014. the penultimate records of the convocation of fourteen.

“I want to do it;” that’s the first time you speak through the discussion. “Let me substitute for Loghrif.”

the convocation meets you with silence. you do not speak in kind. “Come now,” you continue, standing from your chair and descending the gold steps. “If you have any concern or opposition, I would hear it. But, by my judgement of the issues before us and the goal we intend to fulfill, there is no one more suited to form the core of Zodiark than I.” you reach the end of the steps and pause, pivoting around the room. no one counters you. no one dares say a word. their faces are flush with red, a different shade to the carmen glow of their masks: their cheeks burn with rage, with shock, with terror. no one is pleased at your suggestion but you. it is but a microcosm, you suppose, of the reaction to come.

“…What are you waiting for?” you frown, one fist clenched. “We have precious little time to devise a countermeasure, and I do not wish to waste any of it. If the issue is as dire as Fandaniel and Emet-Selch claim—a claim I, among many of the rest of you, see no reason to think elsewise—then we cannot just stand in silence. Even a discussion of candidacy or an inquiry will do us better than to linger in our opinions alone. We were already quick to make suggestions; so, why pause here?”

this is when someone speaks. not loghrif, ten paces to your left in center, her face ghastly pale, or mitron just by her, her hands still gripping loghrif’s own. it’s behind you, from that too familiar voice, a distant, quiet echo of their own frail making. it trembles like shivering and molten rock oozes in every breath.

“Why, Elidibus? Why are you offering?” azem starts, his face aflame in red. “Bad enough that we must have one core in the first place—what cause do you see to volunteer for it? Do you not recognize the weight of what you are saying?”

“Azem—” someone starts. you expect it, too, that low pulse of warning, but even featherweight tremors ignore him. “Are you truly okay with that? Giving yourself up by dying, without even returning to the star, to restore all that we have had?”

“Azem, enough!” this rings to your left beside abandoned chairs. mitron and loghrif still refuse to return. you don’t bother trying to goad them back to their seats. it isn’t alone. through the soft fabric of your boots you hear someone stand up behind you. “Enough?! What do you mean, enough?! Haven’t you had enough already? Haven’t any of you?”

“We have,” mitron raises his voice, glaring up at azem. you know enough of him and the tales the graduated followers at the akadaemia say, and you know his words are ruled by emotion here, not proper thought. you raise your hand and she continues anyway. “Which is why we’ve chosen this. Lahabrea has already developed a framework for Zodiark and the preceding summoning. It only falls to us to provide what is needed for Him to come into being. We have all voted for it. Save for you—and you never bothered to give an equivalent solution.”

you, the adjudicator, have little you can offer yet. they are both too clearly charged by emotion to speak clearly; you can only wait for a reprieve or for the debate to boil over. at least, you think to yourself, might have mumbled were the pastor and mariner not just by your shoulder, this is different to silence; though perhaps you should have specified what kind of chatter. “Because it would be better for us to look for one; don’t any of you understand?! How can this not be the worst possible suggestion? You all know, don’t you?” you don’t turn your head, but you’re sure azem is pointing her fingers now, clinging to the air like curtain fabric. “Fandaniel—Lahabrea—Emet-Selch—don’t you see the damage this will cause? How much aether do you intend this project to consume?”

the silence deafens. no one dares to look. lahabrea, so rarely shaken, flushes red in response, a thin layer that drowns under a new wave. you stare at him as he opens his mouth, and you wince in mere seconds.

“This will take the lives of thousands at minimum to restore life. But they will be brought back just the same. Emmerololth and Igeyorhm can see to that.”

“And then what? Then what if it fails? What will the murder of lives be for?” azem howls. no one speaks, merely mumbles. “Don’t criticize me amongst yourselves here—at least say it to my face! What good are so many of your titles if you won’t even confront me for it?!”

nabriales moves to rise from her chair. of all the people, of all the fools; no, you raise your hand in the air, and this time, before the fire and fury can grow into an inferno, people listen. this, at least, is your sway as the adjudicator: your ability to sow an interlude into the story without a glimpse of your desperation to those who need it.

“We can ensure it will not fail, Azem. If this is what the future of our star hinges on, then we must needs do all that we can to protect it. That is our sworn duty as the stewards of the star. There is no alternate that awaits us if we fail here. And I believe,” you breathe, glancing up at from loghrif and mitron to each other member of the court, “that I am in the presence of those most suited to lead the cause.”

you smile. no one smiles back. at least that infallible smile erichthonios remarked of still holds true. “I have faith that Lahabrea, Pashtarot, and Igeyorhm can helm the project and see it to completion, and that the abilities of all others present are instrumental to its cause. Azem is right that we will need immense numbers of aether, but both in the end and culminating to completion: Zodiark will not be able to be summoned without the proper organization and procedure. We cannot linger on another path if we intend to see this one through. So I ask, understanding the concerns that Azem bears for the summoning, that we return to the course, and that we determine who becomes His core.”

an outstretched hand takes the fears and emotions of twelve and cradles it in its palm. the thirteenth rises and sprints off. no one moves in your eyesight; it takes no genius when you turn back to the door to hypothesize the dissenter. instead you turn back and place your hand between mitron and loghrif, staring up to the former as you touch her shoulder.

“Please, Mitron. Return to your seat.” quieter, you add. “If her safety is what you worry for, and the rest of the Convocation is in agreement, know I may easily take her place.”

mitron huffs and turns back to her seat. you look back to the center of the room, stepping forward to stand by loghrif’s side. you reach a hand out, and she takes it, and you both grip tight.

“On both my and Loghrif’s behalf, I implore you all, if not to question, then decide. I would rather you discussed amongst yourselves first so that your decision is done without regret. But know that either of us are willing—” you pause— “while either of us are willing, I have volunteered for the task you have assigned our fellow, and I do not do so out of any guilt or despair. I have faith in each and every one of you to see the summoning, should I be chosen, through the end. And I volunteer in full knowledge of the love you hold for this star and for each other, knowing that the same love I possess shall be shown through your works.”

this is murder, azem’s voice rings in your head. you keep the echoes behind closed doors. that strange, rare terminology that’s all but phased out these days dwells in your thoughts and weighs as it should. but you close your eyes and move through the ooze and swamp that it generates, waiting for the contention and awaiting their vote. you can only pray in azem’s absence that it does not end in a tie.

but no one dissents. pashtarot steps up; they’re the conservator, they remind everyone, so they ought to arbitrate the decision, especially in your stead. they’ll vote if they need to break a tie, so don’t worry for them. it’s a blur after that, the same old pattern of voting and waiting. and when pashtarot calls your name for the first time in minutes—

mitron’s hand raises first. then, lahabrea, and altima, and igeyorhm, and deudalaphon. the pause deafens before it ends, when one more hand is raised next to another. it’s the elbowing through cloth and the last low, “Aye” that swears you into the position you had sought from the beginning. loghrif squeezes your hand again and nods; you glance up to mitron, who’s hiding a smile for both of their sakes.

you return to your seat with your hands laced in front of you. it’s not hard to notice that beside the myriad of faces keeping neutral, emet-selch’s brow is drawn in a furrow and his mouth a thin curl. the air is dense and clouded again, and you turn your face away.

he doesn’t speak to you once the meeting ends. you don’t dwell on what he saves on his tongue. the world only carries on, and you see its course to its end.