Chapter Text
Atlas wept as they held up the barrier.
The Doom finally came and consumed everything. Zodiark loomed over the horizon like an ominous shadow, threatening to swallow all in its wake. But Atlas had to hold out. They only needed a few more moments until the summoning was finished.
The very edges of their awareness prickled. Alarm bells rang in their head. There was something dangerous coming, but it felt terrifyingly familiar. Atlas searched blindly through their awareness, clumsy with exhaustion. Who was it? It couldn’t be the Members of the Convocation. No, Atlas and the others were far beyond the outskirts of Amaurot, beyond their awareness. Unless―
A red mask came into view.
Dread crept through their body like a chill. The barrier grew heavier.
Atlas blinked. Suddenly, Hades was in front of them. They could feel the cloying Darkness tainting his soul. When Hades slowly pulled off his mask, they could not recognize the cold look in their friend’s eyes. Atlas tore their gaze away as nausea frothed uneasily in their chest.
“… Always the one to carry others’ burdens,” Hades muttered, with a hint of disgust coloring the last word. Burdens. It made them want to shrink in on themself.
Atlas had not the strength to speak nor bite back with a scathing jab of their own. They only needed to hold out for a few moments longer.
Hades looked up and examined the barrier as though it was another budding Concept. For a very brief moment, they were back in the workshops critiquing and building Concepts when they were younger. For a moment, they were friends again.
But Amaurot was in ruins. Death pervaded the air as ash clung to the roof of Atlas’s mouth. Zodiark howled for blood in the distance. The barrier dug into their shoulders.
“My, my. You’ve outdone yourself with this one. I doubt even Lahabrea could break through this.” Hades remarked lightly, and tapped on the barrier as though to test its integrity. It did not waver. He clicked his tongue in disappointment and then turned his eyes to Atlas.
“But I am not Lahabrea, and I know you.”
His Sigil flared to life. Trickles of Darkness began to curl around his limbs. He raised his hand, fingers poised to snap.
Atlas steeled themself and squeezed their eyes shut.
Long before the Doom threatens to swallow the star whole, they are colleagues. Albeit, colleagues who are distant (if not abrasive) to each other.
Emet-Selch and Lahabrea are debating in front of the Convocation over the logistics of a particular proposal for new sector within Amaurot when the doors crash open. All heads turn towards a harried, irritated Atarsamain slowly regaining their breath at the doorway. They stomp towards their empty seat and collapse into it with little affair, all without a single word said.
“You are late,” Elidibus says redundantly.
“Sorry,” Atarsamain replies, not sounding sorry at all. “There was an emergency.”
At this, Elidibus sharpens his attention. “What sort of emergency were you tending to?”
Atarsamain stiffens ever so slightly. “… Doesn’t matter. The issue has been dealt with.”
Elidibus’s lips tug into a dissatisfied frown. Atarsamain has always been vague about these things. But pushing the matter any further right now would be in distaste since the Convocation is already in the midst of a debate.
“We will speak later,” he says. Emet-Selch stifles his amusement when Atarsamain audibly groans. Then Elidibus turns his attention towards Emet-Selch and Lahabrea again. “Continue.”
Emet-Selch rolls his eyes behind his mask as his debate partner (if Lahabrea can be called as such—Emet-Selch suspects he just loves the sound of his own voice) grumbles irritably. The debate continues anyway, as though Atarsamain had never interrupted it with their tardiness in the first place.
Not many envy the Atarsamain office. It means monitoring both Concepts and ecosystems with intense scrutiny, with a side helping of mountainous paperwork, to ensure nothing took too much from the star and that the star continues thriving. Of course, when the inevitable explosion or mishap happens and the delicate aetheric balance is disrupted, Atarsamain must correct it before the disruption spreads and the star itself becomes unstable.
In short, Atarsamain is a glorified janitor.
But the current holder of the title is… unorthodox, to say the least. Aside from their disturbing tendency to express themself so openly, the circumstances surrounding their succession are rather suspect. Their predecessor retired after she conferred her gift of hearing the star’s whispers to her heir―a middling, average Akademia student with an uncanny talent for sensing (or, as Emet-Selch is wont to believe, causing) trouble. Why the previous Atarsamain gave up her seat, much less to an ordinary student, is anyone’s guess at this point.
There’s no denying the current one’s abilities, of course. They have gone above and beyond in their duty to keep the star stable. But the Convocation is on edge around Atarsamain for good reason. To hear the star’s whispers is to know terrible things, after all.
And that is to say nothing about their cavalier attitude towards their fellow Convocation members.
When Lahabrea begins to expound on the necessities of procedures in a dry, verbose manner, Atarsamain speaks up for the first time since their arrival.
“That will take too long.”
Lahabrea bristles. Emet-Selch watches Atarsamain, mildly intrigued. They rarely speak up in meetings like this—what made them change their mind this time?
“Emergency protocol must be more efficient. When people are in danger, the procedures must reflect that,” Atarsamain says.
Lahabrea scoffs. “If you are so experienced in such matters, what do you propose?”
Atarsamain’s smile is hard and flinty. They lace their fingers together. “Simple. Install alarms in as many buildings as possible. Have a specialized force of protectors stationed somewhere accessible so they can be dispatched quickly and smoothly. Calibrating the aetheryte routes to accommodate evacuation procedures shouldn’t be difficult.”
Emet-Selch suddenly wishes that he’d skipped out on this meeting altogether. He already has a headache at the thought of implementing that proposal.
“The alarms and stations are of no issue, but calibrating the aetherytes isn’t as easy as you assume,” he says, his tone more biting than he means to reveal. “Aetherytes are still in the testing stage, and I’m hesitant to put them to use in this manner.”
“Then Atarsamain can help you refine them,” Lahabrea suggests smugly. “Clearly they have the expertise needed.”
His coworkers are annoying to work with, but Emet-Selch has never wished to murder them as much as he does now. Whatever, he can handle them. This is not the first time two colleagues have banded together against one for the sake of amusement.
Elidibus hums, clearly interested in the idea. Emet-Selch curses inwardly. Damn it.
“I see. Then I will assign Atarsamain to this project with you, Emet-Selch.”
He resists the urge to bang his head against the stand. Creation take him.
True to form, Atarsamain is late to their first meeting for the upcoming project.
Hades drums his fingers against his desk. He is patient, but still annoyed at the fact that he’s stuck working together with them of all people. Oh, he’s read up on the other members of the Convocation—and he expects that the others have read his profile as well—but he has little information on the individual behind the Atarsamain title aside from their true name and a few noteworthy incidents from their time as a student in the Anyder Akademia.
He’s in the middle of contemplating whether he should complain to Elidibus or send more paperwork to him out of spite when the door to his office opens.
An individual with hair colored like stormy seas steps inside. What’s more disturbing, however, is that they don’t have a mask to shield their icy gaze. His skin prickles uncomfortably when their eyes focus on him. They nod in greeting.
“Emet-Selch. Or do you go by Hades?”
He raises an eyebrow. So the greenhorn isn’t as ignorant as he expected. Good, he won’t need to hold their hand throughout this collaboration. Hades folds his hands.
“I don’t believe we’re acquainted―unless you are Atarsamain, who is twenty minutes late for our first meeting. Or do you prefer Atlas?”
“Atlas is fine, thank you.” The individual nods again, nonplussed, and takes a seat across from Hades.
He doesn’t know what to make of them, to be honest, since all of his interactions with them are restricted to meetings with the Convocation. All he has is a catalogue of behaviors, but nothing about their working process or personality.
The corner of Atlas’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile.
“Are you uncomfortable about my face? If so, I can put my mask back on.”
Hades tries not to let his feelings show. Any Amaurotine who isn’t family or friend would feel awkward around those who are unmasked.
“I’ll adjust,” he says, neutrally. Then, “Any reason for your tardiness this time?”
Suddenly Atlas looks as though they’ve aged a millennium older.
“Elidibus scolded me for being late. Then I got lost on my way here.” They shrug helplessly as their mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “Ironic, right?”
Hades hums. He has a small amount of pity for them. Elidibus can be ridiculously self-righteous and profuse when he wants to be. But, ultimately, he expects them to be punctual anyway and avoid wasting everyone’s time. Hades has better things to do―like take a nap or drink coffee.
“My condolences, then,” he drawls. “Try not to earn any more lectures on punctuality.”
Atlas barks a surprised laugh. This time, their grin is full of teeth. “No promises.”
Working with them isn’t as awful as Hades first expects. In fact, their style of working complements his in unexpected ways.
Atlas is very good at honing in on wellsprings of aether. They’re also annoyingly skilled at double-checking Hades’s measurements and adjusting them in ways that better suit the situation. One thing they have in common is that they both study the pros and cons of each design choice. The only problem is that Atlas will jump the gun while Hades is slow in execution. Being an architect requires caution and systemic approaches, after all. The janitor is simply too used to getting things done quickly.
“It’d be easier if we channel the aetheryte route through here,” Atlas argues as they circle the route within the Polyleritae District. “There aren’t many obstructions, it’s direct, and fast.”
Hades rolls his eyes. “Oh right, the bridge there doesn’t count as an obstruction. Don’t you know that people use that as a shortcut to the Akademia? If you build a route through there, it’ll become overwhelmed by the frequent traffic, then it won’t send you to the shelter as intended. It’ll just send you towards some other random destination. Or you might get stuck in the Rift. Neither option is appealing.”
At least Atlas has the humility to look chagrined. “Noted. Then… wait, this looks like a good route. Free of bridges and all.”
Hades squints. “We’ll have to adjust the surrounding area but…”
The pair go back and forth like this until they’ve at least planned out five solid aetheryte routes. There are still other things left to do, but drafts for the new sector are pretty much finished. They both lean back from the drafting table and stretch out stiffened limbs. Atlas is the first to stand from their seat, albeit on wobbly legs.
“I’m gonna pass out for the next two years,” they declare. “Don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency.”
“No need to worry on that front. I’m sure there will be an emergency in the next hour or so for you,” Hades quips. “As for me, I’ll be napping for a decade once installation finishes.”
Atlas rolls their eyes. “Must be nice to have nothing to do.”
Hades grins. “Most certainly.”
Atlas scowls at him. With a snap of their fingers, Atlas teleports out of Hades’s office. Just as he starts to extract himself from his seat, Hades notices a slip of paper where Atlas had been mere minutes ago. Curious, he picks it up. He flips it over to see scrawling chicken scratch admonishing him.
go to the kitchen and eat something, you damn workaholic - A
He raises an eyebrow. How did they notice he didn’t eat anything? And how did they find the time to get food when they were stuck with him all day? Oh well, he might as well check his kitchen to see if they’ve rigged it with any weird traps out of some sense of petty vengeance for getting this assignment with him (never mind the fact that Atlas is the reason they’re stuck together at all in the first place). After all, Atlas is at that age where they’re still prone to juvenile mischief.
When he strolls into his modestly equipped kitchen, he is pleasantly surprised by the simple if well-made spread of eggs, meat, and vegetables soaked in some savory sauce. He picks up an eating utensil and tries a bit of the egg—the taste is satisfactory and unexpectedly rich.
Huh, so Atlas has a penchant for cooking. It occurs to him that they might be using him as some sort of culinary guinea pig, but Hades isn’t going to discourage them if they’re going to hand him free food like this.
He digs into the meal.
The Doom came from the star itself.
Everyone was already on edge after hearing news from other cities. How they had mysteriously fallen to beasts of terrible forms, unnatural disasters wiping out swathes of land, and so on. The people needed some kind of reassurance, and the Convocation decided that they needed more data on this rumored malady. A group of specialized field researchers headed by Atlas set out towards one of the affected areas to capture a specimen.
Sixteen people left. Only four came back.
The reports of the three surviving field researchers were unreliable at best. Most of them were incoherent babbles about a terrible groan from the earth itself before they were set upon by the vicious beast they deemed Archaeotania. Only Atlas seemed fit enough to give a full, detailed, accurate report of the events that transpired during Archaeotania’s capture.
Except Hades doubted Atlas was fit to attend the meeting at all when he saw them limp in. Though they held their head high, he could see that not all of their injuries had healed completely. They favored their right leg and a bandage nearly covered half of their face. Whatever they went through, it must’ve been bad enough that the healers couldn’t treat everything with conventional methods.
Elidibus’ face darkened. “Atarsamain. Thank you for your attendance. I hope you are well.”
How laughably inappropriate for someone who prided himself on diplomacy. But Hades didn’t feel the usual urge to poke fun at Elidibus at the moment.
Atlas didn’t seem to care and nodded, their face grim.
“Well enough.” Then they addressed the rest of the Convocation with uncharacteristic stoicism. “As you all may have gathered by now, things are worse than we expected.”
The room darkened and the large, round meeting table gave way to a three-dimensional projection of a large, horrid beast with a jagged maw that stretched too wide. Hades hoped that the Aynder Akademia had the facilities to house and contain such a monster.
“This is Archaeotania. We were able to ascertain its origins from a nearby allied city, which had fallen by the time we encountered this creature,” Atlas explained grimly. The others were not surprised, but the pain of having lost one of their allies stung all the same. Then Atlas continued, “Its abilities were beyond anything we’ve seen in any known fauna. For one, it was intelligent enough to spring an ambush on us.”
At this, the Convocation stirred. They had no information on the rumored beasts until now, but this boded ill for everyone. No one could slip past the Atarsamain’s notice that easily. Even Atlas themself seemed shaken as they recounted the events.
“We lost three researchers in the initial contact. There were difficulties with coordination due to the beast’s wide range of attacks. When we finally managed to subdue it, we had lost five more. Containing it also proved to be another challenge—its size wasn’t the issue, but the beast itself was somehow rendering our containment unit null while unconscious.”
Now the members of the Convocation were murmuring amongst themselves. The Akademia’s containment units were rivalled to none.
“I had to come up with a new containment unit to specifically house this specimen,” Atlas said, to answer the unspoken questions hanging from the tip of every member’s tongue. “It was a shoddy, archaic solution, but the best I could come up with at the time. As of this morning, I received word that the containment unit is still holding steady. But I don’t know how much longer it will last.”
Lahabrea was the first to speak up. “How did the beast affect the containment unit we provided your party? Last we checked, nothing should’ve tampered with them.”
Atlas sighed, but not out of exasperation. “Here’s where things get really bad.”
As if losing half the party to capture a single specimen wasn’t already bad enough, Hades thought hysterically.
“The Doom is directly caused by the star. And the star either amplifies Creation magicks to dangerous degrees, or renders Creations useless.
“The reports of the survivors correlate with what I experienced: shortly after we had successfully contained the beast, there was a groan from deep within the earth. When I tried to sense what was wrong, the star nearly killed me.”
The Convocation lost their breath. Atlas, for their part, remained gravely neutral.
“That groan was the star screaming in pain,” they stressed, their voice wavering ever so slightly. Hades noted this distantly as Atlas continued in a cold, analytical tone, “Archaeotania isn’t just a byproduct of the Doom, it is but one fragment of the Doom.”
The projection of the horrid beast shrank as Atlas called up an image of their star. The star’s once tranquil, pale core had turned blood red as its surface was peppered, if not outright covered, in that awful color save for the sole region that represented Amaurot. Several more images popped up beside the star: meteors falling, the earth tearing apart and swallowing up whole cities in its yawning maw, beasts prowling and devouring all who stood in their way—all of that linked back to the blood red core.
The grim reality of their situation hit Hades full force. The Doom wasn’t some random outbreak they could contain or counter―it was the star, corrupted and dying. How did you go about fixing a dying star?
Atlas was dangerously quiet when they spoke again.
“When I regained my senses from sharing the star’s pain, four of our party had been taken by the Doom. We had to leave them behind.”
Hades could see their frame tremble and their hands curl into tight fists. The losses weighed heavy on their shoulders.
“Were you also tainted by the Doom?” Loghrif hedged.
Atlas’s face suddenly turned blank, like a slate wiped clean. A chill crept up Hades’s spine.
Their voice was mild. “No. Otherwise, I would not be here.”
Something in him wanted to recoil from that reaction. He was so used to Atlas emoting that seeing them act so lifelessly raised his hackles. But Atlas didn’t seem to notice his nor the Convocation’s discomfort as they snapped their fingers. The images of Archaeotania and endless destruction melted away, leaving only the star and its blighted red core.
“Archaeotania is just the beginning. The Doom is coming. It won’t be long until it’s here, and when it does there will be a reckoning beyond imagination.”
Igeyorhm, for her part, calmly stood from her seat. “Atarsamain. Your job was to monitor the star’s health. How did it deteriorate so quickly on your watch?”
Atlas continued in that infuriatingly blank voice, “When I listened to the star, I realized this was millenia in the making. Our reliance on Creation magicks was draining the star, generation by generation, until it weakened to this point. The warning signs came too little and too late. And now we are here.”
The silence that fell upon the Convocation was deafening. Hades couldn’t help but flinch when Atlas leaned forward with a hard, flinty look in their eyes.
“I did my duty. Now do yours.”
Atlas caught their breath as they leaned against some rubble for support and cover.
Of course Hades brought backup. Of course Atlas had to retreat―which was rather timed well, considering that the summoner before them had finally played their part to the end. Now it was Atlas’s turn to finish everything.
They needed only a moment’s rest before they had to move on. Their sole focus was getting to the center of Amaurot so they could finalize the summoning. They just needed to keep pushing, just a little further until they saw the cracked pieces of that aetheryte. Dragging themself up, they staggered towards their destination with a single-minded determination.
Amaurot under Zodiark’s rule was a cruel monument of the city they remembered, frozen in time. The buildings and streets were strangely immaculate. The trees stood in neat little rows, like they always had. Even the streetlights functioned normally. One might assume that the Doom had never arrived at all. But upon closer inspection, Atlas saw that there were no lights in the buildings to indicate anyone was there. There was no birdsong nor lively chatter in the cold, stagnant air. The trees were frozen, for there was no wind to rustle leaves. The most damning thing of all was that there were no people anywhere.
Atlas didn’t think to break into a building, but they had a sinking feeling that they would not find another Amaurotine here. They clenched their teeth and moved on. Soon enough, this farce would end and life would continue without Zodiark threatening to continue a cycle of consuming and stagnation in perpetuity.
By the time Atlas reached the aetheryte, the Convocation was waiting for them.
“One last chance,” Elidibus offered. “Join us in resurrecting our fallen brethren, and you may yet live.”
Atlas resisted the urge to roll their eyes. That was incredibly cliche, but they couldn’t fault Zodiark for being unimaginative.
“Unfortunately, I’m not planning to live.”
Their smile was defiant, grim. Then, they plunged their hand into their own chest.
“Project… Hydaelyn,” Atlas choked out, curling their fingers around their core. With a feral roar, they ripped it out. A faintly glowing crystal shard rested in their shaking palm. Their voice thinned to a pained rasp. “… Activate final phase.”
[ PRIMAL HYDAELYN ACTIVATED. USER CONFIRMED. INITIATING SOUL EXTRACTION. 87 PERCENT UNTIL COMPLETION. ]
In a burst of blinding light, Hydaelyn began taking form from the crystal. Atlas held it aloft, and watched as Hydaelyn absorbed their leaking life force. She gently pulsed with each memory, each heartbeat She ate.
Atlas did not have the strength to look up, but there was no need. A great keen filled the air.
[ PRIMAL HYDAELYN COMPLETE. INITIATING FORMATION: ENERVATE. ]
It was done.
“Why do you care so much?” Hades asks.
Atlas looks up from the papers they’re grading. “Care about what?”
Hades gestures to the papers, as though that explains everything. And it does, to an extent―who in their right mind would voluntarily tutor children deemed problematic by their caretakers? His own distaste of them notwithstanding, teaching rambunctious children who refuse to learn is only an exercise in futility (and an incredible test of patience). If their own caretakers have given up on them, then there’s not much of a chance to reform them.
But Atlas is smiling, like they know something he doesn’t. He narrows his eyes and silently prompts Atlas to say their piece.
“I was just as bad as these kids when I was growing up,” they say quietly, smoothing out a wrinkle in one student’s paper. “What they need is a guiding hand and for someone to believe in them. I had neither of those, growing up.”
Hades shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He had little issue during his own childhood—he simply did what everyone else did. Perhaps having grown up with someone else, especially someone like Hythlodaeus, also helped. He’s heard of caretakers taking on one child rather than a cluster for various reasons, but those are few and far in between because of the inherent unpredictability a sole child posed. It makes sense that Atlas was one of those raised without a cluster. At least with a cluster, the children are more likely to be uniform in many respects.
“Well, at least you didn’t end up terrible,” he drawls. “And now you can inflict that saccharine attitude of yours on the rest of the population as vengeance.”
Atlas laughs, shoulders hunched in like a turtle. They gather their students’ papers into a neat little pile. “I just think everyone deserves a chance.”
“Even those who waste them?” Hades counters. He finishes the last of his own reports before arranging them into an orderly bundle. After he sets them aside in his inventory, he fixes Atlas with an exasperated look. “You can only do so much before you run yourself ragged.”
At this, Atlas stills for a second. Then they smile stiffly.
“I’ve wasted a good many chances myself. It took me a bit, but I finally got my shit together. Who knows? Maybe someone else will need that one extra push.”
Hades doesn’t blink at the profanity, but he’s beginning to understand why Atlas is so off compared to the rest of Amaurotine society.
“If you say so,” he says.