Windmill, windmill, for the land, turning, turning, hand in hand

This is horrifically sloppy and needs so much editing. >_< It can actually be boiled down to the following two dramatized chat logs:

Blaine: apocalypse now y/n?
Silverlock: WAAAANGST y pls.
Blaine: k <3 ttyl
user logged off
Silverlock: WTF?
user logged off

18 years later!
Orrin: oshit oshit oshit
Silverlock: ...ROFLCOPTER a/s/l?

---------------------------------

"This is the way the world ends, eh?" Silverlock stood on the roof of his apartment building and loked out at the city. It was nearly sunset, and the sky over the harbor was streaked with pink and orange.

By the time the sun finished sinking below the horizon, Anna DeLavrey would finish ascending the broken tower.

"Please. You probably won't even notice anything is different; at worst, you'll have a hangover for a few days until the sky clears." Blaine perched on the roof ledge; he was visible as a faint shimmer of energy, but when Silverlock used his aethersight, the other man's features became clear. It was just a trick of his mind, he knew- a mental coping mechanism to put the sight of the ghost in some semblance of order.

"It isn't my own well being I'm concerned for, surprising as that may seem. I'm going to live forever, after all." Silverlock leaned against the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. "It's the rest of the world I fear for."

"Don't. The worst has already come to pass. This, now...this is just housekeeping."

"How bad is it, really? Anna is sure she's doing the right thing, but it seems she's the only one."

"The destruction of the Voyancy created a hole in the aether; it's been devouring the upper plane ever since, and cannot be halted or filled. Its only a matter of time before it starts on this plane, and then all of this," he gestured to the city, "will be gone."

"All but the tower."

"All but the tower," Blaine agreed. "But it does no good to have the tower floating in a sea of nothingness, waiting for the creator to return and start anew."

That was true enough, he supposed. "You're smiling," Silverlock observed.

"So I am. I'm surprised you can tell."

"Death may have improved your sense of humor, but it did nothing for your sensitivity." He remained still, but reached out with his soul to trace the contours of Blaine's face. He'd memorized these lines centuries ago. "I know you well enough by now to notice when you're smirking. I only comment because you seem to be taking your imminent oblivion in remarkably good spirits, if you'll pardon the pun- and because that's your "I know something you don't know" smile, and I hate that smile."

If anything, Blaine's smile widened, and he leaned into Silverlock's touch. "I only use it when I have good cause."

"I know." He tugged Blaine closer, until they overlapped, soul to soul. "I don't suppose you're going to share the secret?"

"And ruin the fun? Never." His laughter made Silverlock shiver with the intimacy of their position. "Look, it's starting."

Aether was rarely visible to the naked eye; high concentrations of it appeared as little more than a heat haze, and were almost unheard of. Ghosts like Blaine were a rarity. The air around the tower was thick with ghosts and aether, so much that the sky was lit with whorls of white and gold. Streams of glittering soul energy swirled around them, around the city, flowing towards the tower. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"It's beautiful." The sight of so much power made the empty places in his soul ache. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Theron had felt, or Dekar; their sins seemed forgiveable in the face of such overwhelming hunger. He could feel the pull of the tower in his own soul as it drew everything inexorably back together.

"Promise me something?" Blaine's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the roar of the aether.

"Anything."

He pulled away, attention fixed on the gathering apocalypse. "Forgive me the cliche- but promise you'll stay true to yourself."

Silverlock spread his hands. "When have I ever done elsewise?"

"I seem to recall a few decades in the nine hundreds..." Blaine was smirking again, and Silverlock was amused in spite of himself.

"I was stoned for most of those and refuse to be held accountable for my actions."

"Fair enough." He was growing indistinct around the edges. "I have to go now." He sounded apologetic.

Objectively, he had no reason to be bitter; he'd been gifted with an extra four hundred years of Blaine's company, and it was more than time for him- and the world- to move on. "I understand."

"No, you don't." I know something you don't know. "But that's not your fault." He grinned. "I'll see you later."

"Wait, what-" But the ghost was already gone, dissolved into the aether.

-----------

He found one of the squishy chairs in the student center and let it envelop him while he slipped into a meditative trance. If he was going to be working here, he wanted to get a better idea of the student body.

Technically, using his aethersight on such an expansive and intrusive scale was illegal, in addition to being incredibly rude. But there wasn't a single person on the entire campus with the sensitivity to notice him watching, and there wasn't anyone with the strength or skill to do anything about it if they could. There were, however, quite a few students and teachers with a great deal of potential. He made note of the auras of those with some hope of being proficient spellcasters.

He quickly came to the conclusion that the average SCoAA student desperately needed to relax. Tempting as it was to leech a little of the stress from the students swarming the campus center, Silverlock kept his soul to himself. He hadn't accepted the Dean's offer of a job yet; he could put off fucking with the student body in morally and legally questionable ways until after he had a contract.

He carefully pulled his senses back into his body and stood, leaving the embrace of the squishy chair. He made another mental note to steal or otherwise procure a few squishy chairs of his own; perhaps he'd send one to Theron, to replace the atrociously uncomfortable things in the boy's office.

A too-familiar soul brushed against his, and it was shock that rooted him to the floor, motionless; under any other circumstances, he'd have moved out of the way before a frantic graduate student crashed into him. Notes and latte flew everywhere; most of the latter ended up on Silverlock's jacket.

"Oh fucking shit I am so sorry that looks expensive-"

"It was," he said icily, reverting to cold aloofness out of reflex. He removed the now-ruined article of clothing and watched it drip disconsolately on the linoleum.

"I am so, so sorry, and I am so, so late for class." He grabbed for his notes with one hand and scribbled something on a sheet of paper with the other. He had to be a grad student; he was too old to be undergraduate, and his aura was too well controlled. "I really have to go, but seriously, I'll reimburse you for that- fuck my students are going to kill me- just send me the bill and I am so, so sorry."

He shoved the piece of paper into Silverlock's hands, and was off running before Silverlock could get a word in edgewise.

He stared off into space in the direction the man had gone for a moment. "Son of a bitch!" And then he was laughing too hard to stand up straight, heedless of the stares of the students and campus workers around him.

It didn't matter that the soul was now shaded with fire and light instead of water and darkness, or that it was housed in the body of a redhead with fire affinity instead of a too-thin, half-Dzyrachan priest. He still reacted with the same need to reach out, to touch, to hold; he would recognize the shape of Blaine's soul until the creature living in Rianna's Tower burned the world to nothingness.

I know something you don't know.

When his laughter finally subsided into the occasional vaguely hysterical giggle, Silverlock looked at the paper in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Brannskada," he murmured.

He left the campus center whistling; he had to go see the dean about a job.

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AHAHAHAHA Orrin has the most ridiculous last name ever. I can't tell which is worse: Torkehaav or Brannskada. They're Swedishly delicious!

Man. I feel like such a bad person for even considering this plotline (such as it is; this is even more soap-opera-y than my usual fare), but I can't help it. I'm already too fond of Orrin and Faraz. My headspace needed more redheads. (I think I'd keep this idea just for Faraz, because I am dearly fond of Foxbird- but she's so much more compelling when she's six feet tall.)