Chapter Text
He watches the hero from afar for quite some time after he takes his leave of her and her band of fractured dolls. He becomes lost in thought as his eyes continue to follow her movements. That little history lesson in the caves dredged up ancient memories that he would rather leave buried.
This brand of suffering is self-imposed and uniquely his. Like a wine that has become thick and sour. Fermented and aged by a thousand lifetimes of sorrow and regret. For a moment, he drowns himself in it. The loneliness of his existence was often unbearable. Not that he would admit such things. He is Emet-Selch. It is beneath him and unbecoming of his position.
None of it mattered. He would stay the course. He would endure until he ushered in the Great Rejoining or he was brought low. His duty demanded it. As did his pride. But being in the presence of these broken things was fast becoming insufferable. He loathed their incomplete and ephemeral existence. A mere shade of the brilliance that his people once were. What they could be once more, were it not for their failures. His failures. Failures that had prompted him down this path.
A change of tact.
Cooperation.
Though walking amongst them now is a sundering of his own making, he muses. Bearing witness to their pathetic, meagre efforts and how they flail through life like wounded birds leaves his soul feeling empty and equally as fragmented as their own. Shameful, it was. They are a parody of man. And a terrible one at that!
Except…
There were fleeting moments when one amongst them would evoke that agonizing feeling of melancholic reminiscence, he reminds himself as he watches her perform some mundane task. Spying that soul through an indirect glance often gave rise to an echo of the past that would bubble to the surface with such ferocity. It is dim but bears an unmistakable likeness to one he knew so well. In those moments he wonders if she could—
No.
He huffs with discontent and turns away from the source of that train of thought. Moving through the trees, he walks until the warrior and her glittering soul becomes a tiny, insignificant speck on the horizon and then disappears. The separation would do him good.
These unexpected bouts of curiosity and wonder had begun to afflict him with greater frequency as time wore on. He refuses to allow those preposterous notions to take form. Even if only in his thoughts. He could ill afford to give life and space to such foolishness.
Impossible.
Yet the more time he spent in her presence the more intrusive those thoughts became...
She finds him resting in the shade under the bows of an ancient tree that rests near a cliff face overlooking a small valley below. He is leaning back against it with his arms crossed in a casual fashion. It is a contradiction to the intense scrutiny that appears to be directed at her. His eyes gleam from the shadows, following her form as she approaches.
Always watching.
She wonders what he sees when he looks at her. Whether he views her as more of a thing than a person, sundered as she is. What does he hope to learn through this prolonged observation as she and her companions play their parts?
That perplexing sense of familiarity returns when she stops just a few fulms from him. It’s the self-same one she felt when he had first introduced himself at the Crystarium and again when they entered the Greatwood. She felt it too, in the caves as he recounted the birth of Zodiark and Hydaelyn and finally revealed his motivations for the Rejoining. It prickles incessantly at the back of her mind as she glances up at him.
“Come for a little cold comfort in the shade, Hero?” he asks. “No doubt you grow hot and weary containing all that stolen light.”
She shrugs, noncommittal.
Having defeated Eros, the blessed relief of night would descend upon the Greatwood soon enough. The sun hangs low in the sky already and the shadows of the trees have grown long and distorted. A gentle breeze shifts Emet-Selch’s hair into a more rogueish configuration, alabaster fringe curtaining one eye as he continues.
“What then? Have you not had your fill of lessons for one day?” he asks, with a sigh. “I’m no longer in a sharing mood, Warrior.”
Emet-Selch appears tired and his posture is hunched more than usual. As though the retelling of his story in the caves earlier had taken its toll. A pound of flesh for history's sake.
“I had come here expecting to be alone.” It was the truth. She hadn’t been looking for him. But she found him all the same. Be it by chance or by providence.
A short reprieve from the others had been in order. She found herself seeking solitude more and more with every Lightwarden she felled. The regard of her companions has been growing ever increasingly pregnant with expectation and concern. Especially following these battles. So much hope. And it was tainted with the fear that she would be unable to contain the light. That it would turn her into a monster as it shattered her soul.
It occurs to her that he too might have wished to isolate and commune with his thoughts, or perhaps with the ghosts of his past. She moves to go.
“No need to leave on my account, Hero. We can be alone here together,” his tone is soft and thoughtful, absent its typical sharp edges. A forlorn invitation.
She is overcome with the sudden desire to run her fingers through the white streak of hair that fell over his brow. To what? Comfort him? And why would he require succour from her? A strange thought, that. Yet she finds herself stepping forward, reaching up and slowly brushing the hair back from his face anyway, relishing the small gesture in a way that makes her frown in confusion. It shouldn’t feel the way that it does, she thought. Like she has done it a million times before and simultaneously like it is the first time. Intimate and yet foreign. And it was the first time, of course.
Emet-Selch straightens his spine, his arms dropping to his sides as his eyes widen in surprise at her touch. He becomes still, allowing her this liberty. Deathly so, in fact. He moves not a muscle, outside a subtle narrowing of his amber eyes, as though he might hone his vision just enough to perceive her intent. Or read her mind. Who knows? Maybe he could. She knows what he is. The power he holds at the snap of his fingers is beyond her understanding. A fact that makes her tremble ever so slightly.
His hair is luxurious and unnaturally smooth beneath her fingers. Like liquid silk. She regrets the impulse almost immediately. It stirs up a battle of distinctly opposing emotions within her. The need to get closer still, to connect with him, and the instinct to flee. And underneath all that is a rising fear of losing control.
Her mind doesn’t seem her own of late. She worries she is one tender expression removed from tipping the scales in favour of releasing a lifetime of unfulfilled longing upon him. Walking the border between a trickling stream and a raging river. Simple enough to dam off a trickling stream. A tiny blunder in the grand scheme of things, this moment. How easily it could be brushed away and dismissed. But beyond that lay white water, roiling and ready to sweep her away with what might follow should she continue down this path.
She pulls her hand back a little too quickly and lets it fall to her side, hoping to regain some composure. There is genuine apprehension in contemplating the rawness of that sort of expression with anyone. Had she ever? No. And with this Ascian, it was more akin to terror. Why are her thoughts of such things? He is her enemy. Or would be again, once this brief respite found its conclusion.
Indifference would be her shroud, she resolves and wraps herself in the cocoon of its safety, concealing deep, turbulent wells of emotion from prying eyes. And sharp talons. She takes a small step back, aiming to retreat. But something within compels her to linger just a moment longer. And a moment is enough. Perhaps it is the tension in her movements or the subtle tremble of her hand as she pulls away that acts as a catalyst and spurs him to reach out. Or perhaps he acts on impulse, much like she had.
The air around her begins to swell and contract as the last vestiges of daylight disappear below the horizon. Smokey purple coils of aether materialize and unfurl from Emet-Selch, gathering form and then stretch out toward her. The fear she felt only a moment ago is strangely absent and forgotten. She watches with wonder as those wispy tendrils begin to trace gentle, whispering strokes upon her shoulders, her bare arms, over her chest until eventually, they surround her.
Though no words are spoken, she feels the request for permission to continue in the tentative exploration. Emet-Selch’s face remains impassive and unreadable when her eyes flick up to meet his. She does not flinch nor move away. Through his aether, the sorrow and longing he harbours permeate her, rising in intensity. This was the driving force behind that which sought to restore his people. And a yearning for her– no. For she who once was? Who she could yet be, but wasn’t. These thoughts are incomprehensible. Who had she been to him? How could she have been anything other than what she was right now?
The responsibility of duty has grown enormous and achingly heavy. She feels that too. Thoughts and images not her own overlap and blend and press down on her like great waves upon the sea. It was like drowning. But the desire to understand is far greater than the discomfort and she opens to him further, drawing him in to share more. Her eyes flutter closed as she is bombarded with flashes of faces she doesn’t recognize yet feel eerily familiar. Beautiful faces with bright eyes that begin to twist in horror. Then everything is cast with a crimson haze. Fire and brimstone become the most prominent feature. The backdrop is an immense, towering cityscape. The silhouette akin to the paintings on the walls of the Rak’tika caves. Devastation and monsters exist in every corner.
Panting audibly, she is desperate to fill her lungs with oxygen as this exposure to him burns and consumes her. Her soul feels like it's on fire as much as the city in her mind's eye is. Is he holding her now? She feels hands around her arms steadying her as her legs threaten to give way.
It’s all too much. The deluge of emotion is so thick and oppressing that tears fall from her eyes unbidden. She squeezes her lids shut tight as hot, salty drops escape down her cheeks, born of the burden his memory carries. A burden that he has tangled and weaved with her own. Their burdens are not equal. One sundered lifetime is no comparison to an eternity. But it scorches and blisters just the same.
She struggles to find a deeper meaning behind all that he reveals. Why is he showing her any of this? Does he wish to be pardoned for his actions? Both past and those yet to come? A being such as he should hardly feel the need to justify them. Least of all to her—a creature he considers terribly flawed and incomplete. Immortals needn’t concern themselves with the opinions of lesser beings. Yet that is what it seems. A plea for understanding. And there is something else there too, suppressed deep beneath all the layers. Not something he was trying to show her, but a poorly concealed wound that was far too obvious to remain hidden. An empty space that longs to be filled. Like a limb that has been torn away, or perhaps an organ cut out. Down in the depths is a terrible, bleeding fissure that has never closed. It calls to her like a siren song. A hero-shaped hole that she might fit.
The need for a counterbalance to the anguish becomes vital and urgent, necessitating action. She pulls back from his outpouring. Just enough to attempt to gather her own tattered soul and envision her aether taking a form similar to his. She acts on instinct, unsure of how to proceed, but it begins to coalesce as instructed and press back to tangle with his. Tentative at first, then growing immeasurably dense and insistent. Narrowing her focus, her aether begins to shift slowly, like a rising sun. She visualizes halcyon rays expanding and extending up and out toward every tendril of his aether. Bringing warmth and comfort with it. The memories of calamity dissolve beneath the image of shadows giving way to the brilliance of a cloudless morning.
Her soul expands exponentially and moves beyond the confines of herself, reaching into him, illuminating every corner that pain conceals itself in. Softening the edges of the harshest reality. She envelops him with every onze of pleasure and peace she has ever known or understands, blurring all until purple and gold become one.
Suddenly her eyes spring open and lock on him. Emet-Selch stumbles back from her with a startled gasp, his hand hovering in the air between them as though to ward her off. Her concentration breaks as does the control of her aether. It dissipates almost instantly. His expression is a mix of shock and confusion. And in the glare of his regard, she sees a reflection of her own eyes in his. They are shining bright and glowing preternaturally. A moment later they dim and go out like a dying ember, returning to the same pale ocean green they have always been.
There is the sound of a portal opening and she watches him retreat into it without a word. It closes behind him, leaving her standing under the stars alone.