faderift | [open w/ some closed threads] escort missions.

It is your unifying characteristic.

[ So yes, he's used to it. ]

Do you mean mankind here is different compared to your time, or mankind in your own world? Are you one of the very old ones?

[ Of course he is. Astarion said so. ]

I mean both-- and by your standards, yes, I would be.

[A light shrug, there, one-shouldered.]

There was once no such thing as dying from old age, though I have lived quite a long time even by my own measure.

That sounds like the stories the elves tell.

[ Which are arguably true, if this Fen’Harel isn’t only a highly skilled con man.

He pauses on a landing to huff in a couple deeper breaths, then leads the way through the door—this is their stop. His office is around the corner. ]

What changed? To make dying of old age possible, I mean.

[He'll pause with him, waiting quietly for him to move on, before he follows once more.]

Mayhap it does sound similar, but I doubt the stories are identical.

[Those stories, though, aren't something he's yet had occasion to study; he quietly puts them on the list.]

As for what happened: the world itself was broken. Divided into pieces, resulting in fourteen separate worlds that all were reflections of the original-- all populated by the fragmented souls of those who once lived upon it.

[ Bastien's eyebrows go up in a mild, silent expression of the thought: that's weird. But it goes without actually saying. ]

So you—you could die of old age now? Or were you spared the fragmenting?

[It's fine, he more or less expects all of this to sound strange; when he answers this time, it's quieter.]

I was spared it, yes. Three of us were.

[ Bastien opens the door to his office to usher Emet-Selch in ahead of him. Sometimes there's another occupant, as evidenced by the second recently-used desk on one side of the room, but Alexandrie isn't here now. Bastien's desk is covered in clutter. It also isn't where he's headed, once the door has closed behind them. Between the two is a small table and chairs, with a bowl of nuts. He takes one of the chairs and two of the cashews before he asks, ]

Why?

I cannot say. But had I any control over the situation, then I assure you, I would have ensured far more of my people were spared than that.

[...he exhales, shakes his head, moving to take a seat in the other chair. The nuts, he leaves alone.]

All three of us were leaders of our people. Members of our Convocation. If any of us were to be left whole then we were, at the least, well suited to attempting to repair it all.

Mm.

[ His elbow rests on the table, his chin on his fist. Whole. ]

I imagine that changes how you think of people, if they seem incomplete—and short-lived, of course—compared to you. [ He'd be happy to be contradicted on that point, of course. It's just that sometimes people say more to a statement they disagree with than a question. ] Did that play into the, ah, what did he say? Loss of life on a planetary scale?

So it does.

[Namely, they didn't really think of them as people, but that's a bit blunt to say.]

And, yes, as he said: from his perspective, that is precisely what it would entail. From ours... those worlds were not simply broken, you see, and when they fell-- everything composing them flowed back into the primary reflection. Every fragment of a soul returned to it. What they viewed as destruction, we saw as renewal.

Of course, tell this to any given mortal who may be affected by it, and they naturally would cling to the life they knew over the restoration of a life they no longer remembered. They had no way of fully comprehending what it would mean, to regain the immortality they had lost.

Did they bring their lives back with them, to the—the primary reflection? Their memories?

[ He doesn't bother disguising the concern on his face. Not finding this disquieting would be a little insane, he thinks, at least for a mortal who'd empathize less with the gods and more with their playthings. ]

And what if they had children who were not part of the world you were restoring? Could that happen?

The only mortals who knew the truth of it... well, I had not asked them of their memories before they killed me, so I suppose there truly is no telling for certain.

[It's not something he'd ever been concerned about at the time, really. He wasn't interested in the memories of their mortal lives, and of course now that he's actually more capable of considering it-- it would be interesting to know, if only there were anyone to ask.]

As for the rest: everything was a part of that world. Everything. Every soul returns to the great aetherial river sustaining our world, and in turn every soul is born of it-- their fragmented souls have existed as many individuals, over the millenia since the sundering, and will exist as many more.

[ It sounds unbelievable. But so does nearly everything else rifters say, along with half of what the Chantry says, and here it doesn't really matter if it's real and true or not. It only matters that Emet-Selch believes it. People killed for an unreal god are really dead.

So Bastien chews on a cashew, thinking about it, and then takes a step back to what Emet-Selch said before: ]

Killed you?

Edited 2022-01-07 21:44 (UTC)

Yes. I suppose when he chose to make that announcement of his, he was unaware I have already died for what I have done.

[Just-- exhaling a sigh, there, with a shake of his head.]

Stopping was never an option. We would succeed, or die in the process. He spoke of the god we served, but what he does not know is there is no denying the gods of our world, not when they have claimed their followers. His goals were ever ours, and only in death are these ties severed.

[ After a moment of rumination, ]

Was it your choice to do what you did? Or your god's?

... arguably, the distinction is up for debate.

[It would be easiest, to just say it was fully their god's doing, but.]

He did not control us directly. We could not deny His will to be whole, but neither did he exactly order us to destroy the shard worlds; the rejoinings were simply the only method we found to carry out that will. To restore our home beneath His rule.

[Influenced, but not directly controlled.]

There were... ways to work around it, at times. I made provisions for my own probable death, left the one who killed me some measure of assistance. They ought to be able to put an end to the last of my unsundered colleagues, in my absence.

Hm,

[ while he thinks. Bound to fulfill a god's will, but able to work contrary to it at least that much. Interesting. He's not sure he buys it, but what does anyone have except their word, when it comes to rifters?

Anyway, the most important thing: ]

Would you do it again?

If you ask out of concern for this place, then allow me to first assure you that I know the realms which once composed my home... and this is surely not one of them. I have no reason nor inclination to do anything to it.

[As for the question itself, well. There's a pause, before he just shrugs his shoulders with a little exhale of breath, props his chin in one palm.]

But were I hypothetically given the chance to go back to the beginning, then yes. I would. When we summoned our god, when all of this was first set in motion, we acted to prevent our world from dying entirely. It would not merely be broken but gone, had we done otherwise, and despite what it has led to-- I would not suffer that to pass.

Bien. At least you are honest. I think.

[ It would be an odd thing to lie about—a wasted opportunity to seem more harmless, given there's no one to contradict him. ]

When you say your world, do you mean all of the reflections would have ended? Or only the primary one—yours? [ A moment of rustling in the nut bowl, before, ] And what do you mean when you say it was dying?

All of them, in the sense that our original world would have been destroyed before the reflections ever came to be.

[He finally takes one of the nuts from the bowl, but he's just sort of fiddling with it, pulling away the shell.]

When I say that it was dying, I mean this in a very literal sense. All of creation had begun to fall apart-- the sun bent low, the seas run red, the land barren. Only desperate measures stood a chance of stopping it before all was lost.

I don't follow. The first part, I mean—the reflections had already come to be, non?

Ah- no. I may have gotten slightly ahead of that part, but... the reflections came to be after we had averted the end of our world. The end result of a division among our remaining people, when it came to our path moving forward.

I see.

[ Sort of. He sees slightly better, at least, through the strange murkiness of the entire story. ]

So when you said the world was broken—you were part of breaking it.

I suppose we all were, yes.

[In the sense that their inability to come to a consensus led to it-- but explaining that is the part he likes discussing the least, not to mention that he is well aware of the reputation sacrificial magic has in Thedas. A few moments of silence pass, before:]

You will have to forgive me for being somewhat-- sparse, on the more unpleasant details of the situation, but... a great number of our people lost their lives in our efforts to avert the apocalypse. Those of us who served our deity believed we could bring them back. That it was in fact our responsibility to our people to restore them; others, however, believed our responsibility to the world took precedence, and we ought to leave them be. Leave the world as it was, after our god had restored it.

There was no real compromise, on such a point, and the deity which the dissenters summoned to oppose the first was the one who sundered our world. Struck him with a blow so great it shattered everything along with him.

[open w/ some closed threads] escort missions.

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