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The ‘dark and brooding’ type of hero was never the look he had hoped to cultivate and yet the nature of this peculiar world seemed to promote only the cynical and sullen; a world bathed in light wherein the people were tremendously dark. Had he not been so weary, he may have spared a laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
A sigh took the place of any laugh he might have mustered, head hung as he leaned against the railing overlooking the plaza behind the aetheryte; empty and quiet besides a few medics coming and going from the clinic. The night sky was pleasant at least and the crystalline tower gleamed gently in the dark. It was almost soothing, nearly encouraging him to entertain the notion of sleep. Rak’tika beckoned on the morrow after all.
“What a dire look you have. Pittance for your thoughts?”
Truly there was no peace to be found. Glancing behind and there he slouched, an emperor, an ascian, and whatever else he might have been. Emet-Selch, like others of his ilk, held the tremendous power to immediately drain what fleeting energy he had, leaving the warrior to ponder if this was how Cid felt when Nero came around.
"I was going to bed," he admitted, terse and tired.
"With such heavy thoughts upon your mind? That will not do, hero," the ascian shook his head, tsking.
"Why do you care?"
"Come now, I said that I would lend my aid and do comrades-in-arms not support one another in their times of need?”
“Bold of you to think we're close when you haven't deigned to grant us an honest visit," his tone slipped a tad into irritation, a sidelong glance sent over as the ascian drew closer.
“My, my,” Emet-Selch continued, perfectly composed yet his tone dipped low and goading, “Such animosity after the generosity I’ve extended.”
"You haven't made good on any of it," he recalled and Emet-Selch merely sighed, lofty in the way he glanced down upon the hero.
"With company such as yours, can you truly blame my reluctance?" He lamented, coming to idle at the railing beside him. "How tiresome it would have been to pry that trivial card from my chest."
He wasn't quite ready to give up the support of the railing but straightened up regardless in the presence of an enemy. Eyeing up the ascian, he had some difficulty in pinning down an obvious motive; Emet-Selch appeared to operate on a scale of grandeur rather than malice like Lahabrea. Furthermore, he found the paragon rather… unimpressive. The mortal form he took did not inspire much, let alone fear. Perhaps it was the choice in hairstyle.
"I doubt it would have been an end to you," the hero remarked when Emet-Selch caught him staring. He would not be cowed, meeting the ascian’s piercing gaze without an onze of apprehension.
Emet-Selch smiled.
“It would have been no end of mine,” he confirmed with a solemn nod that seemed equal parts patronizing and certain.
With a scoff, the warrior turned back to the tower before them. His words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them, “Pathetic way to die, isn’t that? A big paper cut.”
After the fact, sometime in between the momentary silence and the sound the ascian barked that he belatedly took as a laugh, did the warrior realize just how stupid it sounded. He ducked his head slightly, feigning interest in something nonexistent below the railing. Beside him the laughter trailed off pleasantly as the paragon composed himself with a contented sigh.
“Pathetic, yes. Perhaps not the most however. Your kind are capable of perishing in the most remarkable and disappointing ways,” Emet-Selch drawled, leaning further in his peculiar slouch to rest his arms against the railing.
The statement settled as an uncomfortable reminder of the differences between them, not that it was any bit likely that he could forget the incredibly substantial contrast. He frowned at the space ahead of him. Eventually, Emet-Selch spoke up once again.
“So tell me, hero. I’m rather curious now.”
“What?”
“You spoke of a pathetic end. And how would you deem to end me?”
“Yeah, you’d ask that, wouldn’t you?” The warrior readily turned his frown on the ascian.
“Come now, no one is immune to entertaining the fancy of their own demise. Dare I say your kind is more fond of envisioning the endings of their kin. I suppose I cannot blame them, petty things that they are. If I told you that during my reign, many came before me, willingly or otherwise, and divulged their heart’s desires in regards to myself, would that seem impossible? I make not the habit of telling lies.”
Emet-Selch cared not one whit about the odd look etched on the warrior’s face, seemingly put-off by his monologue.
“Some held extraordinarily complex designs and others not so much, yet it was the same song ultimately. Eventually it all bled together, as the typical is wont to do. Yet you are different, are you not? You’ve slain my kind before. Do you think you could do it once more?”
“I’m not exactly armed for it,” the hero grumbled, uneased by the inquiry-turned-interrogation.
“Ah! Purely theoretical discussion, my dear boy,” Emet-Selch assured, a grin slipping across his face, “I would not promote violence between fond comrades.”
The hero uttered a doubtful noise, too weary to dispute an ascian or anyone else for that matter.
“Surely you can entertain the concept,” he goaded and the hero relented.
"Might not be your end but I wouldn't mind wringing your damn neck. I’ll get some peace and quiet that way."
It was a jest albeit a biting one. The words that fell out of his mouth carried no weight and yet, as he glanced over to see what caused the lapse of silence from the ascian, he found Emet-Selch measuring his announcement as if he had said he saw the second coming of Zodiark.
Once more taking to eyeing the contemplative ascian in unmasked suspicion, the hero watched Emet-Selch tap a gloved index finger against his chin. The grandiose man appeared to reach his judgement, golden gaze fixed sudden and intent upon the warrior.
“Hm, how typically brutish. It is unsurprising, of course. You do enjoy working with your hands, don’t you?”
Had he not been so wary by the paragon’s odd reaction, he may have taken insult from that comment; even if it was true to a degree. Instead he kept quiet as Emet-Selch straightened to his full height, begrudgingly turning his gaze up to keep his eyes trained on the ascian’s.
In a low tone, Emet-Selch made an offer, “Would you like to try?”
The hero made a peculiar noise, a startled wheeze that may have formed into a laugh if not for the dead serious air the paragon adopted. He stared, dumbfounded.
“What’s your game?” He blurted, leaning on his weight onto his backfoot in preparation for something to go terribly wrong.
“Ah,” Emet-Selch brought a hand to his chest in mock hurt, feigning offense, “You truly think so little of me, hero? I merely thought to extend a generosity after you so kindly shared with me your desires.”
“ Desires? ” He grimaced inwardly as he realized the pitch his voice took. A furtive glance down at the plaza below at least confirmed that no other restless inhabitants loitered and could possibly overhear.
“Oh? What would you call it then?”
“A joke!”
“What curious humor you have,” Emet-Selch murmured, seeming disappointed almost.
“That’s rich coming from you,” the warrior bit back, his fluster smoothing into irritation.
“Alas, you seem disinterested in my offer,” he drawled, Emet-Selch’s own interest in entertaining him seeming to dwindle rapidly.
He had every right to storm off, to return to his room and burrow into his bed and never think on the strange exchange again but there the warrior lingered. Standing his ground and leering up at the taller man, he refused to let the ascian have the final word.
“Keep talking like that and I might just do it,” he threatened.
“The Warrior of Light is a man of his word, isn’t that so?” Emet-Selch smiled sweetly, a manner which only filled the warrior with dread. He wasn’t about to back down.
“Fine,” he spat. “If you’re so set on it.”
“Come along then,” the one-time emperor beckoned, popping the clasp which cinched his collar with ease.
He was not sure if it was the airy nature Emet-Selch approached the unusual exchange or the fact he was going to actually see it through that brought a sudden rush of heat to the back of his neck. Their difference in height was far more pronounced when the paragon deigned to stand straight. It was a miserable realization to find he would have to reach up to carry out his end. The warrior was not one to hesitate yet his hands may as well have been glued to his sides.
Emet-Selch watched him, golden eyes intent and expectant. A soul of his ilk was undeniably accustomed to patience but as the warrior dragged his feet, the ascian hummed quietly and extended further kindness.
"Perhaps guidance is required. Shall I show you?”
He waited not for a response, a gloved hand readily taking hold of the warrior’s wrist to issue guidance. The ascian paused as he raised the hand aloft, turning it over to examine the warrior’s palm. A moment spent merely in study, tracing the excess of weathered scars and calluses that marred the palm with silken attention. The warrior did not recall holding his breath.
Investigation complete, the paragon drew the warrior’s hand higher, seeming to find contentment at depositing it against his collar rather than neck proper. It was then the warrior realized with a start, albeit terribly late, that the ascian was properly in attendance. He voiced as much, feeling the warmth under his palm.
“You’re not just a shade.”
Emet-Selch’s smile quirked in passing humor, “You have puzzled this out just now.”
The dig alone was encouragement enough to raise his other hand to join the first at Emet-Selch’s collar. The ascian was undeserving of the gentleness, he knew, yet he could not shake the hesitation that slowed his hands as they snaked up the man’s collar to mold around his neck. It was bizarre, all of it. And he was intrigued regardless.
It was a surreal feeling created by the utter indifference and facade of intimacy promoted by Emet-Selch. His understanding of this was how it based in violence and yet he merely held, cupping the ascian’s neck. A thumb slid along the length of his throat, seeking out his pulse. Finding and gingerly pressing in, he counted the unhurried beats under his touch. Somehow he had expected an absence.
“My, my, how tender… One might get the wrong idea, my dear,” he smirked, sighing with far too much ease than the hero preferred.
Ire pricked, the hero submitted to step closer, elbows bending in the ease of reach brought by reduced distance. He adjusted his grip, fingers flexing before tightening. Distantly, he acknowledged there was not much difference between the haft of his axe and a man's neck. The thought should have worried him, yet it merely coaxed his finger tips to bear down on the back of the ascian's neck.
Be it mere minutes or bells gone by, the hero did not recognize the passage of time as he fixated upon the breathing that gradually descended into shallow breaths. A bit more , he decided as a sharp in-take by the all-power Emet-Selch entranced him. Just a little more , he ventured a dark curiosity wondering at what point would the ascian begin to gasp. A little further . His hands were steady and firm against the flushed skin. He wondered just how far he could take it.
Restraint slipped in the wake of a gloved hand coming up to grasp his wrist, silk-clad nails digging into his veins and he dug his own dull ones into the paragon’s jugular. A pathetic bid to stop answered only with added pressure to the placement of his thumbs along the ascian’s throat. Certainly, a god amongst mortals had well enough the strength to end this but there he stood, every hoarse breath another encouragement to wring his porcelain neck. This was his justification. Emet-Selch could end this at any moment. This was his excuse as he squeezed again.
“Warrior,” he squeaked , strained and struggling and sating a craving which the hero dared not consider in that moment or perhaps ever. The near-broken sound sent a tremor along his spine, spiking a delightful thrill. It was just near enough to a plea, enough to tear the warrior’s gaze from the horrendous marks he wore into the pristine flesh. It was a mistake, the sight of parted wet lips and half-lidded eyes of a man deprived of a singular necessity carried sick satisfaction and yet the gleam in his gaze beneath lowered lashes hinted something.
Emet-Selch had the warrior’s undivided attention. A gradual sickening twist of his mouth, he smiled. And he said then in a tone which betrayed his remarkable performance;
“I am beyond you, dear hero .”
Played for a damnable fool.
His grip went slack as his blood ran cold. He did not remove his hands so much as they fell away, hanging limp at his sides. Emet-Selch watched him from the corner of his eye, languid as he clasped collar once more and righted the part of his hair. It seemed like an afterthought in the way he thumbed the spit from his lower lip.
"How endearing that you perceive me as an equal although horrendously incorrect."
He had no words, his mouth felt as though it was stuffed with ash. Emet-Selch delighted in the dawning mortification upon the hero’s face.
“I must say,” the ascian started in the same low tone that began this. “That look in your eyes as you seized my throat was rather enticing; exciting even. So terribly unbecoming of such a benevolent hero.”
The hero was not keen about the look in Emet-Selch’s eyes nor in the way the ascian leaned forward and asked.
“Would you show me it again sometime?”
A tremor snaked its way up his spine and the hero decided then that it had in fact gone beyond his control, assuming he had any to begin with. Stepping back and turning away, he forced his legs into motion as he began to walk away without reply. He witnessed Emet-Selch’s brow quirk at his passing.
From behind he heard a low, pleasant chuckle. Emet-Selch called after, “Rest well, hero. Sweet dreams and what-else.”
And what-else, the hero swallowed the lump in his throat as he carried himself back to the Pendants, dreading the sinking sensation that accompanied the knowledge that he would know no decent rest that night.