He loses another piece of himself on the Third.

Six hundred years are spent on his efforts there as Elidibus sits alongside the
shard's heroes, methodically nurturing their hopes as they yearn to free their
nation from a tyrant. They conspire together at first from despair; they have spent
all their lives in the shadow of cruelty, and their own families have long lost the
ability to dream. They discover each other through accidental meetings, clashes of
defiance where they glimpse one another only in passing: a voice raised angrily
over the crowd, a hand fighting back against the guards, the stranger vanishing at
the end of the alley.
Then, as the would-be heroes draw together and discover allies in the darkest
corners of their land, the possibility of salvation slowly begins to glimmer. It is
only an ember at first. A spark.
A promise.
Elidibus is among them. He plays the part of a scholar, his voice quavering and
soft as he presents moldering tomes from his library, showing them legends of a
guardian beast dressed in wind and fury. A vast, winged storm, roused by the
prayers of the faithful and willing to take vengeance for them all.
Enraptured, the heroes hold their breath in wonder as they study ancient
illustrations where the ink has bleached nearly colorless over time. Like a man
undoing glamours one by one, Elidibus methodically translates languages that none
of them have ever seen before, and guides them closer to the finish.
At last, the chosen heroes gather enough crystals. At last, they summon the primal
concept and find themselves burning alive beneath its might, their minds tempered
and smothered beneath its will. Elidibus never warned them of such consequences;
they had been too caught up in their epic quest to question, following the lure of
every child's story they had clung to for comfort.
The primal is a story too -- in a different fashion than they expect. They are
powerless against its hunger as it devours every sliver of aether it can reach,
spinning wildly out to shatter the nearest city, and then the one after that.
In the end, it devours them as well.
When the very last hero is gone, and the entire continent is smoldering and barren
-- its aether drained beyond any ability to sustain life other than the smallest
blades of grass -- Elidibus decides that his task is complete.
He surveys the ruined fields. The empire and its victims alike are no more. As he
considers the full toll of deaths, Elidibus forces himself to make a thin smile and
think: this destruction is in service to a greater cause -- a greater need for
salvation than their own. Mortal sacrifices were unavoidable. This outcome serves
my Lord.
With chagrin, he discovers he must spell the words out deliberately for himself.
Like a child nudging blocks back into place with his fingers, he pushes and prods
at his thoughts. It is harder than he would like, to let go of the memories of
these heroes. They had desired so very much to live, to see a brighter day once
more, to help one another through what they thought would otherwise be an
impenetrable despair.
They had wanted, very desperately, to be saved.
It is difficult to set the whole affair aside, but Elidibus knows that he must.
Steering these heroes down the intended course had taken up so much of his
attention that their deaths have left him feeling emptier somehow. Diminished. He
had been their ally, and even though their plight had resonated through him --
along with every other hero and nation who had bowed their heads and prayed for aid
-- he must use them as relentlessly as he uses himself.
They are not the people of the Source. This is not the world he must salvage.
There is a difference.
Dusting himself off, Elidibus goes back to the rift to meet with the rest of the
Convocation. The time is nearly due; they measure such intervals by the astronomy
of the Source, which can wax and wane across the reflections. Unlike the others,
Elidibus absents himself from meetings only when he truly cannot attend, rather
than add to the flimsy encyclopedia of excuses that they concoct. Even while sowing
treachery on the Tenth, he had been diligent enough for that.
For once, he is early. The rift has only a scattering of Ascians so far, each of
them studiously concentrating on their own projects, or speaking quietly to one
another beneath the hush of their hoods. He lands on one of the larger platforms,
which is an unfortunately craggy shape -- not his favorite spot, for it makes it
harder to see everyone at once -- and immediately casts around for a more
preferable location.
Emmerololth greets him with a nod as he slips past, trying to pick his vantage
point. A lattice-web of aether is strung between her fingers, glowing molten orange
with what he assumes is fire aether at first -- and then a crackle of levin
ricochets through the entire pattern, and he stops in curiosity.
It is an intriguing design, enough that Elidibus forgets everything else briefly in
favor of examining it. Emmerololth, glancing up again, merely holds the construct
out for his scrutiny. He bends closer; he can feel a latent composition of trapped
energies within the web, but their potency is already being quelled, like insects
slowly dissolving after the spider's venom has taken hold.
"Pacification without the use of an Astral alignment," he remarks. "Fascinating."
The exchange is innocent enough. Yet even as he speaks, Elidibus finds himself
narrowing his eyes; the world feels as if it has lurched around him, knocking him
off-balance with equal amounts of certainty and doubt. He has said these words
before, in such a manner. To Emmerololth herself, perhaps. This is not the first
time they have had this manner of conversation. They have done this before.
Try as he might, he cannot remember the circumstances.
Emmerololth, for her part, looks unperturbed. She carelessly picks out two threads
with easy mastery, clipping the ends and allowing them to dissolve into raw aether.
"The net cannot endure a sustained charge," she acknowledges. "But it remains
useful for its ability to renew itself even when damaged."
"Does it?" he asks -- a little too sincerely, for she suddenly goes still, tension
gripping her like ice.
After a moment, she allows herself to blink slowly, though she does not look away
from the strands, head bowed and unwilling to glance up to him. "Yes," she answers
slowly, speaking to the aether. "It is... it is your design, Elidibus."
He can tell he has misspoken. The silence between them is too awkward now to be
anything less than honest; there is no convenient lie Elidibus can think of to hide
behind, claiming that he was merely referring to something else. Surprise has
stunned his wits. The aether net in Emmerololth's hands is foreign to him. He
forgot again. He forgot something else.
He's not sure when it happened. He never is.
Having no response, he turns away from Emmerololth hastily -- just in time to
discover the other Ascians staring at them both. Even without trying, he can read
the contemptuous frown on Nabriales's face, the man's thoughts nearly transparent
without the protection of his mask. Beside him, a seething hatred boils on
Fandaniel's mien, and with the same clarity that Elidibus once found concern and
affection there, he can see something else in its place instead.
This is what we have fought for? This pathetic, failing creature is what remains of
Lord Zodiark?
This is what we keep dying for?
He backs away further, scraping his boot on the stone, and tries to disguise it as
a retreat to one of the further platforms. There, he wraps his own aloofness around
him more tightly than a set of armored robes, and tries to keep his breathing
steady.
He must keep his face as impassive as his mask. He cannot allow himself to feel his
own shame at his failures. There are memories stored within his crystal, and
memories lingering in the ruins on each shard, but Elidibus dares not touch them.
If he remembers, he will weep.
Reconciliation. Healing. Harmony. That is what his duty entails. He must destroy in
order to achieve these things. He must work against his brethren, and work against
himself.
There is no other choice. He is Zodiark's heart, and he is breaking -- no, he is
broken, helpless to make his people happy. Now and ever, for eternity: he cannot
bring them peace. They can no longer depend on him, but there is no one else left.
He parted from them once as Elidibus, and then carved himself back out of Zodiark
so that he could return to their sides instead, and if that is not the greatest
heresy imaginable -- to deny your god the very soul that you owed them -- he does
not know what might be worse.
No. That is a lie as well. Elidibus does know. He lives it every day.
He loses another piece of himself on the Third.
At least, he thinks he does.