TIMESTAMP: 12 Sundered Rise, Annus Ferro 123
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It was the evening of the twelfth, the evening after Gens Sælyan had pledged their oath of fealty to the Sol'Aværyn crown.
This process, one born of a letter Æros and Janus had received together some short weeks prior, was supposed to have been a joyous transition. That is, at least, what Janus had told his nephew it was to be, because initially, Æros had hesitated; he'd become friendly with key figures in the Umbrium, and switching sides would certainly impact that. However, he was assured, and then convinced, that this decision was ultimately for the best. 'Convinced' might not be the operative word, actually. He certainly wanted to believe that it was for the best, but he was still in a phase, for the moment, where he was having to reassure himself of that fairly often. The Luxian crown did not embody his beliefs. He was fond of Arvælyn, too. Then there's the fact that the Founders themselves appeared to favor the Umbrian over the Luxian; he wasn't sure how true this was, but it nonetheless weight upon him. He wasn't sure if there was anything that could be done in that regard, but he was determined to earn Their favor for himself in some form or fashion...and perhaps, if he succeeded, that would balance the scales.
And then when the wheels had officially been set in motion, when Janus, Æros, and the brother he possessed, Cicæro, ventured to the Palatium Furiarum, Æros' initial expectations were met and far exceeded. That day, he thought it'd be a breeze to go through the process of switching loyalties, but alas– that was not his fate. Instead, what had been promised ended up twisted; Janus had made a grave error, and to hurt him, His Serene Starlit Highness Arkænyn princeps did deign to lash out at his kin.
Overall, the hand the family had been dealt looked grand on the surface, but forcing his wayward, ghostly nephew to be hosted by his first born son was…certainly something. And the process was far from comfortable. Thessia, mother to one and aunt to the other, was present to help ease the burden on both spirit and previous host. Æros' anchor, Hilana, was also present both to perform similar duties and by necessity. She, to her credit, read the solemnity of the room and did not pry. Once the two were combined, they left, wordless, but the tension lingered, and even after the oath was pledged, still did such tension persist.
And so on that evening, Æros stood sequestered away in his chambers, staring blankly at his new form before a mirror. Palæmon had been silent for the past few hours, having been overwhelmed– he'd asked Æros to suppress him, and then rouse him again the next day. His cousin’s silence was of no comfort to him, though he’d initially thought it would be.
Æros had possessed Palæmon once in the recent past, fitting comfortably into the other man’s skin. That time, both of them knew that such an arrangement would be a temporary one. But that was just it, wasn’t it? This time, it was indefinite; this time, he did not feel welcome. He felt like an usurper; a trespasser; a thief.
Gazing into the mirror, at what were now to be his features, Æros would look upon his cousin. It was a surreal thing for him to watch the other’s more angular visage move in alignment with his will, to see himself expressed in the moonborn’s face. It was as curious as it was dolorous; elegiac, yet in some ways, still exciting.
And it made him feel guilty. Even in borrowed flesh, he felt his emotions the same, his Symphony being the one to guide the body. The same bite of his anxieties, his melancholy, the complex weave of rage and remorse about his death that he'd carried with him since it happened. In Palæmon, he knew he could suppress it; wield his Mesmer and calm himself as easily as he drew breath. But he didn't.
To others, he'd lean into his magic and the silver lining of the second chance he'd been given to feign hope, confidence, drive– Æros would lean into the ambitions he held in life, wanting to embody them, to prove to his gods that he deserved Their mercy…and it wasn't a lie, no, he truly wanted to feel that way, be that presentation of himself. But at the same time, equal parts of him wanted to suffer, to wallow in anguish and sorrow, to relinquish himself unto true death and let Myshala ruin him for eternity– especially now, because if he'd not been fool enough to kill himself then his cousin wouldn't be in this position.
Æros would inhale, drawing a hand to the throat that was now 'his.' Both were slender, elegant, even, by comparison to what he had in life. Palæmon's hands were not much smaller than his, given their comparable heights, but his fingers were longer, more narrow. He'd rest his thumb at the dip where clavicle met sternum, pressing slightly into his throat. And then he'd swallow, remembering the numbing, peaceful coldness of bleeding out juxtaposed against the primal, desperate last gasps for air after he'd drawn a blade 'cross his own neck. He remembered what it felt like to die. The memory, vibrant and visceral, made him feel ill.
It was not lost on him that it was Janus' folly that ultimately put both he and Palæmon into this precarious position, but at this exact moment in time, he held no ire for his uncle, only himself. It was his fault that the older man was even put in a position to make such a mistake in the first place, and though it was astoundingly naive to somebody who should've known to prepare better, Æros was not without empathy for the other.
Janus was old, and for his entire career, he'd served beneath one Solar Sovereign, Thalya. Under her reign, there would have been little issue in bluntly stating something she'd pre-approved because nobody would have dared to question her decrees. Yes, times had changed, but as creatures age, they slowly lose their ability to adapt with modernity, to let go of the past and get a feel on the pulse of the current zeitgeist. Given the circumstances and the amount of overall stress Janus had been under since his nephew's death, it was hard to blame him for making a mistake. It was so small, too, only a single sentence…it's just that sometimes, small things cast large shadows. Such a pity.
So now, some days later, his rancor towards the man he'd always looked up to had faded as quickly as it had struck up, and all that remained in the ashes was a smoldering sense of self-loathing.
Æros drew his thumb from his throat down his sternum, then shifted his hand, fingertips tracing over the bottom of his ribcage. Palæmon was a thin, lithe man; he was soft, dainty, somewhat androgynous. A wistful sort of pain dug into him as he longed for his old body. He missed his size, his strength, his weight, but most of all, he missed the mutability he held over his form from his Fæ-ethalan ancestry; no longer could he sculpt himself as he saw fit. His throat tightened as he grit his teeth; it had been some small comfort to him that he might retain some sense of mutability through possession, shifting forms as days flit by, but even that had been taken from him.
Sure, Æros could take the time, expend the effort, to train Palæmon into being able to accomplish some semblance of his skills in life, but it would never be the same, would it? And he didn't hate his cousin's body; in life, he'd actually found the other attractive– he'd never acted on it, but parts of him had always wanted to take the moonborn…at least for a night or two. It felt odd, wrong, even, to be so unhappy in a form he'd once longed for, but that longing had always been lust; he had never wanted to be the other.
And then he'd sigh, closing his eyes, squeezing them shut; what was he doing, standing here? Just making himself more upset? What for?
Æros couldn't answer that question with anything other than the innately masochistic urge of mental self-flagellation. He wanted to hurt, to feel pain in some twisted, poorly thought through attempt to achieve repentance for his mistakes– but he didn't want to hurt his cousin any more than he already had, so his only option was to pick himself apart through pointed rumination.
But what did that achieve? What could that achieve? Markedly little, he'd soon realize as he continued to stare into the mirror, his cousin's pale blue eyes reflected back at him. It was at this point where he finally did calm himself through magic and turn away, filling himself with a false tranquility. For now, he intended to rest, to sequester himself as he and Palæmon adjusted to sharing skin in a far too literal sense.
This process, one born of a letter Æros and Janus had received together some short weeks prior, was supposed to have been a joyous transition. That is, at least, what Janus had told his nephew it was to be, because initially, Æros had hesitated; he'd become friendly with key figures in the Umbrium, and switching sides would certainly impact that. However, he was assured, and then convinced, that this decision was ultimately for the best. 'Convinced' might not be the operative word, actually. He certainly wanted to believe that it was for the best, but he was still in a phase, for the moment, where he was having to reassure himself of that fairly often. The Luxian crown did not embody his beliefs. He was fond of Arvælyn, too. Then there's the fact that the Founders themselves appeared to favor the Umbrian over the Luxian; he wasn't sure how true this was, but it nonetheless weight upon him. He wasn't sure if there was anything that could be done in that regard, but he was determined to earn Their favor for himself in some form or fashion...and perhaps, if he succeeded, that would balance the scales.
And then when the wheels had officially been set in motion, when Janus, Æros, and the brother he possessed, Cicæro, ventured to the Palatium Furiarum, Æros' initial expectations were met and far exceeded. That day, he thought it'd be a breeze to go through the process of switching loyalties, but alas– that was not his fate. Instead, what had been promised ended up twisted; Janus had made a grave error, and to hurt him, His Serene Starlit Highness Arkænyn princeps did deign to lash out at his kin.
Overall, the hand the family had been dealt looked grand on the surface, but forcing his wayward, ghostly nephew to be hosted by his first born son was…certainly something. And the process was far from comfortable. Thessia, mother to one and aunt to the other, was present to help ease the burden on both spirit and previous host. Æros' anchor, Hilana, was also present both to perform similar duties and by necessity. She, to her credit, read the solemnity of the room and did not pry. Once the two were combined, they left, wordless, but the tension lingered, and even after the oath was pledged, still did such tension persist.
And so on that evening, Æros stood sequestered away in his chambers, staring blankly at his new form before a mirror. Palæmon had been silent for the past few hours, having been overwhelmed– he'd asked Æros to suppress him, and then rouse him again the next day. His cousin’s silence was of no comfort to him, though he’d initially thought it would be.
Æros had possessed Palæmon once in the recent past, fitting comfortably into the other man’s skin. That time, both of them knew that such an arrangement would be a temporary one. But that was just it, wasn’t it? This time, it was indefinite; this time, he did not feel welcome. He felt like an usurper; a trespasser; a thief.
Gazing into the mirror, at what were now to be his features, Æros would look upon his cousin. It was a surreal thing for him to watch the other’s more angular visage move in alignment with his will, to see himself expressed in the moonborn’s face. It was as curious as it was dolorous; elegiac, yet in some ways, still exciting.
And it made him feel guilty. Even in borrowed flesh, he felt his emotions the same, his Symphony being the one to guide the body. The same bite of his anxieties, his melancholy, the complex weave of rage and remorse about his death that he'd carried with him since it happened. In Palæmon, he knew he could suppress it; wield his Mesmer and calm himself as easily as he drew breath. But he didn't.
To others, he'd lean into his magic and the silver lining of the second chance he'd been given to feign hope, confidence, drive– Æros would lean into the ambitions he held in life, wanting to embody them, to prove to his gods that he deserved Their mercy…and it wasn't a lie, no, he truly wanted to feel that way, be that presentation of himself. But at the same time, equal parts of him wanted to suffer, to wallow in anguish and sorrow, to relinquish himself unto true death and let Myshala ruin him for eternity– especially now, because if he'd not been fool enough to kill himself then his cousin wouldn't be in this position.
Æros would inhale, drawing a hand to the throat that was now 'his.' Both were slender, elegant, even, by comparison to what he had in life. Palæmon's hands were not much smaller than his, given their comparable heights, but his fingers were longer, more narrow. He'd rest his thumb at the dip where clavicle met sternum, pressing slightly into his throat. And then he'd swallow, remembering the numbing, peaceful coldness of bleeding out juxtaposed against the primal, desperate last gasps for air after he'd drawn a blade 'cross his own neck. He remembered what it felt like to die. The memory, vibrant and visceral, made him feel ill.
It was not lost on him that it was Janus' folly that ultimately put both he and Palæmon into this precarious position, but at this exact moment in time, he held no ire for his uncle, only himself. It was his fault that the older man was even put in a position to make such a mistake in the first place, and though it was astoundingly naive to somebody who should've known to prepare better, Æros was not without empathy for the other.
Janus was old, and for his entire career, he'd served beneath one Solar Sovereign, Thalya. Under her reign, there would have been little issue in bluntly stating something she'd pre-approved because nobody would have dared to question her decrees. Yes, times had changed, but as creatures age, they slowly lose their ability to adapt with modernity, to let go of the past and get a feel on the pulse of the current zeitgeist. Given the circumstances and the amount of overall stress Janus had been under since his nephew's death, it was hard to blame him for making a mistake. It was so small, too, only a single sentence…it's just that sometimes, small things cast large shadows. Such a pity.
So now, some days later, his rancor towards the man he'd always looked up to had faded as quickly as it had struck up, and all that remained in the ashes was a smoldering sense of self-loathing.
Æros drew his thumb from his throat down his sternum, then shifted his hand, fingertips tracing over the bottom of his ribcage. Palæmon was a thin, lithe man; he was soft, dainty, somewhat androgynous. A wistful sort of pain dug into him as he longed for his old body. He missed his size, his strength, his weight, but most of all, he missed the mutability he held over his form from his Fæ-ethalan ancestry; no longer could he sculpt himself as he saw fit. His throat tightened as he grit his teeth; it had been some small comfort to him that he might retain some sense of mutability through possession, shifting forms as days flit by, but even that had been taken from him.
Sure, Æros could take the time, expend the effort, to train Palæmon into being able to accomplish some semblance of his skills in life, but it would never be the same, would it? And he didn't hate his cousin's body; in life, he'd actually found the other attractive– he'd never acted on it, but parts of him had always wanted to take the moonborn…at least for a night or two. It felt odd, wrong, even, to be so unhappy in a form he'd once longed for, but that longing had always been lust; he had never wanted to be the other.
And then he'd sigh, closing his eyes, squeezing them shut; what was he doing, standing here? Just making himself more upset? What for?
Æros couldn't answer that question with anything other than the innately masochistic urge of mental self-flagellation. He wanted to hurt, to feel pain in some twisted, poorly thought through attempt to achieve repentance for his mistakes– but he didn't want to hurt his cousin any more than he already had, so his only option was to pick himself apart through pointed rumination.
But what did that achieve? What could that achieve? Markedly little, he'd soon realize as he continued to stare into the mirror, his cousin's pale blue eyes reflected back at him. It was at this point where he finally did calm himself through magic and turn away, filling himself with a false tranquility. For now, he intended to rest, to sequester himself as he and Palæmon adjusted to sharing skin in a far too literal sense.
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"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"
"Vastien Tongue/Speech"
"Valasren Tongue/Speech"
"Common Tongue/Speech"
