Chapter Text
Tell me I’m a bad, bad, bad, bad man.
There was a knock at the door.
Yisu sighed.
These nocturnal visitations tired him. The guests came ever-later. Between each of his companions, and Ardbert’s apparitions, his calling card was already full. He could not remember the last time he had an uninterrupted evening, and that was precisely what Urianger had urged him here to do.
…Alone.
The company was, of course, lovely. The conversations were anchors to keep him moored to his home while adrift in the First. Alone in his room, with no further distractions, all the exhaustion came rushing back. The recent affects of his aether-swollen constitution were unpleasant, novel, and often unbearable. And of course, he would ruminate on their campaign against the lightwardens, a world so close to total destruction—
Working on it, Yisu thought. He stared up at the ceiling.
There was nothing his hands could not heal, he knew this from experience. And the Source, after all, had seen its Calamity and many apocalypses prior. So why was it that the First felt so different? Even before his lightsickness had taken him—
The rapping came again.
Godsdamnit. Any welcome friend knocking at this hour should have known better than to disturb him, lest they draw Y’shtola’s ire.
“Sleeping!” Yisu called. Perhaps it was an attendant. He did not care.
There was no response.
He continued pondering the bricks. He strained to listen for his guest’s footsteps. Perhaps then he would know whether it was one of his companions. But the silence persisted. Were they waiting for him? How long would they?
Whoever it is will find me tomorrow, he thought. There will be more time. There will always be more time. I’ll make sure of it. He felt himself drifting off.
“Rude.”
Yisu jolted up with a start, He reached reflexively for his spellbook. His fingers brushed the spine before his mind caught up with his body. He huffed.
“What are you trying to do?” he asked, craning his neck to look. What right did Ardbert have waking him? Why now? Was something amiss?
He did not see Ardbert.
“A brusque refusal,” Emet-Selch said, examining the seam of his glove. He dropped his arms to his sides and shrugged. “You’ve endless patience for the rest of you comrades. Are you really so loath to take my call?”
“What are you trying to do?” Yisu asked again, deadpan with entirely new meaning.
“I believe I explained this to you already. In Rak’tika? It was all very clear. I suppose whether you survive to accept my offer of allyship is out of my hands, but my intention, I assure you—”
“Why the hells are you in my room?” Yisu cried, holding his hands out to the apparition of Solus. “Haven’t you done enough to disrupt my sleep?”
Emet-Selch stood quickly, hunched shoulders shooting upwards. “You find your sleep disrupted? Are you troubled by your conscience,” he intoned, “or by your present moral dilemma?”
“I have never felt such clear moral certitude.”
“Quite, if you’d prefer to sleep, I will leave you to it.” Emet-Selch said, with a flourish.
“Would that you make it easy.”
“Of course. I shall leave if you will bid me. It would not do to have our esteemed Warrior of Light deprived of his rest, especially when he is so under-the-weather! Although, my schedule’s rather full, I’m afraid. I am not sure when, or if, I’ll be available again to share with you my wealth of knowledge and insight.”
Yisu sighed. He lifted up to sit at the edge of his bed. He was short on answers at the moment. Whether he liked it or not, he had one of the architects of this situation standing in his guest suite. It was unlikely the Ascian would freely offer any information, but surely he could weasel something of use out of the man. And Yisu suspected he may yet linger, even if he was sent away. He furrowed his brow.
“Shall I leave you to your repose?” Emet-Selch said, pouting his lip.
Yisu groaned. “Stay then. …But sit down, at least.” He stood, gesturing to a chair. “If this is a social call, so be it. Let us talk.” He made his way to the counter, and began to set up the coffee machine.
“Black, for me, thank you,” Emet-Selch chimed. He fell neatly back at the dining table, sliding into a dining chair.
“Do Ascians take tea?” Yisu grumbled.
Emet-Selch watched the Au Ra place the kettle, turn to face him. Yisu was shirtless, in loose linen pants with stripes in white. They looped around his slender tail in the back. His arms were crossed in the ambergris light of this dingy, primitive inn, the chest visible above them glinted gold on blue. Rigid, dark scales cut across his figure, framing his shoulders and thick arms.
“Yes,” he said.
Yisu grit his teeth. Wonderful, he thought. He offered nothing else.
“Tell me, though. What is it that troubles you?” Emet-Selch asked, placing his chin atop his interwoven fingers.
“Presently, you.”
“I am so terribly sorry to intrude.”
Oh, this man will not tell me anything, Yisu thought. His agenda is set, and his motives are clear. He is only here to waste my time. Perhaps I’ll be rid of him faster if I waste his.
“I have no tea here,” Yisu said. His arms remained crossed, his hips resting against the counter. “It seems coffee is more popular, in Lakeland at least. Or perhaps the plant did not survive the Flood?”
“These are the inanities you concern yourself with?” Emet-Selch said, raising his voice in mock offense. “Surely there are matters more pressing. I can see it plainly myself.”
Yisu rolled his neck. “What does it look like?”
“Pardon?”
“My aether. Y’shtola said it was dense, like a fine weave of silk. And bright. She can make out that it’s all shifted to the light. Does it have a color?”
Emet-Selch went stern for a second, narrowing his eyes. “Parlor tricks! Will knowing the color of your aura soothe your troubled mind?”
“Yes, it will,” Yisu said.
Small bubbles began to form in the kettle.
Emet-Selch smiled. He had ages of experience observing the motivations of the sundered men. Their thoughts were plain upon their faces and bodies. Their motivations were simple and stupid. Countless times had he orchestrated some coup or terror, catastrophes on a world-shattering scale, making these mortal shards dance like shadows on the wall.
The irritation he felt then, looking at this brick wall of a soul, was incomparable. It was like staring at the sun. He was a blind spot imposed upon his vision, lingering even as he tried to stare past.
“Surely you can see it?” Yisu said, sighing. “You were not speaking metaphorically?”
Emet-Selch held Yisu in his gaze for some time, pursing his lips and tilting his head. It was bright, compared to most mortal souls, Yisu may well have been the aurora ripping through the sky. He gleamed like a dragon. Compared to his Ascian counterparts, there was only the echo of a luster—a ghost of a gem tone, a half-remembered day when the colors of the world had soaked into his skin, when each vital heartbeat carried purpose—
Focus. You have need of her, Emet-Selch thought. This is still a fragment.
“Your aether is unusually dense,” he said. “You knew that, though.”
“I cannot imagine what such sight is like. Y’shtola has refrained from sharing details of her experience. There are instruments, of course, but their output most certainly would diverge from your uncanny ability. If that’s all you have to tell me…”
“It is green—” Emet-Selch began.
“Hm. Perhaps my soul is wind-aspected,” Yisu interrupted, stroking his chin and smirking.
“It is somewhat akin to the color of your little pet,” Emet-Selch added.
Yisu blinked. “Emerald Carbuncle is blue. Though, it doesn't contradict my theory. Perhaps I read too much into color."
“The ability to perceive a soul’s aether is not equivalent to mundane sight,” Emet-Selch said, looking away. “It doesn’t make sense in terms of color, really. I couldn’t begin to explain, if you have not seen it yourself.”
And he could not. He could not explain how Yisu was possessed of such a countenance, or why it made his stomach churn and his mind wax nostalgic. It was all so terribly unfair. Why here? Why now?
“Fascinating.” Yisu rolled his eyes.
Emet-Selch felt a pang. “One might could impress upon you what it is like, employing poetic phrase. If you should like to know more, you could allow me to continue. Though I suspect you are being insincere with me! My genuine interests lie in whether you have considered my offer. You have a very good chance at withstanding this trial, and as established, you have remarkable prowess where reconciliation is concerned—”
Yisu laughed ruefully. “Then I’ve no need to worry, thank you for soothing my anxieties so utterly.” He tilted his head, horn poking against his shoulder. “…And if I do not survive, my death is insignificant, as you say.”
“That is true. But you are tremendously willful. I am certain you will fight until the last. You will die in the fashion of your choosing. Take small comfort in that.”
Yisu nodded, serious. “It is comforting to know.”
The kettle was roaring faintly, water roiling within.
The words twisted Emet-Selch’s stomach into a knot. He was unnerved that his vessel would betray him like this, race his heart and wet his palms. He went quiet.
Yisu paid no mind. He poured two mugs and took his seat across from the Ascian. He stretched out, every bit as languid as the specter of Solus zos Galvus, as if competing to see who could take up more space at the table. He peered from the rim of his mug as he sipped.
“Does your wealth of insight include any useful information, by chance?” Yisu continued. “Or was your aim just to ramble on about the glory of your technologically supreme race, wearing the robes of Garlemald, praising my might? All the while you insist you are above our petty moral politics. You offer me no solutions, no gain? No temptation, no justification?”
Emet-Selch could see the slavering maw of his vindictive bloodlust, held back by the chains of exhaustion and circumstance. It suits her.
Yisu pushed the other mug towards him.
“Shocked you have managed to keep your mouth shut this long,” Yisu concluded.
I suppose I did not think this through, Emet-Selch thought. He had assumed some opportunity would present itself, but Yisu wanted nothing more than for him to leave. He could not leave yet. Foolishness compelled him.
“Is there aught I could do to truly put you at ease?” he asked.
“I might feel better with your windpipe in my claws,” Yisu said, looking askance.
“That would be rather unbecoming,” Emet-Selch answered, raising his eyebrows. “While it would not be of any consequence to me, it is rather unpleasant to die. I seek to forge allyship with you, and gruesome displays of violence run contrary to that goal. Then again, a display of anger quite often dispels harsh feeling. Catharsis may help you to see clearly.”
Yisu choked on his coffee.
Emet-Selch smiled. “Ah, it was a statement in jest! I apologize, I appear to be making a good faith effort, placing my trust in you, believing you to be honest in your desires and intentions, but I forgot, your mode this evening is insincerity. ”
Yisu set down the mug with a thump. “If you’d make such a good faith effort, come kneel at my feet. Alright. Let’s go.”
Emet-Selch traced his finger along the rim of his cup. He was trying very hard to suppress a smile. He was landing on vague, smug amusement. “As if I would debase myself thusly.”
“Then leave,” Yisu said. “You offer me nothing.”
“I’ve only just arrived! The drink is hot. Do not you harbor any curiosity about our world? Are you not curious, what it would be like to life a full life with full faculty? Or perhaps, what you might expect when you are made whole again? The power you will gain as an unsundered soul…”
“No. Don’t try to change the subject,” Yisu said, placing his palms on the table. “You would ingratiate yourself to me? Fine. Give me your neck.” One hand was clenched into a fist, the other jabbed a pointing finger.
Emet-Selch exhaled. “Such barbarity. I am reconsidering my offer.”
Yisu stood then, thrusting aside his chair. It squeaked sharply against the tile. He stormed towards the Ascian, grasping his fur collar in his fist. “Lecture me about barbarity,” he muttered.
Emet-Selch felt a rush of blood. He looked up at the mortal heap of memories who wore Azem’s soul, a thing so tiny, now towering over him, holding him now by the scruff. Yisu’s sharply manicured nails were inches from his neck. Oh.
“Kneel.” He said again. His nose flared and his teeth grit. He pulled.
Emet-Selch went limp.
“Kneel,” Yisu said again, dragging the Ascian by his collar. He threw Emet-Selch to the floor.
He stayed there, dazed.
Yisu was upon him in an instant. He straddled his chest and pulled his hair. He pinned the dictator’s arms down with his knees. He brought his face inches away and spat.
“I could kill you a million times over. We would never be even,” he growled.
Yisu expected the Ascian to extricate himself. To teleport away, to employ some magic. To offer a mocking response. He has not expected to find Emet-Selch’s body tangible.
Emet-Selch made no effort. He groaned wordlessly.
“Oho? Mighty Paragon, the unconquerable unsundered, cannot tolerate a little pain? Or just putting on a little show so I feel better?” Yisu clasped his hands around Emet-Selch's neck. “Ha?”
Emet-Selch’s eyes bulged and rolled. His hips bucked, feet kicking. Death would come faster, Yisu knew, if he cut off the bloodflow. He wanted this body to suffer with Emet-Selch inside it. He bore down on the throat.
“Good fucking show then! Stick your tongue out, why don’t you? Gasp for me, you cocksucking—”
No, Emet-Selch thought. A primal, ecstatic no. He whimpered, but no air could pass through his windpipe. It was a gargle.
“You’re doing such a good job it's pissing me off,” Yisu growled. “Fuck you.”
Why am I doing this? Yisu thought.
He released his grip. The noise that came from Emet-Selch was indescribable, a noise from battlefields and hospice-wards. It shocked Yisu for a moment. The Emperor lay under him, writhing piteously and gasping for air, spittle running down his cheeks with the tears.
“You offer me nothing,” Yisu hissed again, standing sharply. “There is no catharsis here. All you are is a dead world. Will a shuffling reanimation please you?”
Emet-Selch rolled to his side, a worm in the mire. He coughed, placing a hand to his neck to heal the collapse.
“No.” Yisu said.
He brought his heel down hard as he could. There was a crunch. Emet-Selch’s hands fell.
“Let me watch you die. Are you happy now, to have taunted me?” Why am I doing this?
It felt good. It felt too good. This was not the pleasure of revenge, he felt. There were no stakes here. It had all the weight of a stageplay. Surely Emet-Selch had tolerated much worse. What did he have to gain by putting on these airs?
Yisu looked down at Emet-Selch, at Solus, his mouth agape, gaze fixed with a strange intensity. He watched as his movement grew shallow, and his eyes fluttered.
Yisu held out his hand, and began to cast his own healing.
“You will live or die by my will, Ascian,” he said, suddenly tired.
Yisu pushed the mending through fast as he could, knowing how much it would hurt. There was a popping noise as Emet-Selch’s ribs reset, as his throat returned to its proper volume. His bruises faded in seconds.
“Haa-aaah,” he cried.
Yisu returned to himself then. There was a fading echo of disappointment, the urge of his anger braying for him to finish. He saw the same disappointment on Emet-Selch’s face. He blinked. He was tired, he was not well.
They stayed there, eyes locked. Yisu’s shoulders heaved with his breath. Emet-Selch looked up from the floor like a pile of meat.
Emet-Selch finally smiled again, letting out a dark little chuckle. “Such a shame that should we come to blows, our battle shall be fought with spell and blade.” He swallowed. “Such ardor you have for torture! Remind me again what you find so despicable about my empire?” He grinned wildly.
“Goad me with equivalences all you like.” He swung his arms, clapped, an began to walk back to his coffee. “I shall not fall for your gambit. Your theatrics are commendable!”
Emet-Selch sat up. “No gambit is to be had. I cannot be any more transparent, I seek your allyship. Truth be told, when confronted with such passion I was overcome. Though I wonder, what would you do if I left you with Solus’ corpse? That would be difficult to explain to your companions, would it not?"
Yisu picked up the coffee once more and sipped. “Still nice and hot. I would have appreciated a little more struggle, but now you’re begging for it, so I am afraid we shall have to stop.”
Emet-Selch felt his vessel flush once more. With Yisu no longer proximate, he was once again mystifyingly unreadable. A half-joke? A taunt? A come-on? He had felt that desire so keenly with hands around his neck, that all-consuming exertion of force, that total surrender. They were like his own hands.
Emet-Selch remembered her. He had not remembered her like this, until this moment.
“Thank you,” he said, coming to his feet.
Yisu raised a palm. “Unusual response.”
“Indeed,” Emet-Selch replied. “Are you oft aroused thusly by strangulation? I would have liked to know before consenting to such an arrangement.”
“Get the fuck out of my room,” Yisu said, closing his eyes and drinking deep.
Mistake. Wrong. No. Emet-Selch shrugged. He spoke in a rush. “That’s your loss. I would have gladly kept up our chat. But I will leave you to your rest.”
He snapped his fingers and was gone.
Yisu was at once more alone in the Pendants. He slapped his thigh and swore, slamming the mug down, sloshing coffee on the table, and storming to bed. He would refinish the damn thing himself it the puddle ruined it, he thought. He hit the mattress with a heavy, creaking flop, and resumed his examination of the ceiling.
He knew now his carbuncle matched his aetherical signature fashionably, at least. He knew that Emet-Selch lost his eloquence when threatened so directly—but this he had learned well already from years in the Garlean conflict. They were all the same. When their showboating failed, their only recourse to maintain the illusion of dignity was violence. And if they could not employ it…
But Emet-Selch was an Ascian. Certainly he could have overpowered me. What did he get out of casting that veneer of dignity aside? Yisu sighed, and rolled over, mind now abuzz with caffeine and questions. He did not like the answer that lurked in the orbit of his thoughts.
For everyone’s sake, he tried to rest. The Talos would be completed in three days’ time. He needed to prepare for Vauthry. He needed to rest.
In a high tower in Amaurot, Emet-Selch’s hands trembled as he pulled aside his robes. He threw the cloth into a heap, and sunk to his knees upon it. It offered his legs some protection from the sharp impact of the polished concrete, but a jolt still went through him as he fell.
He was embodied. Such a strange sensation, to feel this vessel's raging desire so acutely, after all these years. One of his hands kneaded at his thigh, and the other clasped his neck. He looked out at the city below, before shifting his focus to his own reflection. A pathetic thing. Lanky, pudging. Jutting bone and shallow curves. Twitching and taut with unrestrained wanting.
He wanted it again, oh he wanted it again. He could not keep his other hand away from his cock for long. He knew she would want him to do this. When his fingers wrapped there he moaned some obscenity. He began to stroke. The hand on his neck tightened.
He begged. He could not even make out his own words, his own thoughts, some bedraggled prayer woven between gasps and grunts and desperate pleas, as fervent as the motion of his wrist.
Images flashed through his mind—not of royal bedchambers or of Lahabrea’s inane dalliances. Memories older still. The foyer of his office. The elevator at the Bureau of the Architect. Of the down pillows in his state apartment and of lace, and leather, and pointed heels, and his tongue, dragging—
And oh, that electric air she commanded, all ceruleum glow and whip-smart wit, feeling her feeling him, souls entwined in their mutual pleasure, a mirror, a beautiful mirror. She loomed over him in her memory, as Yisu had. His Azem, his salvation—
Kneel. He did so, and felt their satisfaction directly. Ourobouros, their pleasure consuming itself. This was not enough. This could not continue. He quickened.
When he came, he screamed. He wailed, reaching up his own jaw, balling his fist in his hair. He sobbed. He stayed on his knees, feeling sorrow shock through him. All the grief he carried pushed through him, for Amaurot, all the impotent rage. She was here. She was here, and she would not listen. She never listened. She never understood.
He wept for all the souls of the river which he could not reach, now paled and broken. He wept for Azem, too stubborn to live. For Azem, too willful to survive.
And when the exhaustion took him, body unable to bear the lament any longer, when the world returned again beyond the hammering heart and rushing blood and the pain, the ache...! It returned with words dark and perfect, with unwelcome familiarity. It returned with chains and teeth, untouchable and lonely.
“What a mess you have made,” Elidibus murmured from his vantage in the shadows.