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Don't Get Me Wrong, I Love You, But

Summary:

A fragmented existence. The mirror of reality shattered into a thousand, thousand shards.

The difficulty is impossible. Isn't that right, Emet-Selch? You'll never figure it out on your own. Come, let me relieve you of your burdens. You have suffered enough.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

Good evening. The game board is prepared, so please take a moment to familiarize yourself with the rules. It is possible that you have played similar games before, but I would not want you to make any incorrect assumptions.

After all, I want you to understand exactly what it means when you lose.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There are two forms of magic.

Back in the days of paradise, red magic was commonplace. Oh, to be sure, there is a modern school of magic called 'red magic' by the thin parodies of people that comprise the bulk of the star's current population, but that is not true red magic. It is merely another form of aether manipulation, with a nearly-forgotten name attached.

No, in the days of old, one merely spoke the red words of truth into the world, collapsing the possibility matrix until it was impossible for the statement to be untrue. Until all possible timelines contradicting the red truth were destroyed. Not a form of aether manipulation at all, but a way of constraining reality itself.

By comparison, most modern magic should rightly be categorized as blue magic. It is much more fragile than red magic, but it is far easier to weave. Blue magic is not truth, but rather conjecture: "Suppose this concept were true." Powered by belief, it has a strength of its own and can be built upon, but a single word in red can demolish even the greatest of blue-woven edifices. Useful for demonstrating proof of concept, but not preferred for anything enduring.

But then, at the end of those halcyon days, there was a great Calamity. A truth came into existence that was too awful for the people to bear. And so the people brought forth an enormous new concept to seal it away instead, a shield that would protect the very heart of the star. This concept was fundamentally a lie, of course, but it was a lie born of their love for each other, one they would willingly believe in if it meant they could forget the horrors they had seen, the friends they had lost.

However, a star founded on a lie cannot support truths itself. Any new red magic would still have the original calamitous truth as its foundation, and would tear holes through anything that happened to be in its way. And so even those few remaining people who were present for that ancient era are forced, through necessity, to rely on blue magic in the modern day.

Because to do otherwise would force them to remember what once lived.

Notes:

Well? What do you think, Emet-Selch? Have I caught your interest?

"I will allow that you have produced a novel framing of the matter, but that is all."

Silly fool. Watch and wait, then. I will show you the nature of this world.

Chapter 2: Anamorphosis

Notes:

All things come to an end, so you should forfeit now and save yourself some time. There are no winning moves, so why wait?

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Emet-Selch stalks through the streets of Amaurot, looking for someone. Evening is approaching, and the streetlights are already lit, but the last rays of the sun glimmering through the ***** overhead still cast everything into shades of murky BLUE

-but the last rays of the sun streaming overhead still cast everything in shades of red. It makes it difficult to pick out details in the evening crowd, since everyone is wearing identical masks and gray robes and the sunlight washes out whatever remaining contrast that might be present.

"Azem must be here somewhere," he grumbles to himself. "Nobody has been able to leave the city in weeks. She can't have just vanished."

He loses himself in thought for a while, letting his feet carry him wherever they will. When he eventually looks up, he finds himself pushing open the front doors of the Bureau of the Architect. He sighs, realizing his mistake.

"Oh my!" calls the person staffing the front desk. "If it isn't our illustrious territory lord, Emet-Selch of the Convocation of Fourteen! My goodness, what brings you to my humble little office?"

Emet-Selch sighs again, twice as deeply. "Spare me your poor attempts at humor, Hythlodaeus. I'm not in the mood."

Hythlodaeus is the name of the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, the man who supervises this entire building and everyone who works in it. He personally has approved countless concepts that are fundamental for the city's operation, and has rejected even more. What he is doing working the front desk in person is anyone's guess, but it is him, nevertheless. Emet-Selch recognizes the color of his soul, such as it is.

"Oh, don't be like that," laughs Hythlodaeus. "I see you so infrequently of late. Can I not ask what has brought my dear but distant friend to my doorstep this evening? Come now, will you tell me what has your brow so furrowed this time? They say two heads are better than one, if this latest shark concept that has been submitted is anything to go by."

Emet-Selch glares at him. Five seconds, then ten. Then: "Oh very well. You won't leave me alone until I tell you, anyway."

Hythlodaeus vaults over the desk and comes to stand at Emet-Selch's side. "Why don't we go for a walk while you explain? You always did have an easier time thinking on your feet."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Emet-Selch turns and heads back out to the street. Hythlodaeus trails along after him, following a step to the side and behind. It's more convenient this way; as long as he doesn't turn to check, there's no danger of Hythlodaeus wandering off. He is certain to stay so long as he is not observed to do otherwise.

"Azem is missing," explains Emet-Selch. "She was certainly here at some point, but now I can't find her anywhere. Every time I think I've caught a glimpse of her, by the time I investigate it always turns out to be someone else. Or worse, not even a person at all."

"Perhaps she has left the city on a mission," points out Hythlodaeus. "Her duty often takes her afield, after all."

"That's impossible. Nobody who lives in this city can leave, besides myself." Emet-Selch winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. He hadn't meant to state things so concretely. After all, he is an ancient and powerful sorcerer, one trained at the dawn of time. His mastery of ancient magics has left him unable to lie directly, but that does not prevent him from using vagueness, or misdirection, or simply lying through omission. But rarely, although it is never his intent, he says something that is true. He reveals something fundamental about the nature of the world, and his words come out in red despite himself.

Behind him, Hythlodaeus' footsteps stutter as his mind adapts itself to the new state of reality.

"Well, then she must be here somewhere after all," says Hythlodaeus easily, after a delay. "It seems we have a locked room mystery on our hands. How delightful! Hmmmm. I assume she didn't leave a message with the Convocation about her plans? Otherwise you would not be so worried."

"No, she-" The words catch in Emet-Selch's throat. He knows that she did inform the Convocation of her plans, in no uncertain terms, and so he can't claim otherwise. "She did not leave any message that is relevant for the task at hand," he says carefully.

"I see," says Hythlodaus, letting his evasion slide past without remark. "Hmmm. This is quite the quandary you've brought me. Then, perhaps she found a way to disguise herself? I can't imagine why she would go to such lengths as to hide from even your vision, but-"

"No," interrupts Emet-Selch. "I would recognize her by her soul, even if all else was different." He curses under his breath. He is in dangerous waters here, he knows that fact all too well, but the topic of Azem has always driven him to incaution.

Another long pause, then: "I mislike both of the remaining options that occur to me." Hythlodaeus' tone has grown uncommonly serious. "Either she is hidden somewhere you can't see, which means that there are places in this city that are beyond your sight. Or…" He trails off, uncertain.

They turn a corner and head down a narrower side-street, less well kept than the main promenade but still perfect, like nearly everything in this city. Several cubus are dotted around the area, automated constructs for cleaning roads. Most of them are cleaning, as expected, but one is tussling with a malnourished tabby cat that looks very out of place. In another time, in another place, if it were better taken care of, perhaps it could have been something special. A cherished pet, perhaps; it has striking golden eyes that might once have caught the attention of a doting patron. But as things stand, Emet-Selch thinks it probably won't live through the night. And... well. It's only a cat, after all.

"Or what?" demands Emet-Selch, picking up the conversation once more. "Spit it out."

"...or something has happened to her," says Hythlodaeus reluctantly. "Something that damaged her soul beyond recognition. In the worst case, perhaps she has already returned to the star."

"Impossible," growls Emet-Selch, aiming a kick at the cat. The longer he looks at it, the more he finds that it offends his sensibilities. And it's damaging the furniture, besides. "I said already, didn't I? Nobody who lives in this city can leave, besides myself. That includes returning to the star. And no matter how twisted her soul might become, I would still recognize her." Repeating previous truths can't do any more damage. The world has already changed; there is nothing more to affect.

He swings, and his boot catches the cat in the ribs. It goes flying down the street in a beautiful parabola, and Emet-Selch snorts in satisfaction. The cat lands heavily, but scrabbles back to its feet in an instant. It hisses at him angrily before limping away into the bushes. The damaged cubus pulls itself together and gets back to cleaning, the matter already forgotten.

"No, she must be here somewhere," he says. "It's just a matter of finding her."

Notes:

I told you, didn't I? It's impossible for you. Hythlodaeus has seen it already, but you never will. After all: without love, it cannot be seen. But you should try regardless. I will ask you for <Your Answer> once I finish my tea.

Chapter 3: Anagnorisis

Notes:

Your time is up. Have you figured it out? Tell me, what is <Your Answer>?

"..."

Ah, you HAVE seen it, after all. The tragedy that is about to unfold. The misery you could have avoided, if only you had not stubbornly insisted on playing this game all the way to the end. I could have given you the gentlest ending, if only- ahh, but it's too late for that now.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Hythlodaeus doesn't reply, and when Emet-Selch turns to look, he realizes that Hythlodaeus isn't looking at him. He's looking at the bush where the cat vanished.

"I say," says Hythlodaeus. "Didn't that cat look awfully like Azem?"

"You can't be serious," laughs Emet-Selch. "That wretched thing?"

"Entirely serious. The color is very distinctive, don't you think?"

"I admit there are some superficial similarities, but in case you've forgotten, Azem is a person."

"No, I'm very sure of it now. That cat was Azem."

"Oh, come on-"

"Say it, then," demands Hythlodaeus stubbornly. "Contradict me. Say it in red."

"Fine," growls Emet-Selch, turning back to point at the shrubbery. "That-


The world stutters to a halt. A falling leaf hangs in the air, motionless. The cubus, ever-undulating, are as still as the grave. Even Emet-Selch finds he cannot move, his eyes locked on the bush he is still pointing at.

Something is behind him. Very close behind him. When it speaks, it sounds like Hythlodaeus, but he knows it's not. When it speaks, the noise emanates from inside of Emet-Selch's very skull. If any part of him could move, it would rattle his bones.

UPON CLAIMING THIS AS TRUTH, SEVERAL SCENES WILL PLAY IN SEQUENCE. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT YOU SET ASIDE SUFFICIENT TIME TO VIEW THESE SCENES IN THEIR ENTIRETY.

It's not her. He knows it isn't. She wouldn't be in a fragment like this. It's impossible. A forgery at best, not the actual truth of existence.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THAT?

Emet-Selch…

…hesitates.


-can't be her," he finishes weakly.

"Ha!" cries Hythlodaus. "You can't, can you? She's alive, and that's her. Come on, she can't have gone far, we can still catch up with her."

"It's your theory, you go chase after her if you like. I have far more important things to do."

"Suit yourself. I'll see you later, then." Hythlodaeus charges off, but pauses halfway through the hedgerow, turning back almost as if he can hear Emet-Selch's mood shift. "Emet-Selch… no, Hades, my old friend. Look after yourself, won't you?"

Emet-Selch wants to snort dismissively, but finds he can't summon the necessary level of disdain in the face of Hythlodaeus' earnestness. "I will."

Hythlodaus squints at him, but eventually nods. Then with a smile and a wave, he turns and vanishes in a rustle of leaves and twigs.

Finding himself suddenly at a loss, Emet-Selch walks back to the main promenade and heads towards the Capitol building. He doesn't feel lonely. He doesn't.

He climbs the Capitol steps slowly, hauling himself up one enormous stair at a time. He has a moment of vertigo: these stairs are sized for the inhabitants of this city. He lives in this city. And yet, the rise of each stair comes up to the hips of this body.

He shakes his head, frustrated. "There are no stairs in this city. Only ramps."

The limestone beneath his feet warps and shimmers, the carved steps melting and reforming into wide, sloped flagstones. He grunts, satisfied, and continues on.

Inside, the Capitol is as busy as ever, despite the late hour. Clerks hurry by, carrying stacks of crystallized records. Laughter leaks out through an open doorway, a voice he recognizes as the city's mayor. Life in Amaurot continues on, and this building is Amaurot's beating heart, its people the city's lifeblood.

Emet-Selch finds himself clutching something in his pocket. A golden memory crystal carved into the shape of a shield, its edges worn down over millennia. A crystal his fingers recognize intimately.

"It can't be her," he whispers to himself. "There are only two people in this city."

His eyes snap wide in horror. "No," he says into the deafening, ringing silence.


"Fare you well, my new old friend," says Hythlodaeus. "May you find what it is you seek."

The miqo'te with golden eyes turns back to say farewell in kind, but the friendly shade is already gone.

Notes:

"This game of yours is the height of foolishness. Is there even a point to it, or are you simply amusing yourself at my expense?"

The point is that there IS no point. Everyone dies, in every fragment and every shard. The only differences are in how long it takes, and how much misery they go through before then. You will never find what you seek, so you should just give up. *cackle* *cackle*