Of all the things he likes the least about having had to step in personally to shepherd the Empire he has so carefully constructed to its true glory, it's that he hasn't been able to stop. There is a unceasing amount of paperwork. Troops to command (and not in person, not any more), infrastructure to build, fledging rebellions to quell, and any of a number of things besides. Enough that he has had no choice but to let himself grow old. To maintain this one, single, form (though that in itself is no trouble) and constrain himself to the tedium of it all.
He doesn't know what the papers arranged before him are. He doesn't care, and perhaps it doesn't matter, though given that it's one of the tribunii who's brought them (he has allowed himself to forget the man's name) it's probably news of unrest in one of the lands they've subjugated. Nothing new, then, and he lets the man drone on for a moment longer before raising a hand.
"Enough."
His voice is unbent by the years that have weighed so heavily on his mortal frame; his one small concession to himself, for having to tolerate all the rest and it cuts through the air almost like a knife.
"Your Radiance?" the tribunus asks, uncertainty apparent in his voice even through the helmet.
"I grow weary. You may leave."
It's a dismissal, for all that it's not stated in so many words, and to his credit, the tribunus picks up on it immediately.
"A-at once."
The man sketches out a properly respectful salute, and then is gone, vanishing out of the room with a haste that might almost seem supernatural, doors swinging shut behind him as he goes. It's only then that Solus permits himself a sigh, shoulders bowing, even as he longs for the days when he'd been young enough that he might have been able to simply plant his head into his hands or against the table without his borrowed frame taking complaint with it.
Hemera echoes the words from where she stands behind him, intonation part confused, part teasing. Her dreams (or what she can only assume are dreams, if the dead can dream) have been odd as of late, much like her visions often were, so she doesn't truly expect a response. She speaks aloud all the same, seeing no harm in it as she wanders about the room, inspecting architecture that is as foreign as it is familiar.
"What a strange place..." she comments, picking up an odd bauble to peer at curiously. Something about it rings strangely to her ears. Unable to place it by sight or sound alone she chooses to give it a quick lick and immediately pulls a face, all but recoiling at the flavour upon her tongue.
He hears her voice as soon as she speaks though he doesn't immediately turn - he's an old man now, in more ways than one. Instead, he spare a moment for an entirely uncharitable thought of what now? before he straightens, not all at once but by degrees. First his shoulders straighten as he reclaims the posture befitting his status (what his subjects think befits his status) and then his head; the gesture more practiced then it might seem, given the heavy crown on his head moves not one ilm despite either motion.
It's only then that he turns, too late to keep her from picking up the prototype magitek core he'd been using as a makeshift paperweight; the words that had already been halfway to his mouth dying unspoken when she puts the thing to her mouth.
Instead, there's a sigh, this one more of fond exasperation, the sharper edges of imperial necessity fading away just enough to suggest that he's not forgotten her, for all that this is nowhere that he would expect to find her.
"A prototype magitek core," he explains. "Ultimately flawed, unfortunately - it was meant for a new design of magitek reaper, but proved unable to draw power consistently."
The words likely mean very little to her, but it's clear that this is a topic that means something to him. Something that he has spent no small amount of his time on, even if he might be bound about the endless tedium of paperwork.
There is no denying her friend has grown old, and the twinge of pain in her heart at the realization doesn't come as a surprise to her—it had always been something she assumed they would do together. All three of them, growing old as a family. But here he is now, where this may be, old and alone.
"If it cannot draw power consistently, adjust it so it maintains its own power. An array to absorb solar aether should suffice," she offers. "You even could melt down that ridiculous thing on your head to make it."
He is not, perhaps, entirely alone. Elidibus and Lahabrea still exist, for all that he's barely spoken to them in centuries. But in all other ways he is, indeed, alone. And more than that, he is lonely. Here in the heart of an empire that he built; an empire where not one of his subjects so much as understands magic, save as a tool of the enemy. Or the conscripted. And never mind them understanding what he truly is.
"The design is not my own."
If it were, it wouldn't be lying half-abandoned on his desk.
"And it might work, had these people any concept of how to harness aether. To say nothing of the fact that there's scarcely room enough in a reaper to begin with."
And holding that perspective—that this is not real, but a flight of fancy of her dying mind—the thought that anyone would have no concept of harnessing aether is simple enough to brush off in favour of other things.
"Then make room enough. And make enough room for me while you're at it, would you?" Hemera gestures to his lap, entirely uncaring of how it may look to anyone that may walk in. This is Hades and he is old and she would like to sit on his lap and spend time with him. "Your beard is remarkable and I would like to touch it, 'Your Radiance.'"
Perhaps it is a vision. Or at least, the idea that it might be so doesn't strike him as odd - though the dream makes her presence here not stand out, there is a part of him that knows it's not where she should be. It's not something active, and not something he cares to look at, but he is aware of it, to some extent.
"There is precious little room for the components as is. Convincing the technicians that drawing on the sun's aether will not just work but is worth the expenditure of space would be very nearly futile."
Not to mention it would involve needing to explain how he knows. A difficult task, when he's spent as long as he has pretending to be little more than any other Garlean.
Her request, on the other hand, is easier to grant.
"A moment."
Old though he may be, it's not much trouble to move his chair such that there's sufficient room. He might take more care with it than she expects, but the most of that is due to the weight of the crown he wears as opposed to anything else and true to his word it's the work of mere moments to have arranged enough space for her to sit in his lap.
"Then scale the components down, or increase the overall scale." There's a roll of her eyes, though she seems amused by it all. "Are your technicians newborns? Because that is the only possible reason I could imagine anyone not understanding the concept of drawing upon the sun's aether."
Patches of sun-warmed ground are the best places to curl up for a nap, after all.
"...Oh for Star's sake, Hades. Is there a reason you're still wearing that horrendous waste of conductive metals?"
She takes care when seating herself on his lap, reflexively shapechanging her musculature to be lighter, minimizing the strain on his elderly body as best she can. Once seated she swings her dangling feet absently and sets to work combing her fingers through his beard with utmost fascination.
"It's very coarse, like the guard hairs of a direwolf's back... And so voluminous I'd wager you could hide a few good snacks in it."
"Very nearly. They understand the concept of drawing on various sources of aether, but have no innate ability to do so themselves."
Hence the need to turn to other answers, when it had come time to build an empire out of what Garlemald had to offer. And for all that he had very much enjoyed the challenge of it, after decades of pretending to be so much less than he is, it's begun to grow wearying. (Which may also simply be the way the years hang heavy on him, though he does his best to not think on that.)
The question about the imperial crown, on the other hand, has him blinking, as if he's only now stopping to think about it.
"It is typically expected."
By whom and for what reason he doesn't clarify. But he does reach up and gently lift it off his head - and far easier than might be expected. A fact that is easily explained given that rather than shift to put it down on the desk he simply channels more power to the float spells he's carefully worked into the crown and lets them bear it across the intervening space and settle down on the desk.
"It would need to be carefully done. But no doubt I could, yes."
"Sometimes it seems like I may as well be. A fool, trying to herd those no better than children."
Which is not to say that it hasn't been something he'd wanted to do. A challenge he'd willingly set himself. But it has rather grown tiresome over the years.
"But no, it's an insignia of rank. Similar to the masks you or I might have had, once."
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Dream event; as discussed on Discord!
Date: 2020-11-24 09:51 pm (UTC)He doesn't know what the papers arranged before him are. He doesn't care, and perhaps it doesn't matter, though given that it's one of the tribunii who's brought them (he has allowed himself to forget the man's name) it's probably news of unrest in one of the lands they've subjugated. Nothing new, then, and he lets the man drone on for a moment longer before raising a hand.
"Enough."
His voice is unbent by the years that have weighed so heavily on his mortal frame; his one small concession to himself, for having to tolerate all the rest and it cuts through the air almost like a knife.
"Your Radiance?" the tribunus asks, uncertainty apparent in his voice even through the helmet.
"I grow weary. You may leave."
It's a dismissal, for all that it's not stated in so many words, and to his credit, the tribunus picks up on it immediately.
"A-at once."
The man sketches out a properly respectful salute, and then is gone, vanishing out of the room with a haste that might almost seem supernatural, doors swinging shut behind him as he goes. It's only then that Solus permits himself a sigh, shoulders bowing, even as he longs for the days when he'd been young enough that he might have been able to simply plant his head into his hands or against the table without his borrowed frame taking complaint with it.
no subject
Date: 2020-11-24 11:25 pm (UTC)Hemera echoes the words from where she stands behind him, intonation part confused, part teasing. Her dreams (or what she can only assume are dreams, if the dead can dream) have been odd as of late, much like her visions often were, so she doesn't truly expect a response. She speaks aloud all the same, seeing no harm in it as she wanders about the room, inspecting architecture that is as foreign as it is familiar.
"What a strange place..." she comments, picking up an odd bauble to peer at curiously. Something about it rings strangely to her ears. Unable to place it by sight or sound alone she chooses to give it a quick lick and immediately pulls a face, all but recoiling at the flavour upon her tongue.
no subject
Date: 2020-11-25 05:46 am (UTC)It's only then that he turns, too late to keep her from picking up the prototype magitek core he'd been using as a makeshift paperweight; the words that had already been halfway to his mouth dying unspoken when she puts the thing to her mouth.
Instead, there's a sigh, this one more of fond exasperation, the sharper edges of imperial necessity fading away just enough to suggest that he's not forgotten her, for all that this is nowhere that he would expect to find her.
"A prototype magitek core," he explains. "Ultimately flawed, unfortunately - it was meant for a new design of magitek reaper, but proved unable to draw power consistently."
The words likely mean very little to her, but it's clear that this is a topic that means something to him. Something that he has spent no small amount of his time on, even if he might be bound about the endless tedium of paperwork.
no subject
Date: 2020-11-25 04:33 pm (UTC)"If it cannot draw power consistently, adjust it so it maintains its own power. An array to absorb solar aether should suffice," she offers. "You even could melt down that ridiculous thing on your head to make it."
no subject
Date: 2020-11-26 03:47 am (UTC)"The design is not my own."
If it were, it wouldn't be lying half-abandoned on his desk.
"And it might work, had these people any concept of how to harness aether. To say nothing of the fact that there's scarcely room enough in a reaper to begin with."
no subject
Date: 2020-11-26 04:15 am (UTC)And holding that perspective—that this is not real, but a flight of fancy of her dying mind—the thought that anyone would have no concept of harnessing aether is simple enough to brush off in favour of other things.
"Then make room enough. And make enough room for me while you're at it, would you?" Hemera gestures to his lap, entirely uncaring of how it may look to anyone that may walk in. This is Hades and he is old and she would like to sit on his lap and spend time with him. "Your beard is remarkable and I would like to touch it, 'Your Radiance.'"
no subject
Date: 2020-12-07 01:21 am (UTC)"There is precious little room for the components as is. Convincing the technicians that drawing on the sun's aether will not just work but is worth the expenditure of space would be very nearly futile."
Not to mention it would involve needing to explain how he knows. A difficult task, when he's spent as long as he has pretending to be little more than any other Garlean.
Her request, on the other hand, is easier to grant.
"A moment."
Old though he may be, it's not much trouble to move his chair such that there's sufficient room. He might take more care with it than she expects, but the most of that is due to the weight of the crown he wears as opposed to anything else and true to his word it's the work of mere moments to have arranged enough space for her to sit in his lap.
no subject
Date: 2020-12-07 01:40 am (UTC)Patches of sun-warmed ground are the best places to curl up for a nap, after all.
"...Oh for Star's sake, Hades. Is there a reason you're still wearing that horrendous waste of conductive metals?"
She takes care when seating herself on his lap, reflexively shapechanging her musculature to be lighter, minimizing the strain on his elderly body as best she can. Once seated she swings her dangling feet absently and sets to work combing her fingers through his beard with utmost fascination.
"It's very coarse, like the guard hairs of a direwolf's back... And so voluminous I'd wager you could hide a few good snacks in it."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-08 05:38 am (UTC)Hence the need to turn to other answers, when it had come time to build an empire out of what Garlemald had to offer. And for all that he had very much enjoyed the challenge of it, after decades of pretending to be so much less than he is, it's begun to grow wearying. (Which may also simply be the way the years hang heavy on him, though he does his best to not think on that.)
The question about the imperial crown, on the other hand, has him blinking, as if he's only now stopping to think about it.
"It is typically expected."
By whom and for what reason he doesn't clarify. But he does reach up and gently lift it off his head - and far easier than might be expected. A fact that is easily explained given that rather than shift to put it down on the desk he simply channels more power to the float spells he's carefully worked into the crown and lets them bear it across the intervening space and settle down on the desk.
"It would need to be carefully done. But no doubt I could, yes."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-14 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-16 05:48 am (UTC)Which is not to say that it hasn't been something he'd wanted to do. A challenge he'd willingly set himself. But it has rather grown tiresome over the years.
"But no, it's an insignia of rank. Similar to the masks you or I might have had, once."