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It has been some time since his last trip to the Source. Emet-Selch would return more often, but he has a job to do now that Mitron has gone and gotten himself corrupted into a sin eater, and the First’s balance is delicate. Maintaining it enough to provoke the Rejoining at a moment’s notice while not letting it fall to the Flood is tricky, even if in practice most of his time is spent waiting or pestering the Exarch. Not to mention that if he dares wander off, Elidibus will have his head - the Emissary has yet to forgive him for sleeping through Lahabrea’s death. But the situation in the Source must be regularly assessed, he has his grandson to puppet, and Elidibus to remain in tenuous contact with, and thus he travels.
That the Black Rose weapon has been unearthed and revamped is an excellent choice, he must admit - and it means he needs to begin further encouraging the First towards stasis and complacency, letting the balance fall. It will only be a matter of time until the Eorzean Alliance’s campaign pushes Garlemald to a point where Varis will have no choice but to release the gas, and then…well. The Ardor will continue and Emet-Selch will leave this long era of his own quiet stasis behind, with no regrets whatsoever. He will ensure there are no regrets.
He cannot afford any more of them, if he is to survive this.
But being gone from the First is irritating for its own reasons, mostly because he simply has no way of knowing how much time has passed there. As of late, its time stream has been much faster than the Source’s, so in the few days he has been here much longer will inevitably have passed, but there is not enough consistency to truly guess, and he has left much undone. Plans he needs to begin to implement, for one, and for two…
This really should have been his second priority, he muses to himself as he wanders through Syrcus Tower’s upper halls, humming idly to himself - a song he’d overheard on the Garlean radio while in the palace, popular with the younger crowd, apparently. His comfortable enmity with the Exarch is meant to be a distraction as much as it is a regular interrogation - though he has spent much less time interrogating the man as of late. The secrets he holds are enticing, but Emet-Selch has plenty of time to draw them out, and all the patience of an immortal…and their teatime sessions are pleasant. He has, too, recently enjoyed the presence of the Exarch’s adopted grandchild, though he has no particular reason to be soft on her, pale shade that she is. She is merely…an engaging diversion.
(He will not care about a Sundered child again.)
But all that aside, with the Rejoining more present than ever, the Crystarium is not where he ought to be directing his attention - he will not accomplish his goals here, after all. And yet when he teleported back across the rift, there is only the one place he could imagine himself returning to, and now here he is, polished blue crystal clicking beneath his boots. Perhaps he is a little bit of a fool then…but he can well enough turn this to his own ends. Who better to ask what has happened in the realm since they last spoke than to ask the Exarch, leader of one of the only surviving cities?
Thus decided, Emet-Selch makes his way to the lounge the Exarch favors. It will matter little if the man is actually there or not - he is, after all, capable of sensing intrusions in his Tower, and will almost certainly come to find Emet-Selch rather than leave him to wander alone. A shame, of course, for Emet-Selch’s attempts at accessing the Tower’s archives, but a useful habit the rest of the time. Of course, were he to use his own aethersight to evade the Exarch he could draw such a game out far longer, but that would be impolite, and is so far unnecessary. One day, perhaps they will test each other in truth, but for now they play out the middle stages of their game, one slow move at a time.
…the lounge is not empty.
The Exarch sits on one of the couches, his cowl drawn up over his head as usual, a tea set on the low table in front of him, though the second cup is empty - an unusual occurrence. He’s sipping from his own cup, a familiar, worn book of theater in his hands; the book is a collection of fragmented poems recovered from Voeburt that Emet-Selch had annotated some time ago and brought back to the Tower to discuss. Interesting that that should be his choice of reading material, when they have debated it cover-to-cover before.
“Well,” he muses, casting his gaze back over the tea, “I suppose this answers what day it is, unless you have taken to entertaining other guests in your Tower.” It would be the Exarch’s right to do so, of course, even if it meant letting others into this private room he has kept Astrally-aligned for quite some time. Emet-Selch has no particular opinion on it either way.
The Exarch whips around so quickly the book falls from his hands entirely, landing half-open on the floor, which makes Emet-Selch grimace. Even with the hood hiding his gaze, it’s obvious that he’s staring - a reaction that bodes ill. The Exarch is famously difficult to unsettle, these days, though he had less control of himself when they first met. “...I suppose it would be too much to expect, that a regular guest inform a regular host when they intend to take a months-long sabbatical,” he finally says, and it is- strange how hurt he sounds, almost. As though Emet-Selch has personally dealt him a blow. “Or is it part of your villainy to allow me to waste perfectly good tea on a man with no intention of even notifying his host of an absence?” A pause, and then he adds, “Where have you been?”
Emet-Selch blinks, then frowns, moving from the door to rescue the poor abandoned book and straighten its pages, setting it neatly down on the low table. He- hm. Ought he to sit? The Exarch certainly seems…displeased with him today. “I had business in the Source,” he says, frowning further, brow furrowing. Months-long sabbatical. “The time differential is rather unpredictable, and I can assure you I have no idea how long it has been on this side of the rift - from my perspective, only five days have passed. Perhaps the Crystal Exarch may recount to me exactly what has occurred since my last visit, that I might know what I have done to earn his ire rather than his respect?”
The question is- only a touch sarcastic, in truth. He cannot simply inform his enemy every time he acts…and he had only been gone a few days, from his point of view. Perhaps he had expected to miss a single week of tea, but in truth he had given little thought to how it might affect the Exarch, beyond a passing irritation that he had quickly smothered.
“...the time differential,” the Exarch says disbelievingly. “As if such things are commonplace for any other…but as you wish - I have no way of proving nor disproving this.” He sighs, shaking his head, and Emet-Selch swallows down the inexplicable sting the comment leaves him with, crossing his arms over his chest. “In truth, not much has happened. The little lord Vauthry is now a year old, and Eulmore has become very strange of late - we have recalled our diplomat.” He lets out a long breath, lowering his head. “…and…Lyna cried quite a bit, that you were not around. She feared…she feared a sin eater had eaten you.”
Relations between the Crystarium and Eulmore degrading will be an excellent sign indeed, Emet-Selch forces himself to think. His plans are proceeding apace, then - good, considering Black Rose. “I suppose I will have to reassure her ere I depart again,” he says - and then, unable to hold back the…displeasure altogether, he adds, “which I suspect will be sooner rather than later if you cannot keep yourself from insulting me. Perhaps I should not have made this my first destination upon returning to the First, if such is to be my reception.”
The Exarch stiffens. “If you think it insulting that I choose to be…to be slighted that you disappear for months with no warning, then I am honestly unsure of what to say to you, Emet-Selch.” He sighs again, dropping his gaze to the empty cup, and some part of Emet-Selch wants to revert it to its constituent aether so the man will look at him instead. Ridiculous. “...this new regime of Eulmore’s shall not be receiving the same opportunity for interrogations over tea - they shall receive only cold crystal. But- please. If you mean to leave, do go see Lyna. She has missed you dearly.”
“I think it insulting that you would insinuate I am lying to you,” Emet-Selch snaps back, ignoring the rest of the Exarch’s statement - sharper than he ought to, he knows, but so be it. “You know I abhor deception and prefer not to use it. The rules of our game have long been established. I am not some sadistic fiend toying with you by pretending, and yes, I think it deeply offensive that your first instinct is to declare such rather than to admit that perhaps the Ascian you have known for nigh on seventy years knows more about dimensional travel than you do.” He- should not let this upset him. The Exarch is merely another Sundered enemy, and if he chooses to refuse to accept explanations of how the wider world works - that is only to Emet-Selch’s benefit. This is a petty, personal argument that has no benefit; he can, if necessary, return at a later date to further inspect the Exarch’s secrets. After all, he is in part behind the new regime at Eulmore…and cold crystal seems fitting enough for the next stage of their game, no?
“...enjoy your reading,” he says, voice clipped, as much of the excess emotion stripped from it as possible, and turns away towards the door he only just entered through. “I have a great deal of work to do, and this is clearly a distraction I cannot afford. Good day, Exarch.”
As he reaches the door, the Exarch says, “...an inability to believe the near-fantastical does not an accusation make, Emet-Selch. How many other denizens of this broken world would simply believe you with no proof?” A moment of silence, in which Emet-Selch continues forward. “...which, in absentia of anything one way or the other, is what I will do.”
Emet-Selch…pauses, in the doorway, one hand lingering on the crystal frame. It is not an apology - and in truth he has a difficult time telling how much of this is falsehood and how much isn’t; the Exarch is clearly eight times Rejoined, with Allagan blood, and by his own words plucked the Tower from some unknown time in the Source, though the likely truth is that he came across with it. None of that necessitates understanding the time-relation of the shards, a fluctuation that has only gotten more intense as the Source is further Rejoined, meaning this could be an entirely genuine response. It might also be entirely a fabrication. Either way he…does not appreciate it, even if the Exarch is agreeing to believe him. He could simply have done so from the beginning, in which case Emet-Selch could have apologized for his apparently-lengthy absence.
…he does not care, truly. But-
“Please,” the Exarch says, much more softly. “At the least help me finish this pot. I…I made it far too sweet for my taste.”
Emet-Selch lets out a long breath. The Exarch does not take his tea sweetened, and never has, a difference between them that has been the subject of much cheerful debate over the years. What would possess him to deliberately ruin his tea? “...very well,” he agrees after a moment. “I suppose I have the time for a single pot.”
It is not an apology, but it is an olive branch, and Emet-Selch still respects the man enough to take it. Still, the room is eerily silent as he returns to sit down across from the Exarch, instead of next to him as he has in the past, and fills his own cup. This is hardly the first time they have argued, of course, but their typical debates are on Ascian morality and their own agendas, not…this. It reminds him too much of- of a past he does not want to think of, right now. Instead he sighs and carefully sips his tea - and then blinks at the amber liquid.
The Exarch has, for some reason, fixed the entire pot the way he prefers it, just on the edge of over-sweet.
“...is there a particular reason you’ve fixed the entire pot so?” he asks after a moment, if only to break the silence. The Exarch is still not truly looking at him, after all, head tilted down to hide most of his face, and still visibly glancing between the book and his own mug. This is- pointless. He should have simply left and continued on with his work, unbothered.
Against his will, his gaze falls on the constellation writ in gold in the man’s crystal arm, that gleaming, utterly blatant sign of his…his respect, his foolishness, whatever one wants to call it. He would not have remained unbothered long.
“...I did not want to be unprepared,” the Exarch murmurs. “...if…if you…” He falls quiet for a moment, flesh fingers fidgeting absently with his mug, and then sighs and visibly straightens, a bit of that steady mask he wears with his people falling over his body. Emet-Selch- dislikes it. That mask had not mattered around him, once, even though he had believed that a foolish choice when they yet played their game. “...I would be a poor host, to be without your favorite tea preparation well at hand.”
“You seem rather unclear on if you were waiting for my presence or not,” he observes, taking another sip - and then sighs as he watches the Exarch morosely swirl the tea around his mug. “Fix yourself another pot, Exarch, to your own preferences. These silent complaints suit you ill.”
“I shall not,” the Exarch says, shaking his head. “There has been…something soothing about drinking one’s tea sweet.” He lets out a long breath, clasping both his hands around his cup. “...and have I ever not waited for you? Aside from when injury prevents, that is?” A swallow, and then there is- something almost like a smile, perhaps, if not for the faint tremble in his lip, when he adds, “I am glad, at least, that the time only passed for me, and that you have not gone overlong without a proper cup of Crystarium black tea.”
Stars above, the man just has to- Emet-Selch lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against his chair. “We are not exactly in the habit of informing each other when we act to advance our agendas,” he says, “and I had no way of knowing how the time would pass. It was not my intention to upset you.”
“...aye,” the Exarch says, and then- smiles more truly this time, some of his usual cheer returning to the expression, even if his voice still shakes slightly. “Now that there is an explanation- ah, it is not upset now. You are here, this saccharine tea has someone to properly appreciate it, and I can- tell Lyna not to worry for her most favorite of not-uncles. Forgive me for acting out of sorts - it is quite unbecoming.”
“If you wish for me to disagree with you, you will be quite disappointed,” Emet-Selch drawls, taking a longer drink of his tea. “I will, of course, remain long enough to reassure Lyna, though I admit to no small amount of disturbance at her concept of my becoming a sin eater. From experience I can assure you you would notice, and it would be horrifying.”
“I would not ask forgiveness with the expectation of a disagreement, least of all from you,” the Exarch says in return, and then - he stops, as if the statement is only just registering to him. “...what do you mean, from experience?”
“For that information you must bargain,” Emet-Selch replies, humming to himself. Not out of any malicious sentiment, of course, but the knowledge of what began the Flood may yet aid the man unduly and if he is to give it out…well. He would like to gain something out of the process.
The Exarch tips his head to one side, considering. “I see. Well- I assume you being an Ascian would affect becoming a sin eater…hm. The stakes of such a bargain seem…hm. Rather higher than usual.”
“Is that so? I suppose you will have to do without the information then - it is relevant to you, but only tangentially, and will not aid you in your little summoning project.” The tea is surprisingly good today - perhaps a new blend? He will have to ask later.
“Out of the question, of course.” There is no hesitation in the Exarch’s answer, and Emet-Selch smiles into his cup at that, faint but present. “I shall wrangle the information out of you, but I do believe I shall need some time to determine what kind of information you seek in return.”
Emet-Selch considers that for a moment. “You know what I want,” he says, tapping his finger against the side of his cup. He has been attempting to make that negotiation for quite a long time, and has never succeeded. “What will you offer me?”
“Precisely the question I must ask myself,” the Exarch says, perfectly seriously. “I trust you will not accept it for less than it is genuinely worth - and yet I cannot afford to simply allow you into the archives as you so desperately desire. That would be remarkably forward of me, I think.” He lets out a sigh, shaking his head slightly, lips curving into a frown and briefly catching Emet-Selch’s attention. “I dare not bid too high and fall behind a pace - and yet you shall simply be rightfully offended if I bid too low, so to speak. No?”
A difficult conundrum indeed, though it is as always- heartening how seriously the Exarch takes their spars. Emet-Selch taps his lips and sips on his tea. “How did you summon the Tower across the rift?” he asks. “What use are you intending for your summoning spell? How did you cross the rift? What are your plans now that you are withdrawing your diplomat from Eulmore? How, precisely, do you control the Tower? Any one of these answers would do, I should think.”
The Exarch smiles slightly. “Now now,” he says, tsking. “My summoning spell is not complete yet, you will have that answer in due time. As for how the Tower came across the rift…to be quite honest with you, I have only a fragmented idea of it. As for how I control the Tower - I think you will wish for a much more technical of an explanation than I can succinctly give. But as for how we plan to deal with Eulmore…that I believe I can share, though it is certain to shape your own plans, I presume. This recent shift makes me wonder if you did not stir them to such odd action.”
Emet-Selch lets a small, pleased smile slip onto his face, leaning forward to refill his cup. “I have done nothing but offer my services. What the mayor chooses to do with them, of course, and why he wanted them in the first place, are entirely his own decisions, and have little to do with my actions. I will not deny that the information you give me will inform my future schemes, but what I am about to tell you relates to the Flood itself, as well as the formation of the Empty…which I am certain you can agree is worth the cost. No?”
The Exarch sucks in a sharp breath, tensing in what looks like anticipation. “...well now, I may even just throw in another Voeburt play from my collection for nothing,” he says, and Emet-Selch snorts, swallowing down the smugness that wants to sprawl across his face. He will consider this a successful interrogation, then - and perhaps he can forgive the man for his earlier harsh comments.
“I should certainly hope so,” he drawls, then sighs, sobering. “Hm…where to start. Ah, yes. I was not, in actuality, directly in charge of facilitating the Rejoining here in the First; a pair of my Sundered fellows, Loghrif and Mitron, were. They spent their time manipulating events to keep the Light at bay, but on the edge of a knife, that we might call it forth whenever the Source was prepared…of course, Hydaelyn called to the group of adventurers you know as this shard’s last Warriors of Light, around the time I gave the order for the balance to be tipped. The Warriors of Light were guided by one of our allies to grow stronger, and eventually drawn into a confrontation with Mitron and Loghrif - and won, which I admit was unexpected. Loghrif’s soul was returned to the Lifestream, and as Mitron fell, Light rose and corrupted his form. With brief control over his essence, the Flood began at that hero’s behest…what was his name, Ardbert? I only spoke briefly with him.” Emet-Selch shakes his head absently. “In any case, much as the Lightwardens have banished night from your skies, the Empty is yet haunted by the original sin eater whose strength began the Flood. I could, of course, free his soul from that pale prison, but I have no reason to. We can simply uplift another shard.”
The Exarch frowns, deep in thought. “...so the soul remains intact, even within the corruption of Light?” Before Emet-Selch can answer him, he continues, “...but to lose one of your own - a Sundered Ascian no less, rather than you yourself…I find myself again glad you are in no danger of turning.”
“The soul rarely remains intact once the corruption is complete,” Emet-Selch corrects. “Though were I to delve into the technical aspect of it, that would give you another edge…and thus must be another bargain. As to the rest…were I to become a sin eater, the First would no longer exist. It would simply be a void of Light, in direct opposition to the Thirteenth, populated only by sin eaters. Imagine, if you would, the strength of all the Lightwardens combined, and then half again. There would be no salvaging the balance then, for either of our agendas.”
“To include the Lightwarden that became of your lost comrade?”
“No, as you have no method of judging its strength.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I tailor my explanations to be understandable to your lack of experience, Exarch, as you well know.”
Mildly, with an entirely neutral expression, the Exarch says, “I believe you are sitting in my method of judging its strength. The Flood exerts pressure, you know, even when commanded to halt.”
With a sigh, Emet-Selch inclines his head in acknowledgement. It is- truly impressive the ways the Exarch utilizes the Tower, as loath as he is to admit it. “Fair enough,” he allows. “Ah, but you owe me your plans for Eulmore…and a new script. I have not forgotten.”
“I should think you had taken ill were you to forget,” the Exarch sighs. “Very well.”
He settles in to elaborating on his plans for further relations with Eulmore without further delay - mostly a mixture of observation and planting spies within the citizenry, and Emet-Selch notes to himself to familiarize himself with more of the souls in the Crystarium, that he might recognize such spies. He will not report them to the mayor, of course, but it will be useful to know what information is being repeated, and if his visits will reach the Exarch’s ears. He who controls the flow of information controls the world, after all, and there is a great deal of controlling to do if the Rejoining is to be brought to its conclusion.
Eventually, of course, the conversation on Eulmore runs dry, as does the pot of tea, and the Exarch sighs, leaning back against the couch he’s seated on. “This has been a most enjoyable interrogation,” he says, “but- I fear I will be kicked in the shins again if I withhold you from Lyna overlong. Shall we take her a plate of cookies so she does not bruise you as well?”
He…had not intended to stay long, nor to put off his agenda to see a child he only distantly cares for, but the Exarch’s face is bright and hopeful, and considering that it has apparently been months for them…what harm could there be in indulging? He has already learned plenty to justify taking the extra time. “Fine, fine,” he sighs, standing neatly and offering the Exarch a hand up. “I suppose I can spare the time.”
Lyna is apparently in the newly-built Cabinet of Curiosity, studying a child-friendly version of recent history - though how accurate it is, Emet-Selch does not know. There are few enough survivors from lands outside Norvrandt, and few enough who remember Voeburt and Nabaath Araeng before their fall, and none, as far as he is aware, who know the truth behind the story of those oft-cursed Warriors of Light - save of course the Exarch, who now has a slightly better knowledge than most. Ah, the Sundered and their insufferably short views; why would events of some eighty years ago matter to them? Of course the past has little relevance on the present, save where they continue to suffer its consequences.
Fools, all of them. Were he of a mind to, perhaps he could give them a more accurate historical recounting…but he has no interest in lecturing anyone but the Exarch, who at least has the intelligence to respond appropriately and draw connections between his words. In any case, however, the Crystarium’s library apparently exists in part as a form of conservation, an attempt to piece back together the literary knowledge this shard had held prior to its near-destruction, both nonfiction and fiction alike. He can find it in him to approve of that, even if it will be ultimately pointless when the Rejoining sweeps through the shard and returns their aether to the Source. And there is a not-small chance he might find any surviving works of art from the lost civilizations there, and his distaste of the Sundered does not extend to their creations. He has to have some way of whiling away the long hours of this endless life of his, after all.
Either way, he has agreed to visit this so-called history class to see Lyna, and so his opinions - approval or disapproval or both - are less relevant than they would usually be. He and the Exarch have argued enough for today, and he has no wish to disturb the tentative equilibrium they’d found in their customary interrogations of each other. For purely selfish reasons - he would be terribly bored without the Exarch to entertain him, even now that the plan begins to move forward in earnest, and Emet-Selch has ever despised boredom.
It’s mostly a pleasant walk through the Crystarium, even if the Light beats down on him with all the force of a desert sun, hot on the back of his neck despite the cool air. Emet-Selch walks at the Exarch’s side, offering occasional commentary on how the city has changed in his time away (a surprising amount, though he supposes he should have expected it; the Crystarium is ever growing to fit its increasing population), and the Exarch smiles up at him and welcomes his comments with only a slight bit more enthusiasm than usual. It does not stop him from overhearing the Crystarium’s commentary on them as they walk its wide central plaza and narrower streets.
The first instance of a bystander expressing relief that the Exarch’s ‘companion’ has returned and now perhaps he will stop sequestering himself in his Tower for weeks rather than days at a time is amusing, and easily written off as hyperbole; by the fourth such comment, however, he cannot stop himself from eyeing the Exarch almost suspiciously. He has arrived, many times, to find the man utterly enmeshed in research and entirely unaware of how much time has passed, but since his weekly visits became standardized these instances lessened dramatically, and after becoming Lyna’s guardian they all-but vanished. Hm.
Voice low as to not attract attention, turned slightly towards the man he is addressing, Emet-Selch asks, “Are you truly incapable of managing your time when I am not present?”
The Exarch’s face twists and he shoots a look at a nearby gossiping pair that Emet-Selch does not need to see his eyes to know is sharp and irritated. “I am capable of managing my time, thank you,” he mutters in return. “How I choose to spend it while you are not here to watch is my own business…and not at all supposed to be the concern of the citizenry, and yet…”
Emet-Selch snorts, watching the way the two gossips simply wave in their direction, and nudges the Exarch along further down the sloping road to the Crystarium’s lowest level. “As a government official - and a beloved one - your business becomes their business quite quickly,” he says absently, then narrows his eyes at the man’s gilded hood. “But truly. Three weeks without emerging?”
The Exarch turns his head away so that the heavy edge of his cowl obscures his entire face from view, not just the upper half of it. “...it was intentional,” he says finally, and there is a note to his voice that almost sounds like petulance. Emet-Selch stares at him, delighted and a little unnerved in equal amounts.
“Was it now,” he murmurs, consideringly. Deliberately isolating himself, drinking oversweet tea, snapping at him for his absence- it brings together a picture Emet-Selch doesn’t entirely want to consider. To open his mind to the full implications of it can only bring pain, and yet the urge to push remains. (Acquired from Azem, he thinks; he had no such interest when he was young. The lifetimes have done much to soften him.) “...tell me, my dear Exarch, did my absence disappoint you so? Must I apologize for depriving you of intelligent conversation these past months? Your little city is indeed suffering a drought of it.”
“My city is replete with intelligent conversation partners,” the Exarch retorts, all indignation, and Emet-Selch bites back a smile, merely tilting his head and waiting for the man’s honest answer. “None, however, seem to compare to a certain villain with horrible tea preferences. And- well now. It would be incredibly remiss of me were I simply to allow you to run amok. No - far, far better to keep you close.” Excellent reasoning, and part of why Emet-Selch continues these visits to the Crystarium; best to know his enemy intimately that he might scheme more easily. Then the Exarch lets out a long sigh, as they descend another set of stairs, and softly adds, “...an apology would be nice, if you were so inclined.”
Emet-Selch hums, fixing his eyes on the entrance to the Cabinet of Curiosity, near enough to them now. He has already given the closest thing to a genuine apology he can, in admitting earlier that he had not intended to cause the man pain; now that they are in public he certainly will not do such a thing. “A villain, on occasion, must act the villainous part,” he reminds the Exarch with an expansive shrug. “And so- no, I am not inclined. Especially if your city is so filled with conversation partners.”
“True enough,” the Exarch says, only a slight touch of resignation to the words - he clearly expected no other answer. Had he, Emet-Selch would have wondered what exactly he has spent the last few decades of their acquaintance doing, as it would clearly not have been studying him. “As a consolation, you are no discourteous villain. Though I cannot quite discuss Voeburtite literature with anyone else, seeing as so little has been recovered.”
“I am, of course, ever grateful for the entertainment you offer me…even if I dislike your methods.” That the Exarch had so quickly stumbled onto the thought of holding art above his head like an incentive alongside secrets is- irritating at best. That it has a chance of working is something he will not admit, even if coerced.
Before the conversation can continue, or turn down another path, they reach the doors to the Cabinet of Curiosity, and the Exarch pushes one of them open with a careful gesture, holding it a moment to let Emet-Selch follow him. He does, with a nod of thanks, and glances around the circular room, lined from floor to lofty ceiling with shelving that is only half-filled. A few robed people of various races wander around the large room, stacks of books and papers in their hands, sorting new arrivals, most likely; in the far half of the room, on the other side of the central pillar and the spiraling staircase that wraps around it, a small collection of children are scattered across cushions on the floor, Lyna easily visible among them for her fluffy grey hair and large ears. She doesn’t turn to look at them right away, focused on the story her teacher is telling - something about the Oracles of Light, which Emet-Selch listens to absently.
Ah yes, the Oracle of Light, reborn every generation without fail because she inevitably dies tragically young in pointless battle against the sin eaters. Another symbol of how futile their fight against the encroaching oblivion is, though he knows at least some of the Crystarium’s inhabitants find the constant struggle inspiring. In what he considers a very excellent display of self-control, he does not scoff at the teacher’s starry-eyed lecturing, but his face must show some sign of emotion, because the Exarch laughs softly at it - and that is enough to catch Lyna’s attention. Her ears twitch and she glances over in their direction, and the moment her eyes land on him she lights up and bolts upright, uncaring of the way the adults around her call her name.
“Papa! Uncle Emet!” she calls, darting over, neatly twisting out of the way of one man who tries to catch her, and Emet-Selch does not warm at the affectionate title. He’d attempted to dissuade her from using it only once before giving in; as a child, she has no idea the true complexities of his identity and his presence in her city, and he will not put that unduly on her. She crashes straight into him, flinging her arms around his waist, and he rests a gentle hand on her head, running his fingers through her hair. “Where did you go? Papa was so upset he cried-”
The Exarch clears his throat loudly, interrupting whatever else Lyna might say, a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, and Emet-Selch looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Lyna dear, that’s enough about me, you should tell Emet-Selch what trouble you’ve gotten up to without him,” he says hurriedly, and the eyebrow inches higher.
…he has already pushed on this particular button, and given what genuine response to it he could, so he will keep silent. For now. But that does not mean he will not remember this - though perhaps he might not want to. It says nothing that either of them would like to consider, the idea that the Exarch might have broken down in tears over Emet-Selch’s absence. “Indeed,” he says instead, nudging her towards one of the reading nooks tucked along the Cabinet’s walls. “I have been informed I wronged you greatly by forgetting to warn you I would be absent,” and he speaks with all the solemnity of his station as they walk. She’s a child. It would not do to- upset her.
Lyna nods with similar gravity, her ears flopping with the motion. “I thought the sin eaters ate you,” she says, her voice small, and climbs up onto the wide seat built into the wall. He sits next to her, and the Exarch moves to her other side to sit as well, resting his staff against the wall; his lips are downturned beneath his hood.
Emet-Selch sighs, deliberately not looking at the small crowd of people - and children - watching them with varying levels of interest from the main room. Even more gossip will whisper its way across the Crystarium today, he is certain, but as he does not reside here it will have little effect on him. The Exarch, however…well, it was his own suggestion that they come to visit Lyna publicly. “You have naught to fear,” he tells Lyna instead, smoothing fingers along the edges of one ear. “There exists no sin eater capable of eating me.” He sniffs in mock indignation, drawing a giggle from her, and settles in to listen as she eagerly recounts the mischief she’s gotten up to since his last visit.
It is…he does not care about her, just as he did not care when he intervened to save her and the Exarch’s lives from sin eaters a few short years ago. But he has been a father many times, and had…intended to be one in the past, when his family yet lived and they all believed they had more time than they could ever possibly fill. So it is a simple thing, to sit with her and listen and encourage her stories, be stern but gentle with her over some of her misbehaviors, and reassure her that he truly is perfectly fine. It may show a softness he dislikes being obvious, but for a child, it is easier to bare some portion of his heart.
Even if it is not his heart. Even if he knows she will not survive long past adulthood (if even that far), and has no intention of intervening.
The Exarch just- watches, mostly, as they speak. His face is mostly hidden by his hood, as usual, but his mouth is slightly parted, the softest of smiles curling the corners of his lips, his attention unwaveringly trained on Emet-Selch and the child now seated in his lap. (Which he allows, despite the indignity and the glances he occasionally catches from the locals.) Emet-Selch does not need to see his eyes to know the emotion behind the expression - and he locks that knowledge away, where it cannot eat away at his resolve to play their game. It does not matter.
Interest, intrigue - those are simple enough, allowing him to fill his time here comfortably. But softness, care, yearning… he refuses to recognize those emotions on the Exarch’s face, directed at him. They play a long game, and the pieces on the board will eventually be themselves, and their respective duties mean the conditions of victory include the other’s death. There is no space in that for- care. There is not.
And yet he cannot help his gaze wandering to the constellation engraved on the Exarch’s arm anyway. Cannot help recall the Exarch begging him to pretend he cared, when he was being attacked by sin eaters with a young Lyna in one arm. Cannot help but think-
He is not fool enough to fall prey to this again. Not now.
Eventually, Lyna tires herself out, and the Exarch takes her back to the Tower, with a fond farewell that she echoes. Emet-Selch watches them leave and does not join them, even though he is invited, and it is only when they are entirely out of sight and he has extracted himself from the curious denizens of the city around him that he teleports away, to Eulmore, where the beginnings of his work must be put in place. This, here, is what must command his focus - his duty, and the steps he must take to see it through. The Exarch is a distraction and a valuable source of information, but no more - and he will not let that change.
No matter how softly the Exarch makes amends for insulting him.