intruding on your private space.” There was a long, unspoken but that hangs in the air between them before the man spoke again. “You should eat something.”

D’var blinked, then laughed, but even he could hear how brittle the noise was. “I couldn’t keep it down if I wanted right now, to be honest.” He does not miss the way those golden eyes narrow. “No appetite anyway.” He felt the surge of dark aether as the Ascian teleported from where he sat to standing behind him, feeling the slight disruption of the air and catching the distinctly Garlean scent from the man’s clothes. When the gloved hand touched his shoulder, he did not flinch, did not even turn to look, not even when he felt a thrum of foreign aether push through him.

“For someone with such strong reserves, you are truly abysmal at manipulating your own aether.” The Ascian was close enough he could feel the man’s breath on his skin as he spoke. D’var felt one of his fangs catch on his lower lip as he smiled, and pushed back against the intruding aether. It is brute force rather than technique, and the added mass of the aether he’s taken on from the Lightwardens is put into it as much as his own. “Stop that,” the gloved hand suddenly clamped down with inhuman strength for a fraction of a heartbeat before relaxing, “and let me help you.” 

D’var sucked in a sharp, hissing breath. He cannot say it doesn’t hurt, it does, but the pain abates within a few heartbeats, taking with it at least the worst of the migraine. When the foreign aether finally retreated completely, Emet-Selch used the pivot point of his gloved grip to turn the Seeker to face him. D’var would never mistake the man’s expression for concern, not with how it does not even pretend to reach his eyes, but it was something closer to it than he’s ever thought possible for an Ascian to show. 

“You have guessed, have you not, what the outcome will be.” It isn’t a question. D’var has seen what the light aether will do to his flesh, has guessed that while he is far more resistant, he is not immune. He does not understand what the Exarch’s real plan is, but he knew the man hid something from them. “And yet you still insist on continuing?” 

D’var shrugs. “If it isn’t me, who else is there?”

The Garlean’s expression darkened. “Who else, indeed. Something I am too familiar with by far.” A gloved hand rose, and D’var shivers at the glide of the strange feeling fabric as the fingertips brushed too lightly over first the skin of one cheek, then the other, tracing along the twin scars that run just under each eye. “I do intend for you to survive this. How you survive it, well,” the hand dropped, golden eyes turning away, “That is up to you.” 

Despite everything, Hades had only lied to him once. Unlike every other Ascian he has dealt with, Hades clung to the truth with him in all but a single moment. 

The last two Lightwardens are dead, their aether now his, slowly killing him. Or worse, he supposed. The thing they had fought in Malikah’s Well had been tame compared to the nightmare he’d faced atop Mt. Gulg. Will that be his fate, some horrible, inhuman beast, barely able to retain its own sense of self, bent on the murder of the world? Emet-Selch’s invitation, a place to safely, slowly go mad, somewhere far from anyone he could hurt seemed impossible to ignore; just as impossible to ignore as the wretched, horrible disappointment he’d seen on the man’s face that day. 

D’var waited until the end of the third day after their return from Eulmore, waited until the Scion’s guard was down enough to not have someone with him at all hours of the day. He left everything behind except his armour, his sword, and the Ishgardian signet ring he still wore around his neck, borrowing one of the Amaro. The lights in the deep water had been easy enough to see even with the blindingly bright reborn light blighted sky overhead. It had been simple enough to dive from the beast's back, to let the cold depths close over his head, his body drifting downward under its own weight, the blessings of his ability to breathe water still function here just as well as they did on the Source. The city that spreads out below him as he drifts is a thing beyond anything he could imagine. The spires put any he’s ever seen to shame, the lights bright and glittering through the ocean gloom. 

The light in his body hurts so much he can barely move as his weight at last settles against what feels like lush, thick grass in a small urban square. Huge, robed figures move about in the glimmering light, their voices musical, indistinct sounds that not even the Echo seems to be able to translate for him. The Seeker lets his eyes drift closed, listening to their voices, listening to their footsteps, letting his own sense of self fade into this strange city, and only the click of sharp, military heels on flagstones drags him back into the pain filled haze of his mind after some interminable time later. 

“At least you have made one correct choice in all of this mess.” Strong arms forced D’var into a sitting position, the familiar Garlean scent washing over him. “Only three days, and you are already this far gone? This is what you have done with your legacy?” D’var must have made a confused noise. “Hush, let me at least clear your mind some.” The cool, too slick fabric of a glove brushing against his face, far too gently, before the gloved thumb brushed over his lips, wiping away the trickle of light aether and blood, only to be closely followed by the dry, cool press of the Ascian’s lips to his own. 

Surprise made him gasp, lips parting enough to admit the tip of a probing tongue, his eyes blinking open, trying to make sense of the blurred flash of pale skin and dark hair pressed close to his face. A heartbeat longer, and he feels the draw on the overabundance of light aether, as if it is being swallowed into this alien, far too intimate gesture, the relief so overwhelming he moans into the kiss. It takes every last bit of strength he has left not to whimper as Emet-Selch pulls back from him. 

“Better?” It is, D’var realized. He can, at least think, though the ache still burns through his soul with every pulse of his heart, and he nods, slowly. “As I said, I intend for you to survive this. The question remains, what choices will you make to do so.” The motion of the gloved fingers over his forearms were distracting enough that he has to process the words twice before he understands them. “You may stay here with me, where I can grant you some modicum of dignity for however long you may survive, leave, and rapidly become a Sin Eater of unimaginable power, or,” the man frowned, and D’var did not miss the way his glance seemed to look up, behind him, “you may chose some foolhardy hero’s death, accelerating the Light’s return even more swiftly. I will send your Exarch back in three days, for him to bear back the news of whatever your choice is.” 

D’var shook his head. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’d rather stay here, where I can’t harm anyone. I’d rather stay here with you.” 

“Let us see what you say after three days.” As the Seeker began to protest, he felt the sudden, crackling pain of the aether flare in his lungs, sending him into a spasm of coughing. As it ends, Emet-Selch draws a handkerchief from his robes, wiping iridescent blood from his own face, where D’var’s coughing had spattered him. “You are in no shape to make any such choices at the moment.” 

“Emet-Selch,” D’var begins, but the man’s glare stops any further words. 

There is a long pause as he seems to consider D’var, then begins using the same cloth to clean the miqo’te’s face. “I think that we are well past the formality of my Seat, Var. My name is Hades, you would do well to remember it.” 

D’var curls around himself, sobbing uncontrollably. It hurts more than the Light eating his soul had, this aching empty place in his heart. Was the life of everyone on the First worth this? Stopping Black Rose and his own death? It would have to be.

To Hades’ credit, he did far more than simply restrain the swelling, burning hell of Light D’var has absorbed. It was never going to be comfortable, he said, never going to stop trying to consume his soul, but the fetters he forms around it will slow the progression to a crawl. Beyond that, D’var finds old wounds healing, the worst of his scars fading, under the gloved hands that touch him far too gently now. His shoulder, however, confounds even this mage of eld, the injury apparently far more than physical. D’var insists that he’s come to terms with the limitations it places on him, but Hades does not seem nearly so willing to let it go. 

“The fools that call themselves healers on the Source have made this worse, not better, in their bumbling,” the Unsundered mutters, the gloved tips of his fingers pushing hard into the bare shoulder, making D’var wince. “You will have need of this limb, one day, mark me.”

“What do you mean?” Hades only shook his head in reply, unable or unwilling to answer. “I can’t leave this place. I can’t leave you.” D’var pauses, looking around the room he’d been given as a living quarter for however long he would remain here. “I’ll have to find something to keep myself busy. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to bring me my tools or my forge?”

Hades trails his fingers down the line of his shoulder, humming thoughtfully. “That is an idea. I will see what I can do. Your creative talents always were of interest to me,” his voice is softer than usual, with almost a hesitance in it. “A shame that it took something like this to give you the time you wanted to spend on them.” 

“Ever since I was,” D’var pauses, “Ever since I was tempered, I haven’t really been free of what’s been demanded of me.” The realization of what had been done to him had hurt, it felt like a betrayal, to know that Hydaelyn’s supposed gift was the same sort of shackle he’d fought to free others from, the same he'd killed others for having latched around their throats just as unwillingly as his own had been. “All I could do was my duty, and it never seemed to matter how much it cost me, or those around me. And now,” he could feel the light in him twist, hungry even in its sleep, “It’s taken everything. But maybe you understand that better than anyone else could.”

“Do not presume to know quite so much about me,” he growls, but it lacks its usual venom. “But you are correct. The burden of leadership, of sacrifice, that,” D’var blinks, surprised as Hades turns away from him, the sadness and grief bare on his face in a way the Seeker has never seen, “That I understand far too well.” When he turns back, the emotion is hidden again, back behind that nearly neutral mask. 

D’var cannot stand it. He gave in to the impulse that had wriggled up through his thoughts, the one that has plagued him for hours now, and leaned forwards, closing the distance between them, letting his lips brush over the beginnings of Hades’ frown. 

The man pulled back, eyes wide in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“What felt right?” He cannot explain the feeling, the rightness that had settled into him the more he’d thought about that first kiss in the small plaza earlier. He leaned forward again, taking advantage of the moment, moving closer and kissing him again before pulling back, watching the wave of confusion give way to something almost like longing in those gold eyes. “You kissed me when I first got here. It felt,” he stumbles, unable to find the words to describe how right it had felt. Something he hasn’t felt since -, no he cut off that line of thought, unwilling to touch those memories, not now. 

“More fool me, I suppose,” Hades grumbles, but he did not pull back, D’var noted. “I gave in to a fool impulse then.”

D’var shrugs with his good shoulder. “That makes us both fools, I guess. If I’ve misread this, tell me. I’m going to have to live with you for the rest of my life, after all. I’d rather not start it with a misunderstanding.” 

Something in what he says softens the lines between Hades’ brows. “You have not misread anything. Though perhaps I did not expect you to be so avid a reader, nor to finish a text quite so quickly.” The extended metaphor makes D’var laugh, and to his surprise, Hades smiles at the sound. “How is it that your laughter sounds so,” he starts, then frowns, whatever he had meant to say left hanging. “Ah, forgive an old man his melancholy. It is good to hear you laugh.” 

“It is good to laugh. I haven’t had much to laugh about, of late.” He sighed, then starts as he feels a gloved hand weave its fingers between his own. “But that’s someone else’s problem now, I guess. I’m of no more use than a broken sword to anyone now, especially not to,” he hesitates to say the Primal’s name, “to her. I’m not of any use except as something to keep this thing inside me in check a little longer.” It feels oddly freeing to say such a thing, he realized, even if Hades frowns as he says it. But there’s a darker realization that hits him a moment later. “It isn’t going to last, though, is it? When I die, the next time I’m reborn, she’ll just put her hooks back into me as soon as she can.”

Hades’ expression is thunderous, golden eyes dark with an old, festering anger. “Not if I can help it, this time. Other shards of you,” his eyes again flick away from D’var, towards where he supposes Ardbert’s shade lingers, watching this betrayal of all he had fought for, “She might still claim again. But not you. Not again.” The gloved hand resting on his forearm clenches, just for a fraction of a heartbeat, as if by strength alone he could keep D’var’s soul here. “At least those of us who gave ourselves to Zodiark did so willingly. You had no such choice.”

D’var leans into him, lets him initiate the next kiss, lets the slow, careful way the Unsundered handles him reign in his own sudden hunger, stoked by the need to drive the growing grief from those golden eyes.

He curled tighter in on himself, remembering those words. They would never be true, not now. His soul would be Hydaelyn’s to use and reuse, over and over, until nothing remains of it but ash and aether. After D’var’s supposed rescuers had arrived and forced the confrontation, there hadn’t even been that left of Hades.

D’var feels a fire roar to life inside of him the first time Hades’ bare hands touch his skin. For all the power he knows they hold, the touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, the skin soft and unmarked, even if the rest of the man’s body bears the build and scars of a lifetime as a warrior and ruler. He pushes against broad, well defined shoulders, following after as Hades goes willingly down, the Seeker straddling shapely hips, his tail lashing with the thrill of watching as Hades heavy lidded golden eyes going wide as he grinds against the man as he leans down to press kisses along the expanse of pale skin bared at his throat where the shirt hangs half undone. His skin tastes of a crackle of aether, and under it the earthy, dark tone of the distinctive Garlean made scent he wears, and D’var drags a fang across his skin, humming with pleasure as it draws a surprised gasp from the bobbing column of Hades’ throat. Even as D’var reaches for the remaining buttons of the shirt, it is clear his patience has reached an end, as with a snap of fingers somewhere near his hip, all of their remaining clothing vanishes at Hades’ command.

He remembers just how gentle the touch had been, silk over the coiled steel of muscle and magic, remembers the sudden realization of just how far gone he already was, how much he needed to be close, to be held, by this man who had often been the architect of his doom. D’var feels his tail lash, and there is no fighting the mix of emotions that have consumed him, not now.

D’var could not look away. The golden, hungry gaze held him, even as much as he held Hades down beneath him, the desperation, the aching loneliness hidden beneath layers of pride, avarice, and hate, now peeled bare to show by something as raw as the want, the need D’var felt when he met those eyes, made him want to curse the world that had done this, that had hurt this man for so very, very long. Damn both Primals, damn the Shards and the Source, he would become the worst monster the worlds had ever seen, would it mean he could see those eyes free of pain and sorrow, just for a moment. 

He gasps, then groans, head hanging as he feels skilled, blunt nailed fingers breach him, slick with something conjured from the aether around them as they work him open, the touch just as gentle, just as careful as every other has been. His fingers are so much thicker than D’var’s own, each one making him pant and suck air, the stretch even as they hook just so inside of him, knowing exactly where to press and drag to draw keening, shivering cries from him as his claws dig into the meat of the planes of Hades chest, dragging long red lines across the skin. 

The soft pad of a finger traces along the edge of one ear even as D’var pushes back onto the ones buried deep within him. Words, part whisper spoken into his ear, part words spoken deep within his mind, a stream of adoration and apology, spoken so carefully, so breathlessly they pulsed in time with the raw, hungry thing trying to pry its way into his soul.

It was all for you.
It was always you.
I have always loved you.
From the first time I saw you.
I have never forgotten you.
All of this is for what was left of you.

The claustrophobic darkness shatters around him with the sound of shattered auracite and the faint, crystalline cracking of aether. He’d overextended, knew what the strike would do, knew what would happen if he missed, knew what would happen when he didn’t. His eyes had closed, ready for it. And waited. 

A breath. 
    A moment. 
            And that sound. 

Everything shatters around him. 
Everything shatters within him. 

He forgets the grief and rage of the ancient being above him.
He forgets the fate of words, of those distant and around him.

The sudden pale soft light, the sudden absence of the constant burning pain in his chest, all of this is outside the bubble of what matters. Hades stands opposite him, the projection of grief and rage and power evaporated along with nearly every ounce of his aether, only a sliver of himself left, wearing that familiar face. D’var sees the wound, knows without needing to be told that it is fatal. How much more does this aetheric wound hurt, he wonders, or is there even enough soul left to feel the pain, watching as, without flesh, the aether flakes away like ice, lifeforce held by will now be released back into the world as the construct breaks down. The hole is a rent through nothing more than a ghost of a body, the last memory of the flesh, pale white-blue light spreading like slow killing frost. That he can see the pale cream glow of the sky through the wound is enough. The eyes that look up to meet D’Var’s are more clearly the man than ever before, and they stop D’Var in his tracks with clarity and purpose. Hades stands tall, proud, even as the aether of his being bleeds away. They both know there is no one who would answer the call for a healer, and that the damage is far past the skill of any in this age to mend. 

(“Bastard didn’t even have the decency to look like he was in pain,” snarled Thancred, drunk enough now to have no inhibitions to show his hatred of the Ascians. 
“One must admire,” Urianger’s soft voice answered, “the strength to stand even as thy very soul unravels.”
In reply, Thancred had only spit on the ground at Urianger’s feet.) 

D’var stands, numb, pinned in place by the clarity of the focus of soft, golden eyes. The gaze is unwavering, even as flakes of aether rise away from his failing form. Distantly, D’var is aware of the other Scions’ presence now, his would-be rescuers who have damned him to this act, standing somewhere behind him. Their eyes pin him in place just as firmly as Hades’ own gaze does, knowing if he steps forward, he will betray both his lover and his once friends in equal measure. An involuntary clench of Hades’ jaw, a pull at the corner of an eye, are all he can see of the pain. It takes all of his self-discipline, hard fought and won, not to run to Hades, to hold him one last time, to support his weight, to somehow ease these last moments. But he knows Hades would have none of it, not even from him. Hades’ eyes soften, with a slight nod, and D’var sees one glove slide to the ground near a boot, suddenly solid.

(D’var knows at least Urianger sees him snatch up the single clawed, black glove. What the elzen makes of it, or the way he carefully wraps it in a scrap of his own undershirt, he cannot say. He hides it within his bags, wrapped in the cloth that smells of his own light aether sick body. There is no blood on the cloth, no trace of the man who had worn it, of whose aether the fabric and metal had been made. Somehow, that almost makes it worse.)

The already pale skin of his face is slowly losing colour, washing out in a hint of blue that steals away the last of the colour of the flesh. Hades’s eyes focus on him, and the sudden softness in them yanks at the Seeker’s heart. A gloved hand reaches up, as if it could span the distance between them, but closes on the air ineffectually. There is no sound of breath, no sound other than the faint, icy chimes of aether crystallizing and flaking away into the atmosphere. Hades stands straight, unbent, for the first time that D’var can ever remember, and it shakes him to his core. The softness of those eyes, the straightness of his spine, speak of the man D’var had barely been able to know under aeons of grief and suffering, the same he had seen in those few moments of pleasure, he knows. It is still the man he loves, more him than he has ever been before, and his heart aches for it.

(The image comes back to him, how in that one moment he finally saw the actual man, rather than the tempered soul. He hates Zodiark even more now, but hates Hydaelyn, and his own tempering as well. Every person who says that he’d done what was right in killing Hades makes him pull against the fetters he feels on his soul even harder. Had he felt this same pain? He couldn’t stand the thought.) 

The regal face relaxes, with no room left for the familiar sneer or twisted smirk. The air smells of snowmelt and sunlight, the smells of home, D’var wondering for a moment if it is a memory from his mind or the Ascian’s. Hades’ eyes, washed by blue aetherlight to something too achingly pale, search D’var’s face for a moment, and he sees the start of a word, hoping those others with the Echo’s gift of languages are too injured or distracted to understand it. Even Hades seems to stop, realizing, then speaking again, this time the inflection of the words are different, their meaning much less personal. Golden eyes, unblinking, seem to see D’var in that same light which had so angered him before, yet now, there is almost the curl of a smile as they focus on him again. He sees, knows, the exact moment the soul finally loses its coherence, the last physical trace fragmenting, scattering on the breeze. D’var stops the impulse to raise a hand, reaching for the last traces as they dissipate, knowing it does no good.

(One night, a few nights before he returns to the Source, Urianger visits him alone in his rooms in the Pendants. The elzen seems hesitant, and can clearly read that there is some private grief that D’var has not shared, but uses inquiring into his recovery from the aethersickness as guise enough to suffice. At last, obliquely, he raises the topic of the Ascians, and his time spent in proximity to Elidibus, how it pained him to play into the clear loneliness of the man, but that in the end, it had served the Scions’ cause. That Urianger knows something, yet offers this twisted care made him want to be sick. He understands now, profoundly, how much he has risked in loving Hades.)

D’var feels his own mind emerging from the haze of pain as the last of the light aether flakes away from him like ice crystals blown by wind. The clarity is too much, his mind clear for the first time in weeks, so clear that every detail of the moment burns into his memory. He should feel some deep satisfaction, some primal joy, at the destruction, yet finds he is burned out, empty and cold, too numb to even move from where he stands as the others move around him. There is no body for him to bury, no soul even left that might find peace. He stands there, his own wounds untended, his own blade laying a few steps away from him, until G'raha’s hand - the flesh hand - settles on his shoulder. The flinch away when D’var meets the Exarch’s red-eyed gaze is clear and sharp in his memory, just as is every event from then until he returns to the Rising Stones.

(“But if I may give to a personal desire” the shade of Hythlodaeus says, “I would rather you lived. If you do not, how will you keep your promise to Hades? The promise to -”, the echo splits, and D’var hears two voices speak for a moment, the strange way it often handles a double meaning of a phrase, “remember us? (remember both him and that into which he was made?)” 
D’var’s ears twitch back in shock.
In the same double voice, the shade continues. “It must weigh heavy, the burden of all those memories,” says the first.
Under it, in a voice more akin to Hades’ low tones, “You now know our burden, to sacrifice those we loved so dearly,” says the second. 
Nothing more can be said than this.)