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Weakened as he was, it took a great amount of both effort and concentration on his part for Æros to even maintain the anchor he’d created for himself within Hilana. Possessing her exhausted him even more than he already was. So while she gathered the fallen Cardinal Runes, donned the mask, and set forth to walk straight through that corridor of nightmares that stretched out before him, all he could do was struggle to maintain his attachment to her form. He didn't even know if this was necessary, but on the chance there was danger for him to exist incorporeal in this place, he opted to cling to her.
Forward they would travel, surrounded by tiny cosmic horrors on all sides. The little creatures were climbing all over one another, skitting all ‘round one another. There were so many of them that, at points, they would seemingly form amorphous blobs with one another, all inky blackness and gnashing teeth, almost looking like new, composite creatures altogether. And as Hilana walked, they would pass through these beasts. The grotesque little gremlins did not attack them; the mask, blessedly, saved them from notice...or so he thought. For when they arrived at the end, with the interior of the tree laid out before them, a voice was heard– it spoke of a pitiless fate for all…but did the speaker include themselves within the parameters of so grim a portent?
There was not a moment to ponder the quandary, for now that they'd emerged from the Void, Æros finally let go of his Possession of Hilana, unable to hang on. His ætherial form would float out and away from her, but tethered as they were, he did not go far. He wanted to feel relief…but no, not yet.
Through that journey, Hilana would feel, via the mingling of their æther, the heavy, nauseating tumult of emotions her fallen friend carried with him. She'd feel threads of hope, of renewal, of the hallowed joy he'd felt having been able to speak to his gods again, of the elation he'd felt when he'd first realized he'd been given a second chance, the awe and wonder at bearing witness to Shæoth himself.
But all of that had a price.
All of that was just the silver lining of a throbbing, malignant mass; one which was slowly metastasizing in his mind, threatening to break him completely; all of that merely blunted the edges of his immense sorrow, of his astronomical grief, of his suffocating guilt, of the visceral pain that threatened to decay him from within. None of this was willingly shared, but all of those emotions composed his very essence; connected like that, he couldn't prevent this bleed of sentiment, nor could he quell his own demons. Æros had never imagined feeling this powerless, and truly, he genuinely believed he was to blame...but at the same time, he'd vowed to slay that which tricked him, rage flowing like an volcanic undercurrent beneath it all.
The three of them– Hilana, Athalia, Æros– were not alone. In this crystalline chamber they'd now found their way back to, there were two others. Strangers. His memory was admittedly foggy, but Æros didn't recall coming here with anyone else, much less...the figures he saw.
One, a macabre mistress, arachnid in nature, all chittering mandibles and far too many legs; the other figure resembled a mundane man and laid collapsed on the floor. Æros' ghostly visage glanced up at the feminine of the two, the only one conscious, but he didn't really react. His soul rang with sorrow, hung heavy with his grief, but that had little to do with the present moment, only pertaining to the immediate past, and, he supposed, the future– should he have one.
Indeed, for the present, he felt trepidation, anxiety, and a touch of disappointment; he'd just run through a gauntlet, and he'd hoped that, Hilana having ferried him back to the material realm, he'd have some bit of solace, but no, not yet. Who were these two? Ought another monstrous sight even be surprising? In some ways, the feminine creature before him was pretty; Her form horrific as it was beautiful. After everything he'd just faced, he imagined that a creature like Her could simply destroy him and the idea irritated him more than it scared him.
Æros had already died in the Void; he'd been plucked from that abyss by the very gods who's attention he so desperately craved…but his continued existence came at a heavy cost. Though he viewed this second chance, ultimately, as a gift, the full weight of the grief he would have to deal with now that he'd lost his most cherished mortal relationship had not yet fully set in. The gravity of it all had yet to hit him completely. He'd been suspended there, a corpse strung up by the divines around him, unable to turn away from his lover's scorn– agony. Then, what was left of his old form had been utterly eviscerated, and he was cursed with the ability feel every excruciating second of it; the pain bloomed in his memories as vivid and vibrant as it was in the moment.
The Æros that had sailed here alongside Hilana had been utterly destroyed, both physically and emotionally. But from this...he would rise; he had to; he'd turn what should have been an end into a new beginning.
He'd bolstered that determination with the fear he'd felt as Hilana ferried them out of the Void, further steeling himself to face his fate. And along with the fact that Possessing his friend had drained him, the sight of this strange, eldritch webweaver did not instill within him fear, rather…he felt immense awe and then bitterness. For if he'd gone through all of that only for this strange entity to kill him…all he could feel at that idea was anger.
Just as fast as that emotion had begun to build up, the preternatural being elucidated for him and Hilana some of their circumstance, assuaging some of his concerns. It soon became clear she would not be killing him or Hilana, though her words were a mix of vagaries and what was, to him, nonsense. He couldn't say for certain who this was. What studies he'd had pointed towards divinity, towards the descriptions he'd read of the Stitchweaver. He almost didn't want to believe it; he'd just tumbled out of an encounter with his Gods and Shæoth and now…this? Myshala?
She crumbled what was left of the monolith, speaking over the bodies it contained. Æros didn't know what to make of the sight thereof. He didn't recognize those two. He barely had the chance to examine their forms before She spoke seemingly to them and, in turn, spiders skittered forth from the deity, consuming the bodies 'till nought was left. Æros' natural curiosity and thirst for knowledge were still intact…but did he dare ask?
Before he could choose, She spoke, this time, to him and Hilana. She spoke of the unconscious man; She claimed it was He who saved them. Æros didn't understand. Hadn't the Twins saved him? Hadn't Shæoth? Or-...was He before them responsible for the destruction of the monolith, for opening the door to their final freedom? A dramaturg, this spider woman was, for she revealed the man's divinity in a method that, though grateful, was passing theatric.
Æros, ever an aesthete, found it lovely, but he was…he did feel fear, though that fear regarded the very thought of feeling anything sentimental towards the man on the floor. The ghostly soul was…afraid of connection. The Stitchweaver's words only made this worse. She spoke that he and Hilana were bound to this man, this Lord of Frost.
It wasn't as if the terms of the apparent contract vexed him…she merely compelled them to flourish, and Æros himself very much wanted that. It was just that Æros had been a very closed off person before Khyan, and through that love, he'd let himself open to others. The cruel decimation of that relationship had the ghostly half-fæ panicking at the mere thought of feeling anything towards the man on the floor. But yet he, too, had lost, whoever he was. The spider's words pulled at what of his empathy Æros had left.
They'd both lost much; who lost what, or who lost more didn't matter, did it? Bound together in a way, ought they not help one another adapt, move forward…? The thought tempted him as much as it terrified him. But how could a dead man ever hope to help a god?
These thoughts ran through his mind as the world around him once again began to shift. The crystalline tree had receded, and in its place, the island beneath remained, but it would not sit bare for long. A wintry chill blew through the air, a bitter cold embracing them. Æros looked around, enchanted, almost, at this spontaneous deep freeze, his thoughts being pulled from his pained ruminations. As the frost spread, as great, crystalline spires– this time glacial– pierced the skies, the island took on an entirely new personality, Winter staking its claim. And in the aftermath, the waters ‘round the island were not immune to this polar embrace, freezing all the way to distant shores. The sight that unfolded before him was as beautiful as it was bracing; bearing witness to this was nothing short of an honor.
Æros thought them isolated, but no– wolves emerged from among the spires, the heavy weight of an unfathomable grief in their eyes as their gaze found purchase on the fallen god. All of them at once would turn their noses to the sky and howl; it was as glorious as it was discordant, heartbreaking as it was bewitching. This should be a blessing; it…it was a blessing; but Æros was unable to feel what peace, what relief, what hope he wanted; his thoughts spiraling back to Khyan.
Myshala spoke once more– ‘He will be needed in what comes next.’
Presumably, this Lord of Frost was the ‘He’ to whom She was referring, but the mysterious goddess would offer no further clarity, simply vanishing after that final remark. Æros had so very many questions he yearned to ask…but...She was gone.
After a long silence, Æros made himself Manifest enough to speak to Hilana. “How…how do you want to proceed? Do we wait? Do we try to wake him…?” His voice sounded as weak and ephemeral as he looked.
A large part of the ghostly Solunarian wanted to retreat immediately, but frankly, that would be rash. He had no idea where they were, and aside from that…he was curious; curious about just who this sleeping god was; curious about the price he had paid. Though their circumstances must have differed greatly, he also felt some kinship to the other, too, as they’d both just suffered great, cosmic losses. But then, was acting on that a good idea? Was trying to form a bond worth it, knowing that such things were, ultimately, liabilities? Little less than chips to be bargained with by those ever grander?
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"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"
"Vastien Tongue/Speech"
"Valasren Tongue/Speech"
"Common Tongue/Speech"