#pov: Emet-Selch

[akirakirxaa]

FFXIVWrite Day 5: Barbarous

Rating: M

Word Count: 1041

Warnings: Violence and torture

Summary: Emperor Solus deals with a rebel that made some...questionable choices.

Master Post

The Emperor stormed through the palace, and staff and military officials alike knew better than to call for his attention in this state. He stalked towards the dungeons, shoulders set, eyes alight with anger and snapping at anyone foolish enough to interrupt him.

But no matter how angry Solus appeared to be, beneath the skin, Emet-Selch was furious.

That rebels had been bold enough to steal into his home and steal away his wife was one thing. A really irritating thing to be sure, but a small inconvenience easily corrected and the rebel cell that had done so dealt with in the usual way, kept as prisoners of war until the territory could be brought to heel.

But one of them had dared lay hands on her. Burned her skin and broke her bones and the image of her shaking as she clung to him with her one good hand stoked the flames even higher.

It was foolish, Lahabrea was right, Valeria was not her and never would be and to grow so attached to but a shard of her was a dangerous game.

He stopped before the guard outside of the most secure cells, in the deepest part of the dungeon.

"You may go," he dismissed tersely. The guard hesitated for a moment, but upon seeing the look on the Emperor's face, gave a brisk nod and headed off to whatever his next duties were. Once he was fully out of sight, Emet-Selch slunk inside.

He found his prisoner, the massive hrothgar that had been acting as the resistance group's torturer, not only locked in a cell but also changed by his wrists to the floor, keeping him hunched on his knees. His fur was dull and matted, suggesting rougher than necessary treatment from the guards that had escorted him. The leg Emet-Selch had shot looked swollen and inflamed.

Good.

"You!" The hrothgar's lips pulled back in a snarl as he lunged forward, straining against his restraints as he began to hurl hatred and accusations at the Emperor.

"No no," Emet-Selch snapped, and though the prisoner's mouth and throat continued to work, he fell completely silent. "I'm not here to listen to you prattle on. The only sounds I'm interested in hearing are your screams." The hrothgar's eyes widened and made quiet choking noises as he tried desperately to make some kind of noise, realizing too late that this man was no mere Garlean.

"Ah yes, where are my manners," Emet-Selch's face split in a mad grin as he flashed his glyph at the prisoner. "Emet-Selch, Ascian." The hrothgar scrambled back; whether he knew what an Ascian was or not, he was realizing quite quickly that he may have picked a fight that he really shouldn't have.

"I like to think we treat our prisoners fairly. We keep them fed and whole and they'll get to return to their families once this whole messy war is over, assuming their families don't foolishly throw their lives away on a losing war," Emet-Selch wandered closer to the bars, cold fury creeping into his expression. "But you took a woman who knew nothing and tortured her only for the crime of being my wife. So I'm sure you'll understand when I say that I'll be...returning the favor, so to speak." The prisoner let out a wordless snarl, words still lost to him, and Emet-Selch gave a cold smirk.

"Where do you think I should start, Torturer? Mayhap I shall remove every finger from your body, or burn the fur from your skin, or pluck your eyes out and smash them under my boot," he delighted in the way the anger in his prisoner's eyes gave way to fear. "Maybe we start with breaking every bone in your body the way you broke her arm, hmm?"

He snapped his fingers, and the man's arms jerked with a crack into unnatural angles. The prisoner howled in agony.

The following hours brought naught but more screams until the dungeons fell silent once more.

~¤○¤~

After making sure the cell looked as if the prisoner's death was much more mundane than it was, Emet-Selch took a moment to put his persona back into place before heading to check on his wife. She had been taken directly to the medical wing from the airship to finish treating her wounds, but should have been returned to their chambers to rest by now. Sure enough, he found her dozing amongst liberal pillows and blankets, though not quite asleep. She sleepily reached for him with her right arm, the one now encased in a cast, and he had to swallow down the anger it brought to the surface.

"How are you feeling, my dear?" He settled on the edge of their bed, gingerly taking Valeria's hand in his.

"Better. They gave m'somethin for th' pain, but's making ev'rthing kinda fuzzy," her words were a bit slurred, but she was comfortable and that was what mattered, he told himself. The medicine, the cast, all things that would pass with time and she'd be back to normal. Maybe she saw the hurting in his eyes, maybe she simply wanted closeness, but either way she gave a pat to the space next to her and looked at him expectantly. He gave a small, rueful smile before settling in next to her. She turned so that they lay nose-to-nose.

"Where were you?" She asked, a little less slurred. Emet-Selch was quiet for a moment.

"That barbarous savage will never lay a finger on you again," he decided to answer. Valeria lay quiet, and he worried he'd upset her. He knew she had not the stomach for the kind of cruelty he sometimes had to be party to.

"He's dead?" She finally asked.

"Yes." More silence, and then:

"Good."

She tucked her head down into his chest, carefully settling her casted arm between them, and it wasn't long until her breathing became slow and even with sleep. Still unsettled from the last few days, Emet-Selch chose to instead look at her soul.

Damaged it may be, but it still shone the color of sunsets, of fire, all warmth and beauty in rest. He curled around her, clinging as if to a lifeline.

I miss you, Persephone.

[misedejem]

Sometimes I think about Hythlodaeus existing as part of Zodiark for so long, being the first to go of a trio of people who intended to live and die together, people he gave his everything to, and then returning to his senses and moving on after 12000 years of stasis

And despite all those years passing, getting to reunite with the souls of those two dear companions and maybe even fulfil the promise of returning to the Star by their sides after all

But Emet-Selch is twisted by millennia of grief and anguish, warped into a villain by a desperation to restore that which he lost, and Azem was sundered, soul split and reborn a thousand, thousand times, another person entirely

Of course he is not a negative person, and he - better than anyone - can see that they are not gone. Emet-Selch’s actions prove that he has not lost himself entirely despite all he has been through, and even though the Warrior of Light is not Azem, they still carry their legacy, and the parts of Azem that were so fundamental to their self that they were burned into their very Soul

But even so, they are undeniably different in a way that would be clear to anybody who had known them as intimately as Hythlodaeus had. How must that feel, reuniting with the people you loved so deeply and learning that they have changed so much while you have remained exactly the same

[endless-nightshift]

This is my boyfriend! And this is my husband (he's dead). That wonderful lady over there is my wife! That guy passed out on the couch is my good friend who I kiss on occasion. The man spouting prophecies is my co-parent to those kids in fighting in the hallway. That tall man looming grumply in the corner is not my boyfriend yet but he will be.

And this orange crystal is a gift from the boyfriends of my past self from before the world ended (the first time) one of them is actively trying to kill current me and all my friends.

Oh! And that message scrawled in the blood of innocents is from my Bitch! Sorry my Nemesis. Honestly he really wants to kiss me but he won't admit it to himself so he keeps orchestrating elaborate world ending catastrophes so I'll fight him. We're working on it

[sunderedazem]

14 - bitter

Ancients? :)

You KNEW what you were asking for. So have some Elidibus POV of Azem and Emet-selch's break-up before the Sundering.

-

There are shards of red on the steps, and utter silence in the square. He blinks. Etheriys feels a little like a dream now, with the soft roaring of so many souls dulling his senses- but this sting of sorrow and shame he feels, distantly. It aches in a way he's sure he's forgotten, almost. And yet he and all those within yet remember…

The people are watching (not saved- but soon) stricken, frozen - all but one, whose cowl hangs down his back, whose silver staff is still tight-gripped in white-knuckled fingers. Who is walking away with a snarl on his lips and tears streaming down his bare face. Who has before the entirety of Amaurot denounced the Convocation, who has accused them of forgetting their duty, who has- has accused him of bias- 

They had to save the star. They have to save the star. And He was their answer. Is their answer. The roaring in his ears will never cease, now. He thinks the stretch of his very self was a small price to pay for the blue of the sky. He knows it. He volunteered.

So many had. And yet-

Azem storms out of the city center with his staff aglow in Light, wreathed round himself like a shield against- something, and he does not look back. There is only the sway of his long white braid as he departs, and Elidibus- watches it. Watches the narrow shoulders and frail stature recede into the distance, until shattered and broken and burning buildings obscure him from sight completely. Watches as one of Themis's closest friends turns his back on Zodiark and all the salvation he promises.

Elidibus does not understand it. He- remembers. Azem had pleaded with the Convocation to stay Zodiark's summoning, to give him time to find an alternative. Half the lives of their people was too awful a price for him - and Elidibus cannot condemn him for that love he has for their star and people, cannot condemn him for his dissent. Azem is the Traveler - the Shepherd. It would go against everything his seat stands for to agree. Lahabrea had not agreed - nor had Pashtarot - but in the end, Elidibus could not be partial. And thus Azem was given his time to find another way. But should Amaurot begin to burn- then they would have to act.

But he returned too late. Three days too late. And his solution was…incomplete. An effort commendable, to be sure. A solution worthy of gentle praise, and perhaps use later. But the star had fallen to ruin, and Zodiark could restore it. And then- then the star could restore their people. And Zodiark would save them all. He would save them.

He will. No matter if one man refuses to understand. Elidibus and Zodiark will save him too.

No matter how bitter that salvation tastes.

There are shards of red on the steps. Emet-selch is kneeling among them, his hands shaking, gathering the pieces one at a time. He is not crying, Elidibus thinks. Not yet, at least. He seems more stunned than anything. Of course, he is not the only one, if the way the silence still rings deafening has any meaning.

Azem has always had a temper, though it was not often apparent. But this- this by far had been the worst outburst Elidibus had ever seen from anyone, let alone from Azem. And worst of all, it had been a willful misinterpretation- a cruel misinterpretation, made solely to make a point about their plans to sacrifice the lesser creatures of the star to return those given to Zodiark to life. And- and perhaps Azem even had a point, if a misguided one.

He had always been thin of aether, incapable of all creation magicks no matter how simple, and sickly for it besides. His elevation to the Fourteenth Seat had been long delayed by a discussion of his health and the risks posed to his own wellbeing, rather than any disagreement with regard to his temperament or accomplishment as a researcher and theorist both. But to use his own recurring illness - which Emet-selch had cared for him through countless times - as a bludgeon to say that the Convocation must therefore count him among those lesser creatures-

I too am thin of aether. Weak, sickly- imperfect. Incapable of creation. Are these the only requirements for you to be willing to slaughter living beings in order to undo the willing sacrifice of half our people? I gave you another option! Those who are thin of aether - thinner than me! - may use this dynamis to restore our star, and you dismiss their capabilities save for their worth as livestock? You swore to hearken unto my solution, Emet-selch- you promised me you would have faith I would find a way and now you- you reject what I have found in favor of dishonoring your seat and returning the dead to life? Fine then! I count myself among these lesser beings freely, for I am more akin to them than you. And should you wish to wet Etheriys with their blood, you will start with me. And you will draw the blade across my throat with your own hands.

But even if he had a point- Emet-selch had only stared, utterly lost for words. The entire square had been quieter than death. Even Zodiark had seemed to still. And then, caught in the folly of sentiment, Emet-selch had stepped forward, had reached out a hand, had called- 

Helios- Helios, please-

There had been a whirl of black, a flash of red- and then Azem's mask had shattered on the wall above Emet-selch's head, had shattered into shards of his office even as his sigil had glared red over silver eyes.

I am Azem,  Emet-selch. I revoke the privilege for you to call me by my personal name- not only do I not know this man you have become, but us lesser creations have no names to speak of, now do we?

Elidibus had not known how to stop him. Emet-selch had just dropped his hand, jerking a little as if he had been struck by a physical blow.

And then Azem had gone.

And now he is gone. And Emet-selch is on his knees, gathering the shards of that shattered mask, cradling them carefully, as if he could piece together what was broken. As if he could repair a heart threaded with thorns, or another cracked down the center. As if saving the mask would save the man.

“...he will come back,” Emet-selch whispers then, staring at the bitter, broken ashes of Helios in his hands. “...I- I will have that much faith in him.”

And Elidibus- and in Elidibus, the dark waxes strong, and he lays a hand on Emet-selch's shoulder. 

“Nay- we will save him, my friend,” he promises, and watches as golden eyes behind a red mask snap to him and glaze over. There is weight in his words now - the promise of a thousand thousand souls and the hope of their people. “We will save him, and the star as well. We will.”

The doubt and grief in Emet-selch's eyes disappears, wiped clean by faith. And Elidibus smiles, heart heavy with certainty and the knowledge that in time, Themis's dearest friends will mend the rift born between them here. They will save Azem - they will - and the star he so loves, and all the people too. Elidibus will not allow for any end other than perfect salvation. The bitterness of these sorrowful days will fade, and Azem will smile again, and look upon Emet-selch with that loving mischief in his eye, and this will all be but a distant memory. 

They will. 

He will make sure of it.

-

Enjoy the angst/keep the change ya filthy animal

[laspocelliere]

Day Twenty: Hamper

Emet-Selch made frequent wagers with himself in regards to the Warrior of Light.

It was beginning to irritate him that he lost them so often.

She was an enigma, wrapped up in (what some might call) pretty skin, and all encircled around a soul that had become more precious to him than most things in creation – save, perhaps, for the restoration of all things that had existed properly before the Sundering. She moved through the First with clear-eyed determination, with an expression lurking behind her eyes that he couldn’t seem to stay away from for too long. 

She won’t do that, he’d scoff silently to himself, and then watch as she did so anyway. He’d seen her sit quietly with small children while they showed her buttons they’d collected, gather herbs for physicians, boil root vegetables for soldiers, and once he’d even spotted her taking a dare from a group of younglings to precariously walk along the iron railing edge of one of the balconies in the Crystarium. By now, he would have thought her too proud, too full of her own successes as a hero to stoop so low as to mingle with the rabble of society anymore. She was here to save this shattered star, or so her companions kept insisting; why waste time sitting around pub tables listening to worn battle stories from washed-up soldiers?

Her? Hythodaeus’ voice echoed bright crystal laughter in his mind, teasing and bemused. You expect her of all people not to enmesh herself with anyone she comes across? Have you forgotten her that thoroughly?

Except this hero isn’t her, Emet-Selch countered mentally, irritated, and pushed the memories of his lost friend back in his mind once more.  

Emet-Selch watched her, and lost wagers with himself, and told himself that he didn’t care what she did in between, so long as she was successful in bringing about his final goal here.

She intrigued him, surely. But that was all.

He couldn’t say the same for the enigmatic Crystal Exarch.

“She isn’t going to eat that,” the Ascian said aloud to no one who could hear, watching as the celebrated hero of the Source warily eyed the hamper of sandwiches that the Exarch had left behind in her room for her. There was no small bloom of pleasure in his chest when he was proven correct, watching, invisibly, as she turned away from the offering with an unreadable expression.

It was pathetic, really, how the Exarch tagged along after her, his dogged devotion to his hero turning him slavish and weak.

You’re one to talk. Hythloeaeus’ amused voice drifted across his mind somewhere between imagination and memory.

“Be quiet,” Emet-Selch muttered aloud, and watched the Warrior go to her window, looking without seeing at the landscape beyond. 

Striking, to be sure, he mused to himself, allowing himself a few selfish moments to examine her profile. Far from beautiful. Far from her.

But striking.

You’ll fall asleep curled onto your side again tonight, he thought to himself, and watched the rise and fall of her chest as she tried to keep her composure, even alone in her room. She gambled with her life, and he gambled with her habits, and neither of them were happy with the results, nor the way they continued to interact with each other, careful and stilted and wrong.

Emet-Selch made frequent wagers with himself in regards to the Warrior of Light. Infuriatingly, she didn’t keep to the script, and he kept losing.

He needed her – desperately needed her – to let him win the most important one to come.

[asleepinawell]

Chapter 1: The Crystarium

Rating: T

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Chapters: 1/10

Summary:

In an impulsive decision, the Warrior of Light (with some help from Venat) decides to abduct Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus from Elpis and take them back to his time. Now he’s stuck with two very annoyed ancients who are simultaneously dealing with culture shock and seeing firsthand the devastation caused by the Ascians.

This fic came jointly from a conversation I had with @ancillaryjurisprudence tossing around 'how would elpis hades and hyth adapt to the present day' ideas and my desire to write something for everyone whose wol is just a complete and utter himbo--a himbo who still fits into the basic shape of the wol the game provides and who is also trying to balance his himbo-ness with the crushing weight of all the responsibilities heaped on him. His one brain cell is very tired.

So it’s partly for everyone who is/was in their twenties and suddenly was expected to be an adult and is just So Tired. But it’s also got a ton of humor in it.

Character-driven narrative fic that is equal parts serious and humorous. No post 6.0 spoilers.

The title is a terrible pun for which I make no apologies.

[rose-from-ashes]

Digusting, dark purple feathers on your wife's wings. They grow, and grow, and multiply. Before long, her lovely, pristine white wings, her pride and yours, are overtaken by this sickening purple, and hints of a magenta shimmer. His lust apparent on her, like a sickness, crawling over every inch of your beloved spouse, tainting her.

Logically, Emet knows it's a dream, but for the love of him, he can't wake up. His arms shake, his hands twisting into claws as he's unable to contain the rage, and he snarls, a horrible, gurgling, inhuman growl rattling out of his throat, but somehow, he holds back. He can't lash out, because he knows from experience that his movements now very well might translate to the real world, and he knows that he is asleep, that his wife is next to him, and if he lashes out, he will hurt her.

But he can't look away, and the rage fills each corner of his mind, white hot like a brand, like a threat. A threat he had to destroy. He couldn't decide if he hoped Aethelreda was too deeply asleep to notice, or that she would hear, and know to get away before he snapped.

[boggleoflight]

"Light" for the guessing game?

Unsurprisingly, it shows up quite a bit! Here's one I wrote a good while back:

Emet-Selch, says the hero, finally, cracking mortal voice tinged burning with the Light and echoing against the towering Amaurotine halls, you will return G’raha Tia to me.

[eponychium]

my partner tasking me with writing some verdaniel. truly I cannot escape writing that man.

[azems-familiar]

"Can you just- for a minute, can you pretend that I mean something to you?'

this. uhhhhhh. got a LOT longer than i intended it to, and also had a lot less angst, though if you consider the other pov there is definitely so much more. and also with literally all the context. anyway. have 5.6k words of emetraha, because i have brainrot and the prompt worked so well for them i had to choose between multiple options.

The Exarch being away is the last thing Emet-Selch expects when he arrives at the Crystarium for their usual discussion and debate over tea. The man is bound to the Tower; while he can leave, it weakens him, and thus in all the time Emet-Selch has known him he has only left Lakeland’s borders on the rare occasion, usually to treat with Eulmore (prior to Vauthry’s birth, of course) or in the event of some emergency. According to the Captain of the Guard, however (who had seemed faintly amused when he asked as to the Exarch’s whereabouts), he left the Crystarium three days ago to make the trek to Rak’tika to meet with the Night’s Blessed. The matter of this meeting, she informs Emet-Selch, is something the Exarch himself can decide whether or not to disclose to a non-citizen, and he is not expected to return for another four days, but she can offer Emet-Selch the approximate location of his destination, should he so desire to bother their leader directly.

He does, in fact, so desire. The endless waiting is the most intolerable part of any Rejoining, and while the millennia have gotten him quite accustomed to patience, he is terribly bored, and there is only so much he can do. Should he push the shard too quickly, the Light could consume it entirely before the Source is prepared, leaving a hollow void as useless as the Thirteenth - and Emet-Selch has no intention of repeating Igeyorhm’s mistakes. Thus the necessity of filling his time with activity unrelated to his plotting - and the draw of his weekly meetings with the Exarch. It has been some time since he sparred with someone near his equal in intellect, after all.

Of all places near a Warden, Rak’tika is less burdensome than others; beneath the boughs the shadows are deep enough to provide some measure of relief from the omnipresent Light and its burn. Thus Emet-Selch does not particularly mind teleporting to a location just outside the Night’s Blessed’s fort and asking after the Exarch once again from their sentries. What he does mind is being informed that the Exarch is late and has yet to arrive, and that they’re considering sending scouts out to search for him if he does not arrive within another few hours.

Emet-Selch sighs. Their scouts are near-guaranteed to be ineffective fools, and he is admittedly curious as to what could delay the Exarch, which means the solution, while distasteful, is an obvious one. “No need,” he informs the sentry, a slight bite to the words. “I will find him myself.”

Truly, how frustrating. And all because he desired a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation.

With the star as shattered as it is, his sight is without equal, and though the presence of the Light somewhat hinders him it takes very little effort all the same to find a shadow to hide in and look into the aether, with a range that far outstrips his usual vision. There’s a glaring brilliance in the sky that reflects off the currents in the ground and air, fragmenting his sight and making it difficult to pick out specifics, but after a moment of squinting against it he catches a hint of the Exarch’s familiar aether, far away and fluctuating with some kind of stress. It could simply be the knowledge that he is late for his meeting, Emet-Selch allows, but there is something…a greater concentration of Light around him. Sin eaters, perhaps? It would be unfortunate indeed were the great Crystal Exarch to be so waylaid.

…Emet-Selch has yet to have an opportunity to see the man in combat. His skills as a mage are whispered about in the Crystarium, but much of what he has accomplished can easily be attributed to his command over the Tower - which, Emet-Selch has to admit, does make him a mage of some high caliber. The Exarch is capable of directing the Tower to perform feats Emet-Selch had not expected from a Sundered soul, and his attempts at turning Allag’s voidgate technology into a summoning spell speak to his grasp on the theoretical. Combat magic, however, is an entirely different beast, and Emet-Selch is curious. And perhaps any observations he might make could unlock some of those secrets the Exarch so furiously guards.

Thus decided, he spirits himself away through the shadows, off in the Exarch’s direction. It takes four attempts for him to actually reach the man; when he finally does, he steps out of the rift into the scene of a small massacre. An overturned wagon lays sprawled across the major path through the Greatwood, crates of supplies and possessions scattered about, some torn open. Several bodies, viis all, have been flung about, deep wounds across multiple of them, marked by claws and swords, no life left in them whatsoever, and scorch marks litter the ground, patches of grass smoldering still. Smoke is heavy in the air, smoke and the spark of fading Light aether and the metallic tang of blood, a rather unsavory pall, and without any wind there is nothing to disperse it.

Emet-Selch arrives just in time to watch the Exarch, standing in the middle of the carnage, gesture with his staff and send a bolt of flame through the last remaining sin eater.

For all that he makes a heroic figure, robes bright and staff gleaming, his body language is anything but. His shoulders are tense and hunched, his fingers too-tight around his staff, his skin pale where it is visible, his legs trembling slightly. And curled against his side, held there by his flesh-and-blood arm, is a tiny viis child with wavy grey hair and small ears pressed flat against the sides of her head, her fists clinging to the Exarch’s robe, an expression on her face that is the kind of fear that has passed through the event horizon of utter terror and morphed into stillness again. Blood streaks her cheek and one arm - a gash in her forehead, another on her bicep. From her size she cannot be any older than three or four years.

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch murmurs, sweeping his eyes over the bodies - yes, that one, with the similarly-pale hair, bears enough resemblance it could be her mother. “So it was sin eaters that delayed you. I wonder, did you involve yourself before or after you knew the child yet lived?”

He takes a few steps out from behind the tree he’d teleported up against, carefully skirting the edges of the Light dappling the ground, bringing him within two or three yalms of the Exarch, though he has to pick his way around the detritus of this family’s existence as he does. The girl’s eyes snap to him as he does, but she doesn’t move except to lean her cheek against the Exarch’s shoulder. There is a rather worrying glassiness in her gaze, if he were to concern himself with such things.

The Exarch’s breaths are coming in short, shallow pants, he notices absently. Pain? “...before,” and the man’s voice is tight, raspy. Emet-Selch knows him well enough by now to know when it is in fact pain that burdens him, and this- despite his lack of visible injury, he must have put himself in harm’s way. “I would not chance passing by if someone yet lived and abandon them to such a fate.” He breathes out, shakily, and returns his staff to his back, brushing his crystal hand gently over the girl’s hair. “...you’re safe for now, little one.”

The child does not respond.

“I believe she may have a head injury,” Emet-Selch informs the Exarch, though he has no particular reason to do so. Why should he care if a single Sundered child lives or dies? And yet…it would be too easy to recall the terrified children on the streets of Amaurot, fleeing the beasts they could not contain. “You may wish to tend to it, should you desire her survival. Considering your boundless compassion for these poor creatures you consider mankind, I assume you do.”

He paces a few more steps away and crouches down to absently rifle through one of the crates - dried fruits and meats, a sack of nuts, a small store of root vegetables, nothing particularly interesting. Behind him he can hear the Exarch murmuring a quiet thank you before the aether ripples with the telltale shimmer of a healing spell; Emet-Selch does not watch, just moves on to investigate the rest of the supplies, half out of curiosity and half because it gives him something to do while he waits. Perhaps the Exarch will be more inclined to conversation once the child has been seen to and calmed.

Perhaps, Emet-Selch considers, he ought to offer the Exarch healing for whatever injuries he bears - but he has never been much of a healer, and there is a difference between providing some oblique aid to his enemy that they may continue their game and directly intervening in affairs that could hinder the Rejoining. The Exarch may be the most intriguing and capable enemy he has had the chance to face in quite some time, but he still stands solidly against the Ardor, and he has never entertained the delusion that the Exarch would set aside their enmity to join with him, no matter that he would make such an excellent addition to their cause. No matter that Emet-Selch has of late found himself wondering more and more what the Exarch would be like, were he Unsundered, soul as bright as it should be. As clever as he is now, Emet-Selch can only imagine what sort of mind he would have were the star whole - enough intelligence to rival Azem and their greatest researchers, he would think.

…it is a futile thought, he knows. But he does not intend to forget the soft rose color of the Exarch’s soul, and should he chance to see it again, when he and his brethren have succeeded- well.

For a few moments, the only sounds are Emet-Selch’s footsteps and quiet rummaging and the Exarch’s breathing, still too harsh and short. With little left to investigate, he eventually stands and stretches absently, turning back to the Exarch - as he watches the man finishes casting another healing spell and the last of the wounds across the girl’s skin close and fade. Not something one with no healing training whatsoever could accomplish, and Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, musing. His power comes from the Tower, of course, but the knowledge of how to use it - perhaps it was found in the archives. The Exarch does seem to have few hobbies beyond studying and assisting his people.

Before he can question the Exarch, however, there’s a rustling of brush, the sound of wings on the air, and four middling-sized eaters wander out onto the path, drawn straight towards the Exarch and his living aether - and perhaps that would mean little at all, but one of the large winged eaters, bearing sword and shield and the ability to force a transformation, Light pulsing through its white-marble body in waves, descends from the sky, sword held in front of it and gilt wings spread to their fullest extent. The Exarch spits a curse, drawing his staff once again, and sets his feet, and the little girl whimpers and closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch leans against the overturned wagon and watches, untouched by the eaters. Their Light is antithetical to his Darkness, indeed, the brush of it burns like hot oil, but so too is his Darkness more than enough to quench their Light, and they have the intelligence to know his aether would not sate their hunger. He is of no danger as long as he does not come face-to-face with a Lightwarden.

The Exarch does not have that same assurance, and the tension in the corners of his mouth, his pursed lips, speak to his own knowledge of such. But Emet-Selch wishes to observe, and he would truly be a fool were he to intervene now, when this will give him an excellent view of how his enemy handles being pressed and when actively fighting back against the Light, within the Light, would exhaust him far more than he is willing to extend himself for a Sundered soul who would oppose the Ardor.

The Exarch takes three steps back, dodging clawed swipes from two of the lesser eaters, and casts a spell - ice that freezes one of the eaters in place, something far less intensive than the fire he had been calling moments ago. The trembling in his muscles is more pronounced now, as is the sweat beading on his plaster-pale skin, and Emet-Selch takes a step of his own forward despite himself, unease stirring low in his gut. The Exarch is meant to be his opponent in the long game, not to get himself killed by sin eaters over a mere child unlikely to survive to adulthood before the shard is lost-

The greater eater swings its sword in a wide, sweeping motion, and the Exarch grits his teeth and raises his staff, summoning a shimmering barrier into existence around him, a spell clearly adapted from the Allagan defense technology he uses to defend the Crystarium. An impressive display of skill - and though the lesser eaters throw themselves at it, it continues to hold, even as the Exarch shifts and begins to mutter a teleportation incantation under his breath, gathering his aether to spirit himself and the child away. A wise decision, in the face of this threat, Emet-Selch thinks, though it leaves the eaters free to advance on the nearby village. The Exarch’s vaunted compassion, it seems, does not extend to risking his own life.

The greater eater floats back a couple of fulms, raises its sword again, and with little fanfare slices the blade through the air again - and this time, a bright bolt of Light sears forward off it, sharp enough Emet-Selch is momentarily dazed, his sight vaguely scorched by the intensity. The Exarch’s barrier distorts, twists, and collapses in on itself in a rush of aether, the distraction enough to break his teleportation spell before he can execute it, and though the lesser eaters hiss in something that approximates joy, they do not move. Instead they leave it to their seeming commander to lunge forward with a blinding rush, sword held at the ready.

The girl screams, terror so all-consuming Emet-Selch can nearly feel it. Something cracks-

A sound claws itself free from the Exarch’s throat that sounds nearly inhuman. Emet-Selch blinks, then blinks again, and - the Exarch has thrown his crystal arm, claimed by the Tower, between the eater’s sword and the girl he carries, and the tip of the blade is embedded in the sapphire crystal, leaving fissures spreading up the arm from the point of impact and a deep gouge in the flat of his arm just above his wrist. Emet-Selch sucks in a breath despite himself, because the Exarch may be tied to the Tower but that does not mean he cannot feel pain, and the force it would take to shatter the parts of him he has given over-

“Emet-Selch.” The Exarch’s voice is hoarse to the point of near-unrecognizability, taut with pain and desperation, stumbling along the edge of begging. He has never, ever spoken such in Emet-Selch’s presence. “Can you just- for just one moment, will you please pretend that I mean something to you?”

For- for some reason, Emet-Selch feels the words like an impact hard enough to steal the air from his lungs, like a constriction around his throat, like the knife of his loneliness he has lived with for so long has not only driven between his ribs but twisted. The eater draws its sword back once again, raising it for the kill - or to attempt to turn both man and child, more like. He thinks of- afternoons spent deep in debate over the minutiae of the Tower’s function and the technology the Crystarium survives on, Allag’s history and the actions of Emet-Selch’s own order. Of the lounge they typically take their tea in and how it has been Umbrally-aligned for decades, despite the extra drain that would put on the Tower’s resources in this climate. Of how eager the Exarch is to present Emet-Selch with new volumes of theater, whenever one of his people manages to find or pen one. Of the indisputable fact that this enmity between them, this game they play, has caught and held his attention in a way nothing has since his son died and he once again gave up on the Sundered entirely.

…he is here, in this Light-suffused forest, is he not?

Pretend that I mean something to you.

That is truly not so difficult, in the grand scheme of things. The Exarch yet has secrets Emet-Selch has not divined, after all, and it would be a shame to strike him from the game board before they are revealed.

In the breath between heartbeats, Emet-Selch steps through the rift and puts himself neatly between the eaters and the Exarch. A simple twist of his will brings up an unwavering shield of translucent violet - the greater eater’s sword bounces harmlessly off it, the lesser eaters’ claws are a barely-noticeable scratching, and he could maintain this indefinitely, as long as no great amount of Light was brought to bear against it or him, but considering the sound of the Exarch’s ragged breathing and the quiet, poorly-stifled noises of pain, he doubts the man has the focus to teleport at the moment, and- well. Perhaps he finds himself annoyed, and the loss of five eaters will hardly matter as long as the Wardens remain. To truly fight back will drain him, yes, but it is difficult to care.

He musters his aether against the heavy, suffocating Light, lifts his hand, and snaps his fingers.

It’s an easy visualization. Large, dagger-shaped blades of shadow leap forth from him and slam into the eaters, then burst in a rush of Dark aether that instantly vaporizes the lesser eaters and sends their commander crumpling to the ground, sword and shield both falling from its hands and fading into the aether. Emet-Selch takes a step forward, extends his hand, and summons a bolt of Darkness to send directly at its chest, and that last pulse of aether is enough to dissipate it as well - for which he is grateful, because the moment he drops his hand and lets go of the shield he can feel the drain, can feel the Light on the back of his neck, as hot as the desert sun, burning his bones. 

Heavens. The things he does for-

Emet-Selch shakes his head, rubs at his temples, and breathes through the discomfort. Brushes invisible dust from his palms. Turns back to the Exarch and crosses the space between them to take the man’s crystal arm in his hands, shifting his vision to that second sight to peer at the aether currents within. They’re pale and distorted, entirely broken wherever the cracks have spread, and he grimaces at the sight, absently running one finger carefully over the edge of the gouge where the blade impacted.

“This will be difficult to mend, Exarch,” he murmurs, low. “You have done a great deal of damage to your aether.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the child.”

The girl is crying, tiny little hiccups muffled by the Exarch’s robe, but she doesn’t fight back when he hands her over, and Emet-Selch takes her carefully in his arms and settles her against his hip, the motion familiar. Relieved thusly of his burden, the Exarch seems to- shrink, almost, resignation and exhaustion and pain weighing him down until he is but a fraction of the man Emet-Selch knows. “...if you decide our enmity ends here-” he starts, his voice rough with emotion and agony, “at the least take her to the Crystarium, so she can live what life she has left.”

For a moment, Emet-Selch ignores him entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs to the girl instead, drawing on old memories of the mortal children he’s raised - both those he loved and those he did not - of children from long-ago Amaurot which he had on occasion been made to entertain. He had not minded, in truth; they had been discussing having children of their own, once. He lifts his free hand to gently stroke through her hair and over her ears, swaying her back and forth and humming snatches of an ancient lullaby until she quiets, the sniffles fading into shaky breaths. Only then does he carefully cast the lightest of sleep spells over her small frame - she seems unharmed, between the Exarch’s healing and protection, but distress will only keep her compliant for so long, and better to deliver her into the hands of her people docile than clinging to an injured man - or worse, him.

He does not- care about one lone child. He does not. The Exarch merely asked him to pretend, and thus he shall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he finally says, directed at the Exarch, and heaves a sigh, turning to look at the other man again. “Come, then. There is little I can do for your physical injuries - I leave the frailties of your mortal flesh in the hands of your fellow mortals - but I believe I can do something to mend your arm, if only in part. But make no mistake; you will owe me for this.”

The Exarch laughs, pained and cracked, wincing and curling forward over his ribs as he does, the breath wheezing out of him. “...I shall have to break out my stash of emergency plays from Voeburt, then,” he manages after a moment, and Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows.

“You have plays from Voeburt?” he asks, torn between impressed and irritated that the man has never mentioned this before - and then he shakes himself. This is hardly the time. “Never mind that, I am not so easily distracted by theater as you believe me to be. A favor, Exarch, though I will allow you this: as I did not endanger mine own people in this intervention, neither will I ask you to risk yours. Now come with me before you collapse. I have no desire to be the target of your head chirurgeon’s ire when your heroic, self-sacrificial bent is certainly no fault of mine.”

“...then it must be before the endgame, I would think…” the Exarch rasps out, leaning heavily against his staff and taking a few shaking steps. “I look forward to seeing what you will demand of me. And to watching the chirurgeons yell at you shortly.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting, though he would dearly like to. Instead he shifts the girl in his arms to free one hand, reaches out, and wraps his hand around the Exarch’s upper arm - his flesh-and-blood one - and unceremoniously yanks all three of them through a rather rough teleport, which he would feel slightly bad about were he not annoyed. The moment they appear in the Crystarium’s infirmary, the Exarch is staggering sideways into his chest, and it is a sign of his exhaustion more than anything else that he simply stays there, trembling and wan, leaning heavily with his face tucked against Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

Emet-Selch lets him, and does not think about why.

The head chirurgeon, as it turns out, does not yell at him, though only because of the sleeping child in his arms. Instead she scolds both of them in a furious but low voice before guiding them to one of the few private rooms and immediately fussing over the Exarch; another one of the infirmary’s staff comes to relieve Emet-Selch of the child, whose name, according to the Exarch, is Lyna. Emet-Selch accompanies them to put her to bed in another room where they can examine her, and he suggests with an idleness he doesn’t quite feel that they leave her in the care of the Exarch, once he is fit for it. She is a terrified child, after all, and she will want the familiar. Beyond that, she is likely to consider the man who saved her life as safe, a courtesy he doubts she will be so willing to give strangers.

The chirurgeons seem surprised, but they do not disagree, and he is quite satisfied with that. The girl thus dealt with, he returns to find the Exarch with some faint color returned to his cheeks, enduring a lecture from his healer about what sorts of movements and magical exertions he’s allowed while his ribs and aether reserves recover. It is not a lecture Emet-Selch has been on the receiving side of in quite some time, and for that he is quite grateful. Eventually, however, the Exarch is free, and Emet-Selch convinces him to return straight to the Tower rather than checking in on Lyna mostly by not giving him a choice in the matter, a quite useful and effective strategy. The Exarch is too exhausted, it seems, to truly argue back.

It is not until they are ensconced in the Umbrally-aligned lounge - which finally eases the strain of holding his essence together under the Light’s endless onslaught, given the energy he’d expended - and the Exarch is seated on the couch that Emet-Selch sighs. “Well, very well then, let us get this supremely unpleasant business over with. I do not ask you to trust me, merely that you do not intervene; if this does not work as I intend I will be the one most suited to undoing it, and should you distract me in the moment of casting I cannot predict what might occur. It takes only a passing thought to disrupt this magic.”

“...might I know what it is you’re doing?” the Exarch asks as he drops down to sit next to him on the couch. Even with the cowl hiding most of his face, he is clearly exhausted beyond belief and still in no small amount of pain. His voice is thin and strained, wavering. 

Emet-Selch takes his crystal arm into his lap, running his fingers over its surface, carefully tracing the bumps and textured surface, bringing to mind the complex web of aether currents the Exarch has over many years bored into the crystal. He thinks of patterns and fractals and facets, the structure of crystals, the wholeness of the arm itself, and he draws ever-so-slightly on the Lifestream itself, unwilling to pour his own Dark-aspected aether into this. “Weaving the fabric of reality,” he murmurs, only half-paying attention to the words, eyes falling closed. Creation without a set concept is a risk, especially without an encyclopedic knowledge of that which one wishes to create, but beyond the cool weight of the crystal in his lap right now there are things Emet-Selch knows that will make up for the lack.

He knows the way the Exarch moves - the way he writes, the way he gestures, the way his fingers curl around a mug of tea or a pen or an Allagan relic. He knows the gentleness this arm is capable of, as evidenced by how tenderly he’d healed Lyna; he knows, too, the strength in it, as unyielding as the stone it is made of. Near seven decades he has watched this Exarch, has seen the transformation progress as the Tower takes its due for the magicks he wields, and beyond all academic knowledge he knows the essence of the man in front of him. They are but two sides of the same coin, after all, bound by duty to be in opposition and yet terribly alike, he and the Crystal Exarch.

The power of the Lifestream is a bright, raging thing, a river even he, with his rare gift of control over its eddies, only skims the surface of unless he has no other choice. He lets the pulse of life itself swirl around him, pool beneath his hands, and he holds the fullness of his understanding of this broken limb in his mind and snaps his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, exhaling slowly to let the energies of the Lifestream fade away, the Exarch’s arm is whole and unbroken once more, only a faint cluster of hairline cracks remaining where the worst of the breakage had been. For a moment he pays them no mind - he had not expected the magic to entirely mend the arm, after all, considering he was treading the line between working from a concept and working from belief - instead focusing to once again study the aether. The Exarch’s exhaustion means the flow of aether through his arm is sluggish at best, not ideal for confirming the recreation worked correctly, and- well. Emet-Selch has done this once before, has he not?

He pours a small fraction of his own aether into the man’s arm, watching as it bolsters the flow - there are a few minor hiccups but with some time those will, he hopes, smooth out - and the Exarch lets out a heavy sigh of relief and slumps sideways, tension leaving his body in a rush as he drops his head to rest against Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Foolish of him, Emet-Selch thinks, to let his guard down so around an enemy, whether they have been playing this game for decades or no. He sweeps one thumb absently back and forth across the now-smooth crystal, shifting slightly to let the Exarch’s warm weight settle more comfortably against his side, and shakes his head, reaching one hand up to carefully adjust the Exarch’s cowl before it can slide too far back from his face.

Perhaps it is the state he is in, pushing him to think so little of being vulnerable. It would be unsporting to take advantage of it.

For a few moments there is silence. Emet-Selch lets his aether settle and taper when the Exarch finally stirs again - which is good, he had begun to worry if the man was falling asleep - and sighs once more. He does not straighten, but he does extend his arm and twist it carefully back and forth, testing. Most of the motion is smooth, but his wrist hitches when he rotates it, and Emet-Selch frowns.

Ah, of course. The remaining cracks will need to be filled in if they are to be kept from causing problems. He looks more closely at them, admittedly curious - it is strange, as much as he had not expected the magic to fully succeed, for it to work as cleanly as it had only to leave such a small blemish behind - only for a cold weight to settle low in his stomach as he does.

Because he recognizes the pattern. The lines of it are thin and simplistic, barely visible against the veining, but there all the same - a constellation cut into crystal with such perfect precision it cannot be anything but a mark.

A constellation. His constellation, the sign of his seat.

Perhaps his mind had wandered during the creation after all.

He exhales heavily through his nose, swallows, and does not say a word, and the Exarch must be too tired to notice, because he simply rubs his flesh hand over the constellation and stays tilted into Emet-Selch’s side. “...thank you for this kindness, Emet-Selch,” he says very softly, his voice still somewhat raw but much of the pained tension from earlier missing.

“It was not a kindness,” Emet-Selch reminds him pointedly. They are enemies; it would not do for the Exarch to forget such, not when they yet have all the endgame to play, and he remains deeply curious how the Exarch intends to thwart his plans. “I will expect you to repay the favor when I ask for it, Exarch. You have ever kept your promises. ‘Twould be a shame indeed for that to change now.”

“I do not intend to let my debts go unpaid, or any kindnesses go unanswered, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch answers in a similarly deliberate tone. “Regardless of which they were meant as. But this was a kindness even if you did not intend it to be such - I would have been in pain for the rest of my life without your intervention.” This, Emet-Selch knows to be true - there would have been no other way of healing or regenerating the crystal without creation magicks, and thus the wound would simply have remained, and while it would not have killed the Exarch it would have always been a hindrance. “So- thank you.”

…if the Exarch wishes to think of it as a kindness, then Emet-Selch supposes there is little harm in allowing him to. Perhaps he can leverage it for some kind of knowledge or further concession later on. When playing such a tense game against such a clever and focused foe, with the eighth Rejoining as the stakes, he would be a fool to discard any potential advantage.

(Even if he is only doing what the Exarch asked of him. Pretend that I mean something to you. How could he act any other way, in the face of such a plea? It does not mean anything - not for them, not for his purpose here, not for his duty.

Perhaps, if he reminds himself enough times, he will not risk forgetting that truth.)

His people, his city, and his star hang in the balance, after all.

But for the moment, he can allow the Exarch to remain leaning against his side, a warmth that eases the ever-present ache of grief and loneliness in his chest, and perhaps the Exarch is not the only one who would like to pretend.

[akirakirxaa]

E2! E2! E2!

"After everything she's already done still you people would ask for mo-mph!"

"Sorry, don't mind him, please go on." Or, Hades thinks people should leave Akira alone and Akira has a problem with telling people no, especially people that sailed halfway across the world to ask for her help.

[autumnslance]

A new Tales from the Dawn, with the voted characters...and are we surprised? Hythlodaeus is our POV, as he avoid his "industrious secretary" to head to the Capitol, where he meets familiar(ish) faces of the Convocation in search of his friend.

Before the narrative moves to his perspective on a fateful moment during the Final Days....and then the Encore itself.

You can select Azem/WoL's (binary only) gender on this one, per usual.

My own immediate reactions under the cut:

Poor Byregot.

Definite confirmation both Mitron and Lohgrif were women in the ancient days.

COUSINS?! YOU WANT ME TO THINK LAHA AND IGGY WERE COUSINS?! ...Well anyway, her reincarnations aren't. *continues lowkey trash shipping.*

Twist that knife in with Elidibus why dontcha. Obviously takes place right after Pandaemonium from the convo, and it's the reason for Iggy & Laha's convo, apparently.

Hermes is just. Always having a neurotic breakdown of one kind or another, huh?

And Emet-Selch, and how well these two know one another, while keeping Azem a mystery.

The ending feels like another reference but it's 3am as I read this so haven't the time to delve. But they had to get some blatant things in and it was nice regardless.

Overall, not a bad way to wrap up the final story of these characters.

[feralkwe]

absence — for the single-word drive!

(I... cheated a little. More than a little. This prompt really fed into my current spiral. I knew instantly what I had to do with it, and promise it is very much about Kit even though it is not her PoV.)

The quiet beneath the Tempest sometimes stretched on so long that Emet-Selch forgot sound was an option. Used to filling the spans of silence with his own thoughts, it was some time before he noticed that the soft melody floating up to taunt him was not supplied by his memory.

He could not say for certain after all this time why he put that piano where he did. A mistaken, fleeting thought as he spun the magicks to bring Amaurot to a cruel mockery of its once life beneath the waves would have been enough. It seemed a trifling detail until, in one particular fit while chasing the hero of the Source and her companions, he recalled that Azem would occasionally plunk at the thing tunelessly as she teased out her thoughts on this or that. He very nearly destroyed it. She had no aptitude for it, and it had grated on him then. Now? He sighed.

The melody swelled into a full song, moving and confident in tempo, lingering over individual chords as the player stretched out the phrases. Emet-Selch moved magically from his usual perch above the phantom city to the library. It was not entirely curiosity--those who visited here could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare--more a need to confirm his suspicions with his own eyes.

Elidibus perched upon the low bench, taloned gloves forsaken beside him, mask set aside, his fingers skimming the keys. His back arched as he leaned into the motions of traveling the span of the instrument. From Emet-Selch's angle above, it was difficult to see, but the youngest of the Paragons' eyes appeared lidded. A peace long absent from his features dwelled where outrage more often than not existed. The youth of his face in the world prior to the Sundering had long since worn away, but here, in his unguarded respite, that innocence which time had stolen returned to touch him. He practically glowed, a softness that spoke of love the likes of which Emet-Selch could not recall him expressing. That it enveloped him so all but confirmed his suspicions. Elidibus swayed in a rhythm which hinted at the beating of his own heart, and not that of His whom they served. The careful, measured man who devoted the whole of himself to the truth of all things held in his heart a secret, possibly even from himself. Emet-Selch squinted, straining to see if it was merely a trick of the light or if there truly were tears lining the place where lashes touched cheek.

For a moment he was that young man, their younger brother of sorts, once again. Not a conduit of their god, not a driving force for rejoinings. Not an angry, lost, Unsundered soul missing his memories. Not the burden he and Lahabrea had devoted much energy to protecting, often from himself. Simply Elidibus. Colleague. Brother. Friend. So moved by something--someone--that he let himself privately exist in such a presence.

The problem of what to do about Elidibus had gone unanswered for some time following the great Sundering. While Emet-Selch and Lahabrea required time to fully comprehend the realities of their new situation, Elidibus threw himself immediately forward. His refusal to regain his memories placed upon them the burden of preventing him from being his own--and even their collective--undoing. Watching him align with their goals while having little true recollection of why proved exhausting. They had not yet known the full of the impact of Zodiark's fate upon his well-being. They had not even fully understood the impact of his connection prior to Venat's actions.

Love for their brother stretched as far as it could without snapping entirely. His tireless pursuit of justice was, plainly put, tiring. The hope that he would become winded with it dwindled over the first millennia. By then the fractures in their approaches to rejoining the shards had become evident. Separate paths they walked with the hope of arriving in the same destination. Always they believed, perhaps even hoped when that was still easily grasped, they would arrive together.

Now Lahabrea was gone. Elidibus wound himself more tightly in anger and grief he refused to acknowledge. Emet-Selch tried again and failed again to convince him to remember. To slow and breathe and rest, even for just a moment. Even if just to buy himself peace.

He listened, unwilling to disrupt this gentle moment. Had he known Elidibus played? He frowned, unable to recall. Perhaps that had been the impetus behind its accidental creation. A faded memory which seemed insignificant and dismissed as a fluke. He all but held his breath in the hopes he would not bring ruin to this rare thing that Elidibus denied himself. Distraction. Whatever form it took, whomever owned the face he saw in his fractured mind, they had captured him here, on this spot.

He lifted his head, barely a hint of motion, but enough that his eyes caught sight of Emet-Selch. The music abruptly ceased, the ghosts of the chords hanging in the air as his blue eyes shifted from wherever they'd been to the present. He dashed at the tears, a sneer parting his lips.

"She is in my head," he growled. "Why?"

Emet-Selch did not need to ask to which "she" he referred. The question of how formed in his throat, but he did not dare ask. Nor did he wonder aloud the one of when. He simply tilted his head and said, "Curious." The color of her soul told him her impact would reach far, but that hardly explained what was unraveling before him. "Perhaps you might retake your memories?" A futile suggestion, but one worth making.

Elidibus snarled between clenched teeth. "No." He cut a hand through the air and shoved his mask back in place. "Whatever she... however she... it is nothing. She is nothing. It does not matter. I will not..." Determined as he was to do so, he could not shake the pain which bore upon his diminutive frame. He snatched his gloves from the bench and started his retreat. "Whatever you plan, Emet-Selch, I suggest you do it sooner rather than later." He stopped and spared him a glance, all indicators of his feelings concealed beneath hood and mask, though his voice shook with it. "If you will not destroy her, I will."

[sexybritishllama]

1) i was actually staring at his character model for like 5 minutes before i clicked on him for this dialogue. felt called out

2) im crying at how much he has to look down at my wol

emet-selch pov:

[necromeowncy]

POV you are Emet-Selch.

Made this based on an ask prompt I received from this post for A4. Thank you for giving me the prompt @reenramewrilah !

[etheirys]

you're dead, nothing can hurt you ... which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true. shadowbringers era emetwol, from emet-selch's pov. listening in order recommended.