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When Hades was born, or so his mother told him, there were two names written on his forearm. Ulysses, read one of them. Bacchus, the other.
Most people had only one soulmate. Some had none. But Hades’ soul, it seemed, was intertwined with two others.
Of course, he has no recollection of ever seeing the name Ulysses writ upon his skin. When he had seen not one summer, that name faded out — returned to the star. He can distinctly recall the moment when he was but four years of age and the soul’s new name faded into sight.
Hythlodaeus.
The long sleeves worn by men (and women, and others) in Hades’ day were, in part, a means of obscuring their soulmates’ names. They covered most anywhere the names could appear, save for a very few unlucky souls whose marks chose to manifest low on their faces, uncovered even by the masks they wore. Hades always knew that his own soulmates could never have such brazen natures – after all, their marks would by necessity be in the same place as his.
(Then he meets Bacchus and he begins to reconsider that all-too-common wisdom. After all, if one’s personality determined the placement of their soulmark, Bacchus would never have been content to hide obediently on Hades’ arm.)
For decades unto centuries the names remain, indelible, even when the three of them bicker or fight. Even when Bacchus, now Azem, stands against Hades, now Emet-Selch, and the rest of the Convocation. Even when Hythlodaeus approves some utterly infuriating concept and leaves the aftermath to the Convocation. (“What’s best for the star is not necessarily what’s convenient for man,” he said once, and he was too correct for Emet-Selch to argue against, just as he always was.)
Never once do the marks they bear change. Even with their true names buried beneath the titles they wear, they yet remain theirs.
(No— didn’t they change once? When Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus were in Elpis, didn’t something happen to Bacchus’ name upon their arms? It did not vanish, but it— No, try as Emet-Selch might, the memory is simply not there anymore.)
Even after Hythlodaeus is gone, his soul subsumed into the will of the star, his name remains as tangible evidence that he is not beyond saving.
Even after Azem is gone, gallivanting about the star well past the point that Emet-Selch still believed he might return, his name remains to haunt him.
Things don’t change until the world is torn apart.
One of the names upon Emet-Selch’s arm changes so frequently he cannot keep track of it. One day it reads Urugg Chah; the next time he looks (or so it seems) it reads Tenzen. It doesn’t help that it changes when Emet-Selch moves from one of Etheirys’ reflections to another, the aether shifting to reflect the name that this shattered fragment of Bacchus is going by today.
The other name is constant. Hythlodaeus is there always, a symbol of Emet-Selch’s unwavering goal, steady as the moon in the sky.
Eventually he settles into the role of Garlemald’s emperor, long sleeves covering the fact that his soulmates’ names have replaced those of the man he possessed. One day the name Gerel Oronir fades. Five years later Egashira Ryusei appears.
Two decades pass — no time at all — and word reaches his ears of the fall of the Praetorium at the hands of—
“What did you say?” Solus zos Galvus demands.
The messenger repeats the name, stammering, likely wondering what he’s done to draw the ire of His Radiance.
It is time, Emet-Selch decides, for a very long nap.