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Is this real enough for you
You were so confused
Now that you’ve decided to stay
We’ll remain together
There’s no escaping me, my love
Darling, there’s no sense in running
You know I will find you
Everything is perfect now
We can live forever
You can’t abandon me
You belong to me
--
breathe in and take my life in you
2021
--
Emet-Selch’s hands are cruel things.
The Exarch tastes warm copper trickling down from his nose; his vision blurs, and he struggles to keep his eyes open, the room swimming in and out of focus so quickly it furthers the nausea already churning heavily in his stomach. Every single part of him hurts. He wonders how many days have passed since Mt. Gulg.
He wonders if the Warrior has already completed her transformation.
Emet-Selch, for his part, is examining his bloodied glove with distaste.
“Come now, Exarch,” he says softly as he snaps his fingers. His gloves pristine again, he finally glances up to examine the Miqo’te before him. “You must be tired of this game.”
His golden eyes glitter with restrained viciousness, his lips curling as he watches the Exarch attempt to sit up straighter against the hard stone wall he has been propped against. The Exarch’s hands are fastened tightly behind him, his staff discarded carelessly behind the Ascian.
“You might try freeing me,” the Exarch replies; he wants his voice to be relaxed and steady but winces at the quiver that comes through.
Emet-Selch shakes his head, folding his hands behind his back. He takes a daunting step closer, smirk widening; he looks almost cheerful. The Exarch supposes he ought to be pleased. He has won.
For now, that is.
“So you can run straight to your precious hero and attempt another failed endeavor to save her? No. Enough of my time has already been wasted.”
The Exarch snarls at the mention of the Warrior, at the reminder of the fate that yet awaited her. That the Exarch himself helped doom her to.
There is a hard glint in Emet-Selch’s gaze now, a sneer twisting his face as he kneels in front of the Exarch.
“Do you think she will throw herself into your arms, Exarch?” He asks in a quiet, taunting tone. “Do you think she will be grateful, knowing how you deceived her?”
The Exarch’s eyes slip closed, unable to suffer the shrewd scrutiny of the Emperor. He lived with the guilt of his actions, the lies, and secrecy for so long, and for what? Everything is now in ruins, his carefully laid plans in tatters; she will die, by his own hand. And that is too much to bear.
“I would endure every bit of her ire, if it meant she lived.”
It is hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.
Emet-Selch scoffs; to the Exarch’s horror, he watches the Ascian’s face shift into that of the Warrior. She smiles beautifully at him, and the Exarch yearns to reach out and touch her, to run his hand along her freckled cheek, to hold her tightly to him. Even if it isn’t really her.
“Oh, G’raha,” she sighs, reaching out and tucking an errant hair behind his ear. “What a mess you have gotten us in.”
The Exarch’s chest tightens; his eyes sting with tears he refuses to shed in Emet-Selch’s presence.
“Forgive me, I beg of you,” he blurts out before he can consider otherwise. “I never meant for this. I only ever intended to save you.”
“I know.” She is so close now, and gods, she even smells the same, a heady mixture of cinnamon and lavender and something so intrinsically her.
And then she is Emet-Selch again, Emet-Selch who reaches out and smashes the Exarch’s head into the wall behind him. Emet-Selch, who laughs and laughs as he straightens and draws slightly away, his gaze almost pitying.
The Exarch is dizzy, so dizzy, and his heart aches.
His head begins to drop, the pain of his mistakes a devastating thing; Emet-Selch strikes like a viper, seizing the Exarch by the neck. His long fingers dig into the flesh, bruising and unforgiving.
“You think you know her,” he spits out, and the Exarch is momentarily surprised by the raw anger Emet-Selch displays, that he had until now been so careful to hide. “You know naught but stories and blind hero worship. Nothing of substance. Nothing that matters.”
“I-”
Emet-Selch’s grip tightens, preventing further protests.
“No. Not as I, I who have known her since time immemorial, I who have known what she can and what she will be again,” Emet-Selch continues furiously.
A desperate, wildly indignant sort of fury swells within the Exarch; he wishes, wishes he could collect himself, regain the calculated calm he mastered long ago. Yet the thought of her being so exploited has him trembling, frustrated with his helpless, pathetic predicament.
“She is not a tool to be used and discarded,” he wants to argue, although it comes out as a breathy huff. Perhaps Emet-Selch can see it in the Exarch’s defiant stare; he exhales in a profoundly unhappy way and releases the Exarch, who lets out a deep gasp at the sudden influx of air.
Then, a closed fist strikes him and there is finally, blessedly, only darkness.
“Let’s try this again, shall we, Exarch?”
When he opens his eyes again, the Exarch finds his hands still bound, though he is now seated on a cushioned, high-backed chair. There is a dull pain in his temple and his back throbs where the bullet pierced him. Still, he is no longer bleeding so freely, and that is a minor comfort.
Emet-Selch is perched serenely against a table just out of the Exarch’s line of sight. He holds something the Exarch cannot quite see, something long and wicked-looking and humming a tune the Exarch does not know.
The Exarch tilts his head back momentarily against the back of the chair as stark reality crashes around him, oppressive and merciless.
He feels completely and utterly a failure, a disappointment to those who placed upon him their faith, their dreams of a better tomorrow. He let them down, every single one of them.
What a fool he was, thinking he could pluck the stars from the heavens.
“Let it not be said that I am nothing if not a gracious host,” Emet-Selch croons in a sing-song voice. “Your wounds have mostly been healed, you will find.”
“Yes, it would not do for your bait to die before your catch arrives,” the Exarch snaps out, driven from his unproductive thoughts as he reluctantly lifts his head. It seems his legendary control is well and truly beyond him now; he has the outrageous notion that if by calling out his name, the Warrior summoned all the reckless impulsivity of his younger self. It does give him a certain thrill, even as Emet-Selch’s jaw sets, his lips pressing into a firm line. He sets the black, spiked … thing onto the table beside him before primly, slowly pulling off his gloves.
“Well, she is a vital part of the plan at this stage,” he concedes, bestowing the Exarch with a horribly gentle smile. “And unlike you, my dear Exarch, I have only ever spoken the truth: I genuinely am very interested in the knowledge you possess.”
“Even should you succeed in your schemes, she will not love you.”
He wants Emet-Selch to hurt as he does.
It does seem to be working; he can see Emet-Selch’s restraint slipping when he clasps his bare hands, the knuckles going very white.
It will accomplish nothing to provoke the former Emperor, the Exarch knows, but gods, does it feel good to poke at that nerve.
Emet-Selch opens his mouth to speak when a peculiar voice rings out through the cold room, interrupting him. The language is unlike anything the Exarch has ever heard, yet he understands it easily.
“Access accepted: Welcome, Hana Amouteru and guests.”
“Guests. Of course. That stubborn woman.” Emet-Selch sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. The Exarch frowns. Was it really such a wonder the Scions would find a way to accompany her? They had endured together through the thick of it, each one, until the end of ends.
“Perhaps you are the one who knows nothing of her,” he snarks as a bright spark of hope sings in his chest. She is here. More importantly, it sounds as if she is still herself.
There is still time. They still have a chance.
Emet-Selch spares him a distracted, distasteful glare and thankfully, fortunately, nothing more before he slips into the shadows to greet his unexpected guests.
The Exarch chances a glance at his staff. It is right there, just out of reach, and if he can only touch it …