Work Text:
The Crystarium seems quiet with the absence of the Scions and the Warriors of Darkness. Emet-Selch could have followed them to Amh Araeng, in their hunt for its Lightwarden, but its proximity to the frozen Flood sets his teeth on edge and leaves him feeling as though a thousand thousand needles are stabbing through his skin - not only is it uncomfortable, but it requires much more focus than he prefers to keep himself together under such persistent onslaught. He wishes to observe these potential allies of his, yes, but not that badly - and it is difficult to feel as though he desperately needs to when Corrain and Lelesu both seem to be listening to him. Their interest in the past, in him, their similarities to the people he remembers…he cannot help but see them and feel a spark of hope. Hope that they will finally understand, that they will join hands with him, that they will remember, that all of this will not be for naught.
If they can make the choice the Exarch - Raha, as he has asked to be called - cannot, then perhaps a victory here will not ache quite so fiercely as he has begun to fear it might.
But he would rather not consider that for now. He is well-aware of the foolishness of his decision to give in to the softness, well-aware of the potential for pain, but he has not forgotten his duty and so none of it matters.
Emet-Selch sighs, shaking his head. He had woken up alone, earlier this morning, and Raha had not returned by the time he’d finished eating and had gotten bored waiting - and a brief inspection of the Tower had not turned up any sign of the man, nor had asking Lyna when he’d finally dragged himself out to the city proper to go look. It has been raining off and on for the past two days, but while the sky above is thick with clouds the weather seems to be turning, glimpses of blue sky off in the distance and a light breeze heavy with petrichor in the air. The Exedra is damp beneath his boots, rainwater creeping into the designs on its wide tiles and leaving puddles he has to carefully pick his way around - an act that has garnered him no few amused looks from the city’s citizens, which he mostly ignores or waves off. Though he could simply snap himself dry with a quick spell should he accidentally stumble into one, he would prefer to avoid the situation entirely, and he does not particularly care if they think he looks like a fool in so doing.
There had been, of course, no sign of Raha in the area around Musica Universalis, or in the aetheryte plaza. The Cabinet of Curiosity is a likely culprit - when the man isn’t in his study or the Tower’s archives, he can usually be found there, reading any book he can get his hands on, especially if it relates to magic. Dangling the promise of obscure magic over his head has gotten Raha to relent more than once, though rarely about anything truly important. It would be entertaining if he did not return the trick with those damned Voeburtite scripts he has squirreled away somewhere. One day he will find Raha’s hiding spot for them and then the man will have no hold over him whatsoever.
But in any case, he is close enough to Spagyrics now to check in with them before making his way into the city’s lower level - he ducks under the overhang in front of the door to it only for the gutter above his head to summarily deposit a small bucket’s worth of rainwater directly down his back. It’s cold and wet and he hisses out curses and tugs his long jacket closer around him, glaring daggers up at the ceiling. Perhaps he ought to have followed the Warriors of Darkness after all - in a desert, at least, all he would have to contend with is sand. Or better yet, under the water where his reconstructed Amaurot is, the only weather he must suffer is whatever he chooses to simulate. He will have strong words with Raha when he finds him, for subjecting him to the rain without so much as a ‘good morning’.
The head chirurgeon - a woman by the name of Chessamile, who scolds him if he does not use her name - greets him warmly when he slips through the doors, still muttering to himself about the weather. She is old enough to recall his hand in bringing Raha and the young Lyna back to the Crystarium some thirty years ago, and she has never allowed him to forget it, no matter how often he argues he did not do it out of the goodness of his own heart. These damned halfmen - incapable of understanding nuance.
“Ah, Emet-Selch,” she says cheerily. “If you’re looking for the Exarch, you just missed him - I sent him back to the Tower to rest. Poor man, rainy weeks like this one are terrible on him - though I doubt you need me to tell you that.” She laughs to herself and Emet-Selch rolls his eyes, refusing to otherwise acknowledge the comment.
“The Tower, then,” he says with a sigh - he would have been better off merely waiting after all, no matter the boredom. He should have simply used his sight to track Raha down beforehand; it may be a breach of etiquette, but it is not as if Raha would know, given how rare the skill is among the Sundered and how little they have spoken of Emet-Selch’s actual talents.
He says nothing else before turning and teleporting away, but Chessamile laughs again anyway, and as the rift swallows him he hears her say, “Always so dour when the Exarch isn’t around, isn’t he? Such a strange man.”
He scoffs to himself and resolves not to mention that to Raha, or to anyone else even slightly familiar with him. He is not dour; he merely prefers not to share most of himself with random halfmen, and given that that is the primary population of the Crystarium…well. Their lives are likely enough to end soon anyway.
Of course, he has his doubts that Raha is indeed resting as ordered, rain or no - but the Ocular and Umbilical are both empty when he checks them, and it is with a reluctant sigh (and no small amount of concern, though he does not particularly like to admit it; he has seen Raha work through truly extraordinary amounts of pain in the past, though he is far more crystal these days than he once was) that he makes his way to Raha’s private quarters.
It still feels…strange, he supposes, to not be barred from them. Not that he allowed himself to be forbid entry to most of the Tower over the past century - even if the Tower itself forced him out, he still made the attempt, as with its archives - but he respects Raha’s privacy, and there are certain things he will not do if he does not have to. It has only been a few short weeks since the change in their relationship - since he gave in to the pull between them, the century of never quite getting what they wanted from each other, since in a moment of weakness and aching loneliness he gave away his name and received Raha’s in turn, a decision they both know is foolish for where it may yet lead them (and which he cannot bring himself to regret; should he fail, should he fall, let there be one person left who remembers his name) - and there are…many decades of habit to work through, no matter how many mornings he wakes in Raha’s bed.
And yet the Tower does not hinder his entrance - not into the private wing Lyna was once raised in, nor into the rooms themselves, a sprawling suite with a living area and bedroom furnished to be comfortable to diplomats. Ancient Allag entertained few enough of those in the traditional sense, but appearances, after all, are important, and there were some few dignitaries of conquered nations whom the empire kept tabs on in their capital, often as hostages. It fits, of course, that Raha - who refused to be crowned king so long ago when the refugees at the Tower’s feet begged him to be - would not install himself in the more luxurious chambers further up the Tower, meant for Allag’s most important. Emet-Selch likely would have, if only because it is an amusing thought, and there is little reason to leave such comforts unused.
The lights in the bedroom are low, when he steps inside, but not low enough to obscure the figure he has been looking for. Raha is seated on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed as though he’d simply collapsed against it, his cowl only half-covering his face and his crystal arm tucked carefully into his chest, his eyes shut. Even his breathing is shallow, as though he does not want to disturb his own body, and Emet-Selch thinks back to Chessamile commenting on the rain and sighs.
“Had you waited for me to awaken - or merely woke me yourself - you would not have had to walk so far,” he points out, crossing the room to kneel down next to him. His own coat is still damp and uncomfortable from the walk, and he cannot imagine Raha has fared much better, especially if his pain has flared. With one hand, he reaches out to carefully tug the man’s cowl down the rest of the way. “Can you stand?”
“I hadn’t the heart to wake you,” Raha murmurs, still holding himself too-still. “...if I must stand, then so be it- but I…I would prefer not to move, at the moment.”
Emet-Selch is familiar with the pain that hides behind the Crystal Exarch’s hood, though in an oblique way. With his sight, he has been aware since the moment the crystal first began its slow, creeping necrosis of the mechanism by which Raha maintains his freedom of movement and his natural outward appearance; they have never spoken outright about it, for the most part, but as he has acted to relieve the burden by occasionally offering his own aether as fuel, he knows Raha knows he is aware of the painful side effects of such mobility. It is a constant drain on his reserves - part of why he weakens when away from the Tower - and a mortal body is not meant to be half-rock; it strains every part of him, as well as the junction of flesh and crystal being a painful one. Or so Emet-Selch has surmised, from watching him so closely these past decades.
He himself has never had the experience of being slowly consumed by crystal, but he has grown old in a frail mortal body many times, and the effects of a simple hot bath have often aided him in relieving such pains. At the very least, it ought to aid in relaxing the tension obvious in Raha’s shoulders, and perhaps he can lend some of his own aether as well (and he does not let himself think of the myriad times he cared for Azem so, when he was ill).
He hums an acknowledgement and slips one arm under Raha’s knees, the other behind his shoulders, and carefully stands, lifting the man with him - heavier than he ought to be by virtue of the crystal, and yet lighter, too, for the simple fact that he does not eat often, instead subsisting off the Tower’s aether. “Next time, you will find the heart,” he informs Raha pointedly, laying him down against the pillows. He gingerly leans back, ears drooping, some mix of shame and displeasure at the scold. “I will return in a moment.”
The suite has an attached bathroom with a wide tub, and Emet-Selch takes himself there, leaving the door open in the event Raha wishes to fuss at him. He could, of course, snap his fingers and fill the tub with hot water in the blink of an eye, but he does it manually instead, running the water until it feels pleasantly hot against the back of his hand, then plugging the tub to let it fill. Ah…hm. Raha prefers slightly cooler temperatures than he does, does he not? With a slight frown, he adjusts the water, pondering as he does so - he supposes if he overcorrects he can simply heat the water with aether.
Faintly, over the sound of the water filling the tub, he hears Raha - as predicted - fussing. “Ah, you needn’t go to such trouble, Hades…” he calls, strained, the words half a question, and Emet-Selch ignores him, stripping off his jacket and hanging it on a stand out in the main room. His shirt underneath is still irritatingly damp. Stars above.
Once he has unlaced his boots, he takes a moment to check the water level, then sighs and returns to Raha’s bedside. He looks nearly sulky, ears flat against the sides of his head and a slant to his mouth and his brow, though he has not moved from where he was left - an improvement on Azem’s tendencies, at least. Emet-Selch snorts, amused despite himself, and unceremoniously lifts Raha again, letting him curl into Emet-Selch’s chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” he chides, and brings them both back into the bathroom, ever-so-gently lowering Raha to stand on the cool blue floor.
Raha doesn’t protest, leaning into his chest as he neatly strips away the layers that make up the Exarch’s garb. “...thank you,” he says softly instead. “Though next time I should like for you to strip me when I am not in pain, I think. Yes?”
Emet-Selch huffs despite himself, running a hand over the smooth crystal of Raha’s right shoulder. The planes of it extend down his back and abdomen now, to the bottom of his ribcage and below, small bits of it stretching to his hip, and have spread across his upper chest to encompass some half of his left shoulder as well, curling up his neck and onto his cheek. The progression seems somewhat random, in how much and where the Tower takes its due from, which Emet-Selch would be intrigued to study if it did not obviously cause Raha so much pain. And of course there are few enough left with the Royal Eye to simply find another test subject to merge with the Tower and see its effects…pity. Raha relaxes into the touch, wincing at the same time, and Emet-Selch shakes his head slightly and sighs.
“We can discuss further circumstances in which you may or may not be stripped naked after you have rested,” he declares, and nudges Raha forward, supporting him with both hands as he steps into the bath and slowly, face creasing, sits down.
The comment drags a short laugh out of him, and Emet-Selch suppresses a smile as he steps back and makes quick work of the remainder of his own clothes, leaving them to rest where they fall. He shuts off the water, then rests a hand on Raha’s back, encouraging him to lean forward as Emet-Selch joins him in the tub, settling down behind him and nudging him to sit back in between Emet-Selch’s legs, half-laying back against his chest. It takes another moment to find a comfortable position for his hand that brings it into contact with the sputtering aether currents in Raha’s crystal limbs, but once he does it’s easy enough to let a thin trickle of his aether feed into them, alleviating some small pain and burden, or so he hopes.
Raha lets out a heavy sigh, turning his head so his cheek rests against Emet-Selch’s shoulder, his eyes falling half-closed. Beneath the surface of the water - slightly cooler than Emet-Selch would prefer it, but apparently well enough to his liking - his tail curls loosely around Emet-Selch’s left calf. The golden constellation on his arm, the mark of Emet-Selch’s own seat, gleams visibly in the soft light from the walls, and it makes the possessive warmth in his chest purr with pleasure to see it, even as distracting and terribly thought-out as such a mark is. And blatant, too; but here in this space where no one else will see them, it is a comfort.
Even should this all go terribly, as he fears it will even as that bright spark of hope fans flames ever-higher, Raha is marked for it - his enemy, his Tower-keeper, his beautiful enigma.
For some time, they simply sit in silence, broken only occasionally by the water moving when either one of them shifts, or a faint half-purr on an exhale. Despite the hardness of the crystal, Emet-Selch does not mind it; it has been a very long time since he shared this level of quiet intimacy with another, and it soothes a yawning, gnawing crack in his soul he had hardly been aware of for how used to it he was. He has become more and more painfully aware of that lack the longer he remains here, sharing a bed with a man he cares for, as the gathered shards of Azem’s and Seleukos’s souls pester him - and his resistance to those faces has quite faded over the millennia since he last saw them. Hythlodaeus would have said he never had any resistance to begin with, of course, but Emet-Selch thinks he has ever been somewhat of greater strength of will than his childhood friend believed him to be.
Eventually he lets out a sigh and reaches for the shampoo on the side of the tub, bringing the bottle closer. He has to cease the aetheric transfer to do so, and Raha makes a displeased noise but accepts it, allowing Emet-Selch to carefully maneuver him to soak his hair. A hastily-created cup aids in that without making Raha have to move too much. Raha is- stiff, face twisted with pain, but he relaxes as much as he can, and Emet-Selch bends down to press a kiss to the nape of his neck in reward - and then he straightens and sets about his task.
As he lathers the shampoo and scrubs it across Raha’s scalp and through the silken strands of his hair, Raha lets out a tired sigh. “...it feels rather precious,” he murmurs. “To be the only one of this time to see this side of Emet-Selch - to see Hades.”
Emet-Selch lets out a long breath, hands stilling for a moment before he continues, careful to keep the suds out of Raha’s ears. He does not often reveal his true nature to the mortals he resides alongside, and when he does it is often to either recruit them (as in the case of Amon) or to bring them further under his control (as he did with the Garlean royal family, and with his irritating grandson); it is rare to be around a quasi-mortal who knows him as it is and cares for him as such, much less one who understands the divide between professional and personal faces, between his title and his name. His duty may have near consumed him, these thirteen thousand years, but there are still shreds of the man beneath left - pieces that manifest in his loneliness, in the color of the flowers in his Amaurot beneath the sea, in the way it so undoes him to hear his name spoken aloud. He has not said such to Raha, but there are times he wonders if the man knows anyway. After all, if there is anyone yet left who might understand, it is the man who hides himself behind the title of Crystal Exarch and his advisory duties in front of all but his dearest enemy.
“...even in that time before time, I did not often allow such vulnerability,” Emet-Selch admits after a moment. “I have ever known the depths of my own self; I would not have it paraded about for all and sundry to see. I found, and still find, it distasteful at best.” He sighs, shaking his head, and scratches lightly along the base of one of Raha’s ears, though the motion draws out only a faint, sputtering purr. “But as I have oft found myself reminding your precious Scions, we Ascians are men, if not men of the Sundered’s ilk. We live, and love, just as mortals do.”
“They know,” Raha says, something deeply gentle in his voice as he leans his head into Emet-Selch’s hands. “They love too. They have just spent many years seeing other men kill for far less than love.”
“Hm.” Emet-Selch rinses his hands and fills the cup again, setting to the task of rinsing the lather and foam from Raha’s head. “As though they have not done the same - heroes the Warriors may be, but adventurers they began as, and adventurers are merely glorified bounty hunters.” He lets out another long exhale, slowly. “...they are, at least, willing to listen, which is more than I had expected.”
Once, some few weeks ago when Emet-Selch had only just returned to the Crystarium and had not yet given in, Raha had accused him of being distraught over the simple sight of Lelesu and Corrain - and despite his fervent denial had comforted him to the best of his abilities, promising that the two heroes would find understanding for him in their hearts, even if they did not agree. Now that much of the truth of Etheirys’s history - at least in brief - has been laid bare…he wonders if he ought to explain himself, to Raha alone, at the least. He does not want to think of the worse endings that might yet befall them all, but in that event- I shall etch your memory into the Tower’s heart. He has ever believed the rest of his family was more worthy of preservation than him; why else would he have labored in secret to create a stone for them, that he might restore them should he stumble upon them?
“Corrain began as a healer, and Lelesu as a defender,” Raha says, contemplative. “They have both been changed.” He pauses after that statement, letting out a little breath, ears tilting down. “...I did not know he was sixteen, when he first faced a primal.”
“Nor did I,” Emet-Selch says lowly, one hand tensing around the cup despite himself. Sixteen - he would have been a mere child when the Scions stumbled upon him and threw him against the Amal’jaa’s burning god. Emet-Selch has committed many an atrocity he does not regret, but at least his sons, even in Garlemald, were not sent to the battlefield until they were twenty.
He forces his hand to unclench and rinses the last of the soap away, sending a brief spell through the bathwater to filter the dirt and the suds from it and reheat it as he sets the cup aside. Raha tilts back against him, settling comfortably against his chest once more, and there’s a frown on his face as he peers up through wet hair at Emet-Selch. “...you did not just learn this, did you?”
Emet-Selch presses his lips together and looks away, though he returns his one hand to resume the steady aetheric transfer. “Did you expect me to keep close tabs on the Source’s heroes? After Solus zos Galvus’s death, I slept, as I much prefer to do, until a myriad of factors including Lahabrea’s untimely demise and Mitron’s and Loghrif’s failure drove Elidibus to reawaken me. Had I seen their souls prior to Hydaelyn getting Her claws in them I would have acted.”
Raha brushes his tail lightly against Emet-Selch’s calf, a silent apology, he thinks. “...less that I expected you to keep tabs, and more I thought you were aware how time passed in the Source as compared to this world. You do know Corrain is- well. I suppose he’s nearly twenty-one now, if his nameday is not already past.”
“Why did you expect me to know their ages?” Emet-Selch mutters, brushing Raha’s hair out of his face with his free hand. Despite the irritation prickling under his skin, he can appreciate that his…dear enemy seems to feel some slight bit better, enough at least to hold a conversation. His posture has begun to loosen, as well, letting him slump more fully into Emet-Selch.
“You watch them nearly as much as I do,” Raha points out, “and my Tower gives me a magic mirror with which to check their progress.”
“Many a fairy tale begins such a way,” Emet-Selch says offhandedly, in part as a deflection and in part because it is the truth. “I do wonder, what does that make you, dear Exarch? The princess trapped in her tower, or the wizard who has mastered his?”
Raha tilts his head back to meet Emet-Selch’s eyes, a fond smile spreading across his face. “Neither. I rather think I am the reclusive old scrooge of a witch whose only company is a rather overloud and overlarge cat.”
Emet-Selch frowns, offense replacing the warmth in his chest. “I am far more powerful than any bedtime story of a familiar,” he protests, and Raha’s smile widens. “Were you to turn the Tower against me I could break through its defenses should I wish to.”
“I pray I shall never have to test your strength in such an unpleasant way,” says Raha, light but strangely wistful, gaze still trained on Emet-Selch’s face. “You’d be in no fit state for tea afterwards, I’d imagine.”
“You and your obsession with teatime,” Emet-Selch mutters, with no small amount of exasperation, and leans down to kiss Raha’s forehead absently. “I could of course never reject the Exarch’s lovely hospitality, after he has taken such pains to make me feel welcome.” In his Tower…in his bed…
He does not wish to think of a true test of strength against each other, one in which Emet-Selch has no choice but to emerge the victor.
Raha softens visibly at the words, or perhaps at the kiss. “...I am glad that my hospitality is something you choose to accept,” he says, and there is something about the words that feels…Emet-Selch does not want to think about the weight in them.
He hums an acknowledgement instead and for a few moments merely looks off into the distance, stroking a thumb back and forth across Raha’s hipbone, considering. Ought he to talk about- Corrain and Lelesu, their past identities, the reason they had affected him so? Perhaps it would be…cathartic, in some way, to speak of it, even if only in the most oblique terms.
He lets out a sigh, resting his chin on top of Raha’s head. One ear flicks against his cheek, leaving a damp patch behind - a wordless question, he knows. “Do you recall when I first made myself known to the Scions, and our conversation after the fact?” he asks idly. “You accused me of emotional distress, then offered me several rather stirring poetic platitudes.”
Raha hums. “Aye, I do. And you were reluctant to tell me what was wrong.”
An argument against that easy statement lies on Emet-Selch’s lips - but he bites it back at the last moment, sliding deeper into the water and adjusting Raha’s position to be properly in his lap. The flow of aether he continues unabated; it does not tax him. “Are you familiar with the theories of reincarnation?” Theories, of course, because even Sharlayan’s vaunted scholars have done only a little study on the Lifestream and souls, and certainly not enough to codify any fact, no matter how true it may be.
“Reincarnation?” Raha seems- confused, mostly, at the apparent change in topic, shifting himself slightly until he settles once more, in what must be a more comfortable position. “Yes, in passing, why do you ask?”
“When a soul is returned to the star - to the aetherial sea - it is washed clean of corruption and memory alike, save those memories most tightly bound to it. A weak soul might break into pieces and reform as something entirely new; a strong one will survive the process whole and untarnished, and reincarnate at some future point, its past life now lost to the new person it has become, though those memories can be awakened through such things as specific experiences, or being exposed to them once more. This principle, Hydaelyn uses to awaken Her Chosen to what you know as the Echo - a fragment of an ability possessed by all prior to the Sundering. The memory of watching our star in its death throes was such a traumatic one that any reincarnated soul that has survived this far has it burned into their very essence, and the sight of a starshower or a burning sky will bring it, and the Echo, to the forefront. Only when this has been done can Hydaelyn communicate with mortals.”
Emet-Selch sighs absently, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. “She did this, of course, with Corrain and Lelesu. Now - another ability possessed by a rare few, when the world was yet whole, were the twin skills of aethersight and soulsight. Weak levels of both were not terribly uncommon, but any sort of strength or range in the ability was; I am gifted with both, and in my time my sight was second only to one man. This allows me to not only recognize one’s aether, corporeal or incorporeal, but to see the color of souls…to recognize them, even from afar, even at the slightest glimpse.”
Raha frowns, clearly trying to fit the disparate pieces he offers into one understandable whole. “...like to the Echo…do you perhaps recognize Corrain and Lelesu, then? Or rather, their souls?”
“Just so,” he says tiredly. The blue light of the Tower reminds him of the glittering crystal they decorated Amaurot with, that they stored their concepts within, and though it is a deeper, richer hue, he sees echoes of Azem’s soul in the palest fractals. “Azem…the man Corrain once was…was one of our number, and Seleukos - whose soul Lelesu bears - was his closest friend.” He laughs softly, shakes his head. “There are things, it seems, that remain unchanged no matter how much the Lifestream cleanses.”
“Corrain was one of you but Lelesu wasn’t?” Raha asks, confusion clear in the words, and he presses his lips together, grimacing. “Were they not both from your time? Or do I misunderstand your meaning?”
Emet-Selch sighs. “The latter, though I was unclear. You know that Emet-Selch is a title, rather than a name, though one that has near become my name, yes? Our ruling government was known as the Convocation of Fourteen; Emet-Selch is the Third Seat, with responsibility over the Lifestream and all matters of death. We…ruling Ascians, the council with whom you are so familiar, are what remains of that Convocation, though there are only thirteen of us now, and only three - myself, Lahabrea, and Elidibus - survived Unsundered. Azem was the erstwhile Fourteenth Seat, holder of that office during our final days.” Ha, what a wordplay; it is a shame, he thinks idly, that Raha won’t notice it.
The man in question nods, though the motion provokes a little indrawn breath of pain; Emet-Selch brings his free hand up to absently rub at the few bits of his neck that remain flesh, to ease the ache. “Ah, I see. A colleague, then - but if you have raised others to the Sundered seats…is it because Hydaelyn found him first, then?”
“Had I found him prior to Hydaelyn…” Emet-Selch starts, then trails off, shaking his head. “There is little I would not have done. But - no. Azem was not part of Zodiark’s summoning, and defected in the aftermath; the Convocation’s official stance was to condemn him and act as though he had not existed. He had no named successor, nor any intent of stepping down, and remained bound to the magic - we could not have filled the vacancy had we wished to. I…believed he would return, up until the Sundering itself split the star - his compassion, his care for our people and our star, his dedication to his duty were all such that I could hardly not have faith in him.”
He can hear the strange note to his voice the same way Raha must be able to - that twist of pain and nostalgia and yearning that burrows into his chest in time with his heartbeat, a mess of emotion he has never been able to stifle when it comes to thoughts of the past. Azem should have come back. He had begged, in the end, when Hythlodaeus made his final choice - they must have been dead by then, both of them, lost before he ever sent the message crystal, lost because of their own foolish determination, lost because Azem could not simply listen to him-
But he knows, he knows, that Azem would have come back. And he is so, so very close now to convincing Corrain to make that decision, the one Azem could not - if only he, and Lelesu, would remember Emet-Selch, would understand in truth why they should care. The Light may yet push them to, he hopes. If they can just be strong enough to contain it…
There is a chance. A chance. He must not squander it.
Raha shifts in his lap, turning enough to cup Emet-Selch’s jaw with his flesh hand, thumb skimming gently across his cheek. “...he was dear to you, then. Azem. Not a mere colleague, but a genuine friend or more, for you to have had such faith.” A pause, and then he adds, “I am sorry. For your loss, and my summoning those who were once dear to you. ‘Tis not a way I would have ever wished to hurt you.”
Emet-Selch lets out a long breath, tilting his face into Raha’s hand. “You would have done it even had you known,” he points out after a moment, more steadily - it is…more difficult than he had expected, to speak such of the past, even in this company. “Your duty demands it. I merely offer you this as…context to why I seek an alliance with them, when I have not done so for Her previous champions.”
“Aye, I would have,” Raha agrees, a softness in his voice at odds with the words themselves. “They were my best chance. And yet I would regret it, moreso than I do now.” He takes a breath in, lets it out slowly. “...and it does explain some things. The pain in your expression when you see them, for one.”
Emet-Selch has been an exemplary actor for a very long time. He is more than used to controlling his facial expressions, to putting on whatever act is necessary, or most amusing; he has even been wearing one in front of the Scions themselves, though of late that has begun to fade as Corrain and Lelesu soften. But it has been some time since he wore much of a mask at all before this man, and he has to wonder if that familiarity is what allows Raha to discern the truth so easily, even when he wishes to conceal it.
He knows it is only Raha who knows. The others would have commented on it, had they recognized it, especially Thancred, who he knows would gloat to have such an obvious weakness to prod.
He hums noncommittally instead of answering, merely adjusting himself again to let Raha lean more comfortably against him. The heat of the water is comfortable, loosening his muscles and easing him into the kind of relaxation he only feels in the brief moments between when he awakens and when awareness truly returns, and the soft, stuttering purrs that vibrate against his chest as Raha settles again leave him feeling…soothed, almost, despite the gaping, festering wound their conversation had skirted the edges of. He would not mind more days like this, he thinks - days that bring to mind the warmth of his youth, when the world was whole and wide and they believed they had all the time they could ever want.
Raha would love that world. Perhaps…
Some time later, Raha lets out a heavy sigh, tilting to rest his forehead against Emet-Selch’s chin. “I would quite like to wash your hair for you, but I fear my right arm shall refuse to permit me such tenderness,” he says, more than a few traces of annoyance in the words. “Forgive it for its obstinacy, if you would?”
Azem would have wanted the same, and would have pushed to attempt it despite whatever pain and exhaustion he felt. The comparison…is less painful than it would once have been, with the low-burning fires of hope for the future he cannot seem to snuff out.
“Another time,” he murmurs in response, pressing a kiss to the top of Raha’s head, and does not think about how that sounds near to a promise.
Eventually, he bundles them both out of the bath and dries them both off, finding comfortable robes for them both to wear, and carries Raha back to bed, tucking him beneath the blankets and propping him up with pillows. Eventually, he wanders off to prepare an easy meal and bring it back, scolding Raha until he actually eats - no matter that the Tower sustains, he will waste away. Eventually, he brings out a fantasy novel he acquired last time he was in Eulmore and settles in at Raha’s side to read to him, the way he once had to a family lost to time (but not lost forever - he will not let them be).
It is a terribly foolish thing, to let himself settle, to let himself want, to let the pull of his duty fade, somewhat, in the face of what he just might be able to convince these three people of. He cannot help but make it anyway.
As he told Raha earlier, after all - he is but a man, in the end.