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114 » but at least i'm not a goddamn failure
[The strangest thing about being in the First is still the sensation of having a home to return to. Aster didn't have that, even in the Source. All of Eorzea was his home, one way or another, and the flip side of that was that he didn't have any place that he called home in particular. The Scions are his family, in a way, but the Rising Stones was no more personal to Aster than his rented bed at Cloud Nine in Ishgard, or his room over at the Carline Canopy in Gridania.
His suite in the Pendants is different, though. Oh, it had been uncomfortable, at first. Too sumptuous for a man like him, and too grand a gesture coming from the Exarch, who was at that point a stranger who didn't feel like a stranger. But now, as Aster returns to his room after a long day of investigating how to get to the Tempest, per Emet-Selch's invitation, he lets himself think, for the barest moment, that it feels like home.
He lets himself finally acknowledge how incredibly sick he's been feeling.]
His suite in the Pendants is different, though. Oh, it had been uncomfortable, at first. Too sumptuous for a man like him, and too grand a gesture coming from the Exarch, who was at that point a stranger who didn't feel like a stranger. But now, as Aster returns to his room after a long day of investigating how to get to the Tempest, per Emet-Selch's invitation, he lets himself think, for the barest moment, that it feels like home.
He lets himself finally acknowledge how incredibly sick he's been feeling.]
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It might assuage Alisaie's concerns if he put up a better face. A handsomer one. He's hardly vain — and there are so many other things that he should be worried about — but he has the vague sense that she might like that, that she'd like for him to look more handsome. The Exarch might like that too, when they finally see him again (and Aster swears to himself that they will see him again). So he sweeps a gauntleted hand through his mop of brown hair, hisses when a few stray locks get caught between the steel plates. He rips his armor off, casts it haphazardly around the suite. Wanders into the adjoining room to draw a bath.
The steam makes Aster lightheaded enough that he thinks he might faint, and he keeps seeing white behind his eyelids when he closes them, but it's fine. It's fine. He grits his teeth and he says it's fine; he stumbles out of the bath to dry himself carelessly with a cotton towel. He doesn't do a particularly good job of it: there are still wet droplets on his skin when he walks over to the mirror to shave. But he wraps the towel around his waist anyway, and he doesn't bother to draw it up over his shoulders again. The cold pinpricks of water against his skin remind him to stay awake.
As he's drawing the razor across his chin, a coughing fit seizes him; he drops the blade, and it comes away red with blood.]
Bugger me —
[Oh, he hasn't sworn like that in a long time now. It could nearly make him laugh; he feels almost young, almost young after feeling so old for so long. But he can't get much more out because his cough leaves white droplets spattered against the marble alongside his blood — and when he lifts his hand to his lips to cover his mouth, he only gets the Light-stained liquid all over his fingers.
Instead of looking at his reflection to see the damage he's done to himself, or at the razor on the floor, Aster sets his jaw and turns on the faucet, cleaning his hands, and the blood, and his own corrupted fluids.]
Haven't done that since I was...
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[ That voice, snide and mocking and not pretending not to find humor in it, is soft for proximity, and the quite of Aster's suite: just around the doorway. There's a whisper of fabric and shuffling footsteps, and Emet-Selch's reflection appears in the mirror, smiling faintly as he leans against the doorframe. ]
That was a—
[ His pale eyes light on the bloodied razor. ]
And there it is. There was no need to throw it, you know. Your hand was the true culprit.
[ The jest is mild; he bends to pluck the razor up off the floor on his way to the of the sink, and reaches for the tap to rinse it off — and pauses, gazing down without surprise at the droplets of red and pearly white the spray of water didn't quite catch.
He looks back up, studying Aster's face. ]
Look at you! An utter wreck, and still trying so hard not to disappoint your faithful flock.
[ He sets the razor on the edge of the basin with a neat click. ]
Let me see.
[ It's a smooth imitation of a kinder entreaty, as gentle and coddling as any healer's: he lifts a hand toward Aster's chin without touching him; an instructive gesture, directing him to tilt his head. ]
no subject
On the one hand, Emet-Selch has made it clear that he won't do any physical harm to Aster's body. He needs his prospective Lightwarden alive, after all — alive up until the moment that he dies, and is reborn. On the other hand, the kind of alpha-male snarling over pride and dignity that once kept the adventurer alive in the shadier streets of Limsa Lominsa would now have him refuse any semblance of being submissive to Emet-Selch whatsoever. He doesn't want to give the Ascian the satisfaction of seeing him submit. But he doesn't want to give the Ascian the satisfaction of seeing him angry, either — so it's like a game of Lord of Verminion stuck in complete deadlock: there's no good move to make at all.
Aster ignores Emet-Selch, at least for a moment. He keeps splashing water into the sink until all the blood is washed away from the porcelain, and then he looks into the mirror, and grimaces. It's not a small cut like he was hoping; his hand slipped enough that it left a fairly long, if not deep, cut across his cheek and down his jawline.
It only takes a moment — after he's satisfied with examining it for himself, the adventurer turns his jaw towards Emet-Selch, every bit as casual as if the once and former emperor of Garlemald were simply another attendant for the Pendants. He doesn't smile.]
Well? What do you think?
[Aster doesn't try to hide the contempt in his voice when he adds:]
I expect you'll say it'll look better covered in that chalky paste sin eaters are made of.
[Whatever the hells it is. Meol.]
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There it is. The little spark of bitterness I knew you must be hiding. No need to hold it back, hero; you've earned it.
[ A warm, pleasantly effervescent sensation begins along the cut, as if to remind Aster that now is not the time for sudden movements or sharp retorts. ]
But you've been a good sport, haven't you? In spite of everything. It could be argued that you brought this upon yourself — but our friend the good Crystal Exarch made it all possible, did he not? And sent you off to meet all the Lightwardens, no less. I suppose he couldn't have known.
[ There's no attempt, even cursory, to make the implication subtle. ]
Stay still a moment; the skin may be fragile.
[ His fingers, cool and impersonal, press lightly on Aster's jaw, ostensibly testing to be sure the healing was more than superficial. ]
no subject
But is that really the case? Aster wonders. He doesn't do much but wonder. There's a part of him that doesn't actually care to find out. Sympathy will not change the fact that they are diametrically opposed, and if he had anything to say about what he is or isn't holding back, he's forgotten it by the time the Ascian mentions G'raha Tia again. Something like hatred flares in Aster's heart, though he's grown too tired for hatred. It's more of a dull, throbbing pain. That might just be the migraine pounding behind his eyelids, though.
If only Emet-Selch's cool touch didn't feel like a promise to make the headache go away. Aster grits his teeth against it.]
You know very well what he meant to do.
[He's not quite angry about the Exarch's secrecy, nor about Urianger's. G'raha was being a self-sacrificial fool, but Aster's hardly in a position to criticize anyone for being a self-sacrificial fool. He can, himself, almost appreciate the beauty of Emet-Selch's plan, the way it makes full use of his own reputation as an undefeated warrior. And Aster knows full well that the world has never been in more danger — real danger — than by the threat of his own power, and because he is, himself, a self-sacrificial fool. But if he's going to die, it's not quite going to be like this. Emet-Selch probably isn't going to produce a knife and thrust it between his ribs.
He wants to ask why the man bothered to heal his little scrape, but that feels like it would be, somehow, falling into a trap. At the very least, it would give the man an opening to gloat.
What is he supposed to do about this? About an Ascian casually invading his suite and patching up his little accidents? There's no point in fighting him here, of course. Aster suddenly wonders if Ardbert could intervene, but he has the feeling that the Warrior of Darkness is either off doing something else, or can't actually appear when Emet-Selch is around. What a pain.
He's too tired for all of this. He doesn't like his impulses, the way some animal instinct is telling him that it might be okay to close his eyes and ask Emet-Selch to make the headache go away, too.
Bereft of more mature ideas, Aster simply presses his own finger against Emet-Selch's cheek in return. Solus zos Galvus's Garlean jowls have always looked strangely plump.
[12:57] You poke Emet-Selch.]I'm going to take him back, you know.