Flippant as it might have sounded, the business of bringing about all the necessary rejoinings was not wholly unlike a game, at least as far as Emet-Selch was concerned. Though it was not like unto the primitive, unrefined game so disgustingly prevalent on the Source, the one played with cards of varying values with the singular intent of turning your opponent’s cards into your own (though there was at least a nice tinge of conquest to that game, wasn’t there?); nor was it like unto the vaguely incomprehensible game played with tiles of varying meanings and values. No, it was like neither of those. Rather, it was very much like that vaunted, ageless king of all games, chess. There was careful strategy involved, the planning of moves long in advance, the painstaking manipulation of your opponent into the proper location…yes, it could be properly compared to nothing else. Which suited the Ascians well, as it allowed for either swift, crushing defeats or drawn-out, intricate matches, whichever suited their purpose at the time.
When he had the luxury of choice, Emet-Selch always played the long game. He could afford to, after all; he had all the time in all the worlds, and he was nothing if not patient. If one plan on one reflection failed, all he need do was simply shift his attention to the next, and wait for things to change. For the heroes to grow old, to grow weak. For their tales of grandeur--and their words of warning--to fade into legend, until they became naught but fodder for storybooks and, perhaps, the odd haunting fireside myth.
But in truth, after thousands of years, he had grown bored of the game.
Sleep was a far more tempting idea than to set himself against yet another set of would-be heroes, who always seemed to come to the table unarmed for their battle of wits. It inevitably led to their downfall, and while there had been a delicious sort of satisfaction to it the first half-dozen times or so...what entertainment could be found when there was naught to look forward to but the same foregone conclusion?
Perhaps he had remained in the guise of Solus zos Galvus too long, he mused. Had he always placed such weight and worth in a tale well-told, or was that simply due to the love of theatre and the arts that he’d cultivated over his years as emperor of the Garlean Empire? It had been naught but an idle pass-time, of course; and yet, he’d come to relish it, that minor, temporary escape into another world, another life.
It was certainly that melodramatic impulse that caused him to behave as he did regarding the situation on the First. Very inconvenient, that. As if he’d had the board set up just-so, naught but a few simple moves away from a solid, inescapable checkmate, when the entire table had been unceremoniously upended, leaving him to scrabble in the dust for the proper pieces.
But, rather than set them all in their usual places, this time he decided to simply...stand back and observe for a time. His carefully-constructed plans were a shambles, but that was no matter. The pieces had fallen as they would, and he would play on...if only out of a strange sudden interest in his newest opponent.
This one, he had thought with a flicker of hungrily real, true interest, has promise. Unlike all the others who had come before, there was yet a brightness to her...a strange, unusual sort of spark. Even so, he still considered her little more than a pawn, a puppet on a set of strings dancing to the piper’s tune--or so he thought at first.
But as he watched her, as he studied the way that she played the game, he saw that she did more than simply move forwards, never going back, taking out enemies to the sides as she went. Rather, he saw her leap across worlds--akin to the behavior of the far more powerful rook, with its far bolder forward, backwards, and sideways mobility--and even through time itself, which indicated something even more complex, a diagonal skating movement. Yes, limited as she was by her misshapen mortal frame, perhaps she was a bishop instead.
And yet, she still found ways to surprise him, making great, awkward-seeming but very effective leaps. To move forward and yet sideways, defeating opponents as she moved...yes, that was knightly. Without a doubt, that was what she had to be, a knight. It had always been his least favorite piece--so limited and strange in its movement, so utterly useless at long distances yet brutal and deadly in close quarters--and why else did something about her irritate him so?
It was reminiscent of another certain someone whom he had also found irritating at every turn...but why should he think of her at a time like this? It was only because they both effected within him the same sort of exasperation--no, not the same, to say such would be giving this pathetically incomplete creature far too much credit. It would be unforgivable, an outright insult to the memory of another he yet held painfully dear.
No, this newest hero was nothing like her.
And yet, that wasn’t true, and Emet-Selch knew it, no matter how he fought it or even denied it outright.
It was only when it was too late, when they were staring each other down in preparation of their final, inevitable confrontation, that he remembered, and understood. The color of her soul--yes, that was it. That was what he had seen all this time, the reason he saw her shadow outlining this latest hero’s every move.
...It had been so long. So wretchedly, exceptionally long since he had seen that shade, that precise color. Surely he could be forgiven for not immediately recognizing this far paler tint of that wonderful, unspeakably beautiful hue.
But knowing that changed the game entirely.
He knew then, too late, that what he stood across from was not a simple pawn, but the most powerful piece on the board: the queen.
...Or perhaps it wasn’t too late at all. Perhaps, he thought as he passed along that final message, laid the weight of their legacy squarely on her shoulders (“Remember that we once lived”), the game had ended precisely as it should have. Perhaps in finally losing, at long last, he had truly won.
Prompt #7: Pawn | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) -> WoL (& Azem) ✧ | ShB spoilers
When he had the luxury of choice, Emet-Selch always played the long game. He could afford to, after all; he had all the time in all the worlds, and he was nothing if not patient. If one plan on one reflection failed, all he need do was simply shift his attention to the next, and wait for things to change. For the heroes to grow old, to grow weak. For their tales of grandeur--and their words of warning--to fade into legend, until they became naught but fodder for storybooks and, perhaps, the odd haunting fireside myth.
But in truth, after thousands of years, he had grown bored of the game.
Sleep was a far more tempting idea than to set himself against yet another set of would-be heroes, who always seemed to come to the table unarmed for their battle of wits. It inevitably led to their downfall, and while there had been a delicious sort of satisfaction to it the first half-dozen times or so...what entertainment could be found when there was naught to look forward to but the same foregone conclusion?
Perhaps he had remained in the guise of Solus zos Galvus too long, he mused. Had he always placed such weight and worth in a tale well-told, or was that simply due to the love of theatre and the arts that he’d cultivated over his years as emperor of the Garlean Empire? It had been naught but an idle pass-time, of course; and yet, he’d come to relish it, that minor, temporary escape into another world, another life.
It was certainly that melodramatic impulse that caused him to behave as he did regarding the situation on the First. Very inconvenient, that. As if he’d had the board set up just-so, naught but a few simple moves away from a solid, inescapable checkmate, when the entire table had been unceremoniously upended, leaving him to scrabble in the dust for the proper pieces.
But, rather than set them all in their usual places, this time he decided to simply...stand back and observe for a time. His carefully-constructed plans were a shambles, but that was no matter. The pieces had fallen as they would, and he would play on...if only out of a strange sudden interest in his newest opponent.
This one, he had thought with a flicker of hungrily real, true interest, has promise. Unlike all the others who had come before, there was yet a brightness to her...a strange, unusual sort of spark. Even so, he still considered her little more than a pawn, a puppet on a set of strings dancing to the piper’s tune--or so he thought at first.
But as he watched her, as he studied the way that she played the game, he saw that she did more than simply move forwards, never going back, taking out enemies to the sides as she went. Rather, he saw her leap across worlds--akin to the behavior of the far more powerful rook, with its far bolder forward, backwards, and sideways mobility--and even through time itself, which indicated something even more complex, a diagonal skating movement. Yes, limited as she was by her misshapen mortal frame, perhaps she was a bishop instead.
And yet, she still found ways to surprise him, making great, awkward-seeming but very effective leaps. To move forward and yet sideways, defeating opponents as she moved...yes, that was knightly. Without a doubt, that was what she had to be, a knight. It had always been his least favorite piece--so limited and strange in its movement, so utterly useless at long distances yet brutal and deadly in close quarters--and why else did something about her irritate him so?
It was reminiscent of another certain someone whom he had also found irritating at every turn...but why should he think of her at a time like this? It was only because they both effected within him the same sort of exasperation--no, not the same, to say such would be giving this pathetically incomplete creature far too much credit. It would be unforgivable, an outright insult to the memory of another he yet held painfully dear.
No, this newest hero was nothing like her.
And yet, that wasn’t true, and Emet-Selch knew it, no matter how he fought it or even denied it outright.
It was only when it was too late, when they were staring each other down in preparation of their final, inevitable confrontation, that he remembered, and understood. The color of her soul--yes, that was it. That was what he had seen all this time, the reason he saw her shadow outlining this latest hero’s every move.
...It had been so long. So wretchedly, exceptionally long since he had seen that shade, that precise color. Surely he could be forgiven for not immediately recognizing this far paler tint of that wonderful, unspeakably beautiful hue.
But knowing that changed the game entirely.
He knew then, too late, that what he stood across from was not a simple pawn, but the most powerful piece on the board: the queen.
...Or perhaps it wasn’t too late at all. Perhaps, he thought as he passed along that final message, laid the weight of their legacy squarely on her shoulders (“Remember that we once lived”), the game had ended precisely as it should have. Perhaps in finally losing, at long last, he had truly won.