Chapter Text
The Senior Adjunct sat quietly in his office in the wretched city of Ul'dah, looking out of his windows at the moon. He could have set himself up nearly anywhere in the world, but he always preferred to find himself in a city with a distinct and greedy cruelty. It reminded him of his sacred mission, bestowed upon him by his Master. It reminded him of all that would be swept away once the Star was made whole once more.
His gentle Master Elidibus was now late for the Senior Adjunct's report. The Paragon was never late to hear the summaries he crafted from the favored servants of Elidibus that the Senior Adjunct oversaw, and for the first time in millennia he feared the worst had happened. Fandaniel would never be allowed to run amok this long if the Emissary was free to stop him. The whispers that the last of the Unsundered was slain may yet be true.
He conjured his mask, plain, worn and black, and holds it in his hands. It was more his face now than any of the myriad of bodies he had worn over the years. Even more than the one he had been born with.
He still remembered his first life. While many of his brethren chose to forget who they had once been as mortals, the Senior Adjunct held to the lessons that life had taught him. He had once been something of a hero ages past. Not one that really ended up in any stories that lasted, he'd slain a few monsters, recovered a lost treasure once and returned it to its rightful place, helped defend a village against bandits, but nothing that still left a mark. Elidibus recruited two kinds of people to serve him. The first were power hungry brutes that could be directed to cause trouble as needed, and otherwise kept from causing meaningless harm. They rarely lasted long. The second were people like the Senior Adjunct, who acted as the Paragon's eyes and ears in the world. It was said that Elidibus could hear when a champion's heart broke, and sometimes he would come to offer succor to those that called to the Emissary's nature. Not all got the offer the Senior Adjunct had. Fewer took it.
The Senior Adjunct still remembered what had broken him. A missing child, slaughtered for naught but amusement by one of her own people. He'd put the monster in hyur form down like the beast they had been, and brought the poor girl's corpse home... the wails of her parents still haunted his dreams all these years later.
He'd almost taken his own life that night, unable to bear a world filled with such senseless sorrow.
And then his Master had come. Told him he was right, that the world itself was a broken thing... a Sundered thing. That once it had been a kinder place. Elidibus had held the Senior Adjunct's weeping face in his hands and asked him if he wanted to help mend the Star's shattered form. That the path would be hard, and full of suffering. But in the end it would all be made right.
How could he have said no?
The Senior Adjunct was not the cleverest of those who wore the black masks. He could not claim the most powerful of magics and nor did he possess a silver tongue like some of his peers. But he was steady, loyal and did not let ambition ruin his work. There had even been times he had given his reports to the Convocation itself. Once he had even pleased another of the Convocation, Emet-Selch, well enough that he had been offered a reward. He suspected the Paragon had expected him to ask for power or some other form of honor. But there was only one thing he had craved...
"My name, my lord. Do you know who I was a part of, when Amaurot still stood?
"Is that truly what you want?"
The Senior Adjunct had simply nodded, and Emet-Selch complied, closing his eyes with a faint sigh.
"Perseus. He worked under the auspices of the seat of Pashtarot. I remember he was one of many who battled to safeguard the Convocation during the summoning of Lord Zodiark. And one of the few to survive. A good legacy for you to try and uphold."
Emet-Selch was gone as well. First Lahabrea, and now at last Elidibus. And all likely by the same hand.
In a world facing the Final Days, Perseus wept for the world that could have been.
*****
Perseus only realized days later after the event that he had felt Lord Zodiark die. There has been a tremble through the aether of the world. If it had been something mortals ears could hear, he would have described it as a mournful wail of a child who had lost its beloved protector. But he had not known what it meant at the time. That realization came when he received reports from his contacts in Radz-at-Han, the capital of the distant land of Thavnair. Monsters were devastating the city, the source of which were the people themselves undone by their despair.
The skies themselves were aflame.
He teleported there to look upon it himself, and realized some long buried part of himself recognized the burning sky. He'd seen it before in ill-recalled nightmares. His very soul had seen this before.
When he saw the monsters, the blasphemies as they would later be called by the survivors, he realized he had unconsciously summoned his sword and shield to his hands. He had never faced these beasts in this lifetime. But the long dead man he had been part of had given his all to face such horrors. As an Ascian, his purpose may yet still drive him to bring devastation to these people in the future, to bring suffering to fix a far greater wound. The smart thing would be to flee and wait for a path forward to present itself. A plan crafted by his betters to follow in this end of days. And yet... and yet if this was to be the End Times come again, he would die as he had lived. He would follow the legacy of both his lives.
A defender of this Star.
Perseus heard people scream from where the blasphemies were trying to break into the building they sheltered within. He raised his blade, and charged.
*****
He returns to his home covered in the smell of fire and blood, clothes slick with gore and with a heavy heart. Even an Ascian like himself had limits, and while the monstrosities had been beaten back for now, they would come again. Would anything he could do make any difference?
Perseus doesn't even bother to try and salvage what he had been wearing, instead destroying the garb and trying his best to wash the ichor from this body's skin.
He reaches out to his brethren, and finds them at more of a loss than he. No instructions, no direction. Some wondered if this was a botched attempt as a Rejoining like the tragedy of the thirteenth reflection, he disabuses them of that notion. Reminds them that their mission remains the same, the restoration of this Star to its true state, and that includes safeguarding the Source until that can be accomplished.
Some listen, some do not.
Fandaniel hasn't been seen since the presumed destruction of Lord Zodiark. Normally the likely death of one of his kind's Overlords would have been a cause for even more mourning, even for one rumored to be unstable. But, well, Perseus has his suspicions, and hopes the man rots in the seven hells.
For those of his kind who are still listening to his suggestions, he has them gather information. If they can learn more of what is going on, through their own scholars or through listening in on what the governments of the Sundered plan, perhaps they can find some path forward. Sharlayan would be the best possible source for leads, but, Hydaelyn always had some influence on that nation, making it hard to get well placed agents there. The best agents in that city of scholars had been some of Lahabrea's devotees, but they had perished nobly while attempting to avenge their Master's death at the hands of the Warrior of Light.
Good deaths, but he mourned their loss nonetheless.
*****
He awakens to someone gently shaking his shoulder. Blearily, he realizes he must have given into this body's exhaustion while trying to organize his notes.
Perseus feels a flush of panic when he realizes it is not one of his brethren checking in on him, but the woman his mortal persona hired as a part time housekeeper. Normally he keeps his study locked and off limits.
The woman smiles at him, pulling at a thin scar that looks like it had almost cost her an eye. "Hey, sorry to startle you. It's just well into the afternoon and the door was open. I was worried you were unwell."
The Senior Adjunct draws himself up and does his best to look alert, "Thank you for your concern. It has just been a long week. I must have lost track of the time."
"You look half dead, have you eaten?"
"I would not wish to impose upon you for something that lies outside of your duties."
"Please, you are the nicest of the people I work for. It is no bother."
Considering the fact that he hardly ever talks with the woman, to the point where he isn't entirely sure of her name, he has to wonder how bad the others she works for are. But she is right, he has badly neglected this body, the hands are shaking and he suspects it is badly dehydrated.
Over the course of her putting together a light lunch, for the both of them after he insists she should eat as well, he does confirm her name. Ida. She is oddly easy to talk to, with a pleasantly practical outlook on life in this cesspit of a city. The entire conversation is a welcome distraction and indulgence on his part. He can't even remember the last time he'd just... made conversation. With anyone.
Ida invites him over to her home for tea the next day, he suspects to make sure he actually remembers to eat, and he surprises himself by saying yes.
*****
His daily visits with his brown haired housekeeper are the one bright spot in the unholy terror that is the Final Days. He learns Ida is one of the refugees from Gyr Abania, and has a daughter, Beth, that he suspects isn't hers by blood. She'd hardly be the first of her people to take on the children of dead strangers. The daughter is sweet, but skittish, and rather on the quiet side. He doesn't think it's him, war orphans often carry their scars on the inside. He starts to bring little pastries the girl likes when he comes to visit.
Everything else he does is a lesson in failure. Every scrap of information comes to him too late. He hears about the Radz-at-Han refugees fleeing to a lunar sanctuary by way of a teleporter in Garlemald, only to arrive after a blasphemy attack had slaughtered some of them, forcing them to flee. He hears too late to do anything to help the efforts of those brilliant Sharlayan madmen to finish building a ship that can travel to the stars. (How had his agents missed that?) A ship they then proceed to launch to send the same 'hero' who had slaughtered so many of his brethren, had slain his very God, out to do the same to the mysterious cause of the apocalypse.
The Warrior of Light returns victorious. Of course.
A Sundered and imperfect being has defeated a threat that had wiped out the venerated and whole of soul Ancients. And done so with just the help and support of other broken people in this ruin of a world.
The only thing of value the Senior Adjunct, who had devoted his life to returning the Star to the way it should be, has done is lend his blade against the monsters. And that is something any mortal could have accomplished.
Even Ida had offered someone like him kindness in a city where none had been shown to her. When had he last done anything for naught but the kindness of it?
The darkest of heresies seeps into his mind. Was there any point to any of it? Elidibus had spoken of bringing salvation to the Star. Had it really needed saving? Had he blackened his hands in the blood of innocents for nothing? Was he no better than the beast he had struck down as his last worthy act as a mortal? Was he, a wraith riding a stolen corpse, worse?
Either way, it is over now. The Paragons are gone. Zodiark gone. What was the point of the Senior Adjunct still being here?
Perseus had once been a hero, so he knows what the fate of monsters should be.
*****
His sword arm is trembling, and he can't blame the frigid winds of Coerthas for it. It took some time to track down the Warrior of Light. To wait until the hero was tracking some beast out in the wilds with no one else around... and no corpses for Perseus to flee to. Well, one other living creature is around, but Perseus hardly thinks one small blue bird is going to make any difference here.
He watches the Warrior battle one of the left over blasphemies with a greatsword as dark as a pitiless night. The monster is a seething thing of mouths, twisting in the air like a demonic child's morbid kite. The wise thing to do would be to attack the moment the beast is dead. But there is no wisdom in what he plans this day.
The beast is dispatched with ease by the hero. Good, then let the rest of this be done.
He waits until the slayer of the Paragons has recovered himself before announcing his presence. He teleports in, black mask firmly in place, his robes covering his armor, to leave no doubt as to his nature. "Champion of Hydaelyn! I demand satisfaction from you for the deaths of my brothers and sisters." He raises his blade in a salute, "Defend yourself!"
Perseus didn't expect the Warrior's voice to be so soft and full of sorrow, "Hydaelyn is dead too. By my hand at that, albeit by her will. Is there really any point to this?"
His grip on the hilt of his sword wavers. "No, there isn't. There isn't any point to anything anymore."
Perseus charges.
He does slightly better than the blasphemy. That beast had managed, perhaps, only a strike or two before the Warrior of Light gutted it open from stem to stern. Even with his shield, he tries to dodge that black blade. He isn't sure how any mortal can swing something so large so quickly. It isn't long before he is forced to use Ascian tricks, teleporting away from a near strike, over just his own skill at swordplay.
He realizes too late that what had looked like an opening after a particularly wide swing was just a feint by the Warrior of Light. At last forced to block, he feels his shield and the arm behind it buckle at the force of the hero's strike. Pain shudders through him as he leaps back and uses his magic to dismiss the tattered remnants of his shield off his arm. There isn't much point in summoning another shield, he is pretty sure the arm is broken.
The blood of his stolen body stains the snow red.
The Warrior of Light waits and watches.
He can't manage any words, certainly he has nothing worthy to offer up as his last ones. So he just screams like the wounded animal he is, and attacks once more. A heavy impact to his gut stops him. Looking down, he can see that pitch black blade buried in his belly. A simple twist to the side would sever his spine, a tear upwards would sunder his heart. Perseus drops his sword, to grasp feebly at the Warrior's blade. As if that could stop his end.
There is no pain yet. This body's heartbeat is thundering in his ears. He can't get enough air and tears are blurring his vision. For the first time in eons, the body he is wearing feels like his own. This pending death feels like his own. Everything feels real.
Oh.
Like a man who chose to plummet to his death off a cliff, only to change his mind as the ground races up to meet him, he suddenly realizes he wants to live after all.
Perseus's legs give out beneath him, and the Warrior kneels with him rather than let gravity tear the sword through Perseus as he falls. He finds himself staring into the small eyes of the little blue bird he'd seen earlier. It sits still upon the Warrior's shoulder, staring right back at him.
The Warrior of Light reaches forward, gently pulls Perseus's mask from his face, letting it fall to the ground, and briefly closes his own eyes. Opens them, and meets Perseus's gaze.
Like Elidibus had in ages past, the man before him cups his face in his hand. A hand wet with Perseus's own blood rather than his tears.
The Warrior of Light's voice is soft and gentle, "This world is a scarred and battered thing. Full of sorrow. But it still has worth. There is joy there, if you look for it. This Star and its people are still worth fighting for. It will never be what it was, but that doesn't mean we can't make it better together."
"Perseus." The Ascian gasps at the use of his name. "Yield, please, and live."
*****
Perseus yields.