day six >> onerous
#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #shadowbringers #ancients #hythhades #worldunsundered #spoilers
warnings: implied bullying/blackballing due to prejudice
general: endwalker/shadowbringers spoilers ; the ancients were poly af, change my mind ; watch me make this shit up as i go along in 3, 2, 1…
adjective
- (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.
Interminable.
These long ceremonies of investiture are absolutely interminable.
Boring, pompous, long-winded, and frankly unnecessary when there was so much work to be done these days.
And yet here is Hades, suffering at Hythlodaeus’ behest; which isn’t that unusual to be fair but at least today’s reason is something of a novelty.
Today, Hythlodaeus’ twin sister ascends to the seat of Azem.
Hades knows of his companion’s sister, but he’s never seen her. This sad state of affairs is not for lack of trying on Hyth’s part—far from it. It’s more to do with the woman’s odd habit of sequestering herself deep within the bowels of the Words of Halmarut for weeks or months at a time.
‘To better focus on her research,’ explains her smiling twin, as if that explains anything at all.
Outside the obvious shared parentage with his partner, Hades is aware of very few solid facts.
Firstly, her name is Freyja.
Secondly, she’s considered the preeminent protégée of Halmarut and Emmeroloth, having excelled in the creation of new, useful concepts that blend the best aspects of both subjects.
This work with concepts alone should have been enough to see her a seated member of Convocation, or at the very least the frontrunner to replace her mentors, however…
A rumor runs quickly for great distances and on legs longer than any concept known to mankind, nor does it tire or suffer from forgetfulness.
Unfortunate then that rumors are the only source for the paltry remainder of his knowledge.
Lastly, she takes after the twin’s father, Njörðr, an odd man so enamored with the peoples and cultures not of Amaurot he’d taken one of these unnamed outsiders to wife, adopted as his own name the one gifted him by the tribe, and even going so far as to name his offspring following the same tribal traditions.
Hence the twin’s unusual paired names: Freyja and Freyr.
Besides being held to account for her father's perceived social wrongdoings, Freyja indulges in eccentricities of her own including the refusal to change her birth name even after her twin changed his, and a propensity toward working with her hands, mixing odd concoctions from physical specimens rather than experimenting on concepts via theoretical calculations—among other things.
All of which is anathema of the highest order to run of the mill Amaurotines.
Her stubborn refusal to give up manual labor is likely why she smells of some fragrant spice, discernable on the air as she walks past with her long black veil dragging behind, while the Convocation waits, seated and dour on the dais ahead. More then half of their number seem less than pleased at this turn of events, the corners of their mouths turned down sharply enough to cut stone.
Nonconformity is the greatest social evil amongst modern citizens of Amaurot. Most would do anything required, pay any price to go unnoticed and unremarked.
They wish to be normal like everyone else.
It can be inferred then, without hyperbole, that eccentric is not a label one would wish to be saddled with in Amaurot, and the proof of the theory requires no further investigation than the case of Freyja.
Upon Halmarut’s retirement it seemed obvious who should succeed, yet Freyja remained a simple researcher through (rumored) no choice of her own. Talented yes, but just a researcher.
Similarly, when old Emmeroloth desired a return to the star, Freyja’s name surfaced again and again as a suitable replacement among those familiar with her work, however in the end the honor of the seat was extended to another.
Some say that both positions are now lesser for this blatant favoritism, but this, like so much else, is rumor and no more than that.
Hades shakes himself from deep reverie at Hyth’s insistent tugging on his sleeve. His gaze happily glowing lavender eyes, which haven't faltered for a moment in the face of his lover’s complete inattention. “Here we go,” Hyth murmurs, soft and dewy with pride at his sibling finally gaining the recognition she’d been denied.
Azem begins to speak ponderous words regarding ‘the vibrant soul that now stands before us.’ The blue eyed, silver haired woman launches into an exhaustive listing of Freyja’s many accomplishments, both solo and in the company of Azem.
Hades has long since lost the thread of the presentation entirely, unable to focus on anything but the poor veiled woman’s hands, clenched white-knuckled into fists and shaking like the final leaves on a tree.
“A lucky thing indeed that Azem took an interest in Lady,” whispers Hyth, stirring Hades’ white hair as he speaks into his partner’s ear. “She’d have spent an eternity locked away in a basement somewhere just singing to her plants, the flowers in her hair growing wild. All that talent gone to waste from sheer stubbornness.” He clucks like a mother hen worried for her smallest chick, “At least as Azem she can live, expand her horizons, broaden her friend circle outside of just Óðinn and I, maybe even fall in love?”
It takes Hades a long moment to remember that Lady is one of Hyth’s many pet names for his sister and to further recall the name Óðinn refers to a childhood friend of the twins, yet another hopeless eccentric.
“You shouldn’t meddle Hyth, it makes people irritated,” Hades grouses in an undertone. “Your sister is a woman grown and from the sound of it eminently capable. I have no doubt she will excel as Azem.”
His lover only smiles, “You are right of course. How easy it is for those of us who are comfortable with affection to forget the way that love can smother as well as uplift.”
Hades opens his mouth to reply to the—in his opinion—uncalled for jab but in the same instant Azem finishes speaking.
Solemn, she removes her crimson mask of office before replacing it with the simple white one most Amaurotines wear, including Hades himself. Turning, she lifts a smaller version of the same crimson mask, meant for someone with more delicate features, and extends it to Freyja like a gift.
The pale, shaking hands take the mask and draw it beneath the dark veil.
A moment passes.
Two.
The hand extends once more and Azem, now Venat, places a glowing yellow-orange crystal in the very center of the slim palm.
The fingers close, the stone brightens, and a low hum fills the room.
The Convocation members watch with baited breath.
The heavy veil drops with a sensuous rustle to the gleaming floor and Azem, newly masked, turns to greet the gathered assembly.
A tall man with brilliant red hair and striking sanguine eyes rushes to embrace her, but there is a moment where Hades catches a glimpse of Freyja’s face.
It is enough to leave him breathless.
Her long, flowing tresses are several shades darker than Hythlodaeus’ lavender locks, and seemingly composed of both hair and blossoms in the same heliotrope shade. She’s small for an Amaurotine and slight of build, almost bird or doll like, and gifted with her brother’s otherworldly beauty to boot. They are, quite unmistakably, twins.
Surrounded on all sides by a crowd of well-wishers she doesn’t speak, only smiles. Her redheaded companion—doubtless Óðinn—stays close, observing others as they interact with her with open curiosity, as if he is just as interested in her reactions as he is the behavior of those who wish to congratulate her.
“We should offer our most heartfelt congratulations, don’t you agree Hades?” asks Hyth, though he isn’t really asking, as he’s already out of his seat and darting toward his sister through the crowd like a fish slicing through water.
Hades heaves a sigh and follows, though it takes him at least three times as long to reach the center of the crowd. When he does finally manage the task and stands next to Azem, his partner is nowhere to be found. Such is the way of things.
“I wished to congratulate you, though I wonder if I should. You seemed nervous,” remarks Hades with his characteristic bluntness.
“I will accept whatever my brother’s partner wishes to extend to me,” she replies smoothly in a voice as warm and comforting as a nap in the sunshine. “I hope the nerves will wear off after sufficient time has passed. Besides, Venat plans to refrain from returning to the star for some while yet, so I shall have her wisdom to guide me.”
Ah… an eccentric soul drawn to an eccentric soul. Of course. The retiring instructor that refuses to follow custom and the wide-eyed student grateful for an experienced puppeteer.
Venat has managed the trick of retiring while still having a voice in the Convocation.
Hades is suddenly very glad indeed that this burden, this mantle of responsibility for the safety and growth of the star has not passed to him. Nor shall it ever if he has anything to say about it.
He simply doesn’t have the temperament for it.
“Doubtless she will be of great comfort to you, should you need her, Freyja.”
She shakes her head, the flowers rustling and scenting the air, “It’s not Freyja anymore. Changing it was a requirement for accepting the seat.”
A thin filament of anger rises in him at the pettiness of those chittering old fools in their straight backed chairs. He smothers it viciously—that battle is not his to fight, though he would dearly love to, if only to make them all terribly uncomfortable, “Azem it is then.”
He bows and makes to leave, bored of playing the game for today.
“My brother's beloved should never address me by such formal means, Hades. Please, my name is Persephone.”
Persephone?
He freezes, rooted to the spot as his every hair stands on end.
What is she doing? To choose that name as a replacement and then to have the Convocation just accept it?
Persephone, the thresher of men.
He very nearly laughs aloud at the cleverness of it. The sheer gall, to make a show of yielding to their wishes then proceeding to choose a name so old… So cursed.
She is clever indeed, this unassuming little woman with her blossoming hair and her subtle insubordination.
No doubt Venat had a hand in this as well.
Woe betide any doddering old fart who places themselves against these two united.
Hythlodaeus reappears like magic and restarts the conversation with his sister and friend as though he never disappeared before Hades can fully digest this information, let alone act on it. Surprised, he finds himself at a rather embarrassing loss for words, choosing to cover it by raising her hand to his lips.
At this distance he comes to realize how different her eyes are from her brother’s—a strange and beautiful amber color, a red gold like ambrosia or warm, liquid honey.
“Despoina Persephone,” Hades says, nerves coming alive at the old honorific tumbling from his lips. “I wish to know you better, as my partner’s sister. Perhaps—”
“You should come to dinner!” interrupts Hyth, in unrestrained glee. “You too, Óðinn. No excuses.”
The crimson haired man laughs and bows, eyes dancing with boundless curiosity. He is beautiful too, in his own way. “The pleasure would be ours, my friends.”
Hades will not, will never, allow himself to be drawn into these political games and machinations for which he has no patience.
However he will shoulder any burden, fight any foe, or move any mountain for those he loves.