[ He finds himself consistently surprised; maybe he should not be at this point. How many times does Viktor need to prove himself better than what Emet-Selch anticipates for him to finally raise the bar? Embarrassing. At least Viktor does not know.
While he busies himself with growing from seed, Emet-Selch sets about making ready to eat, his stomach reminding him that it has been since early morning when he'd haphazardly made eggs and piled them atop toast and then forgotten to eat half of it before getting distracted. Plates. Cutlery. Little knives for cheese because while they could use their existing cutlery, Emet-Selch sees no need to abide savagery when he's perfectly capable of creating a set that will suffice.
It is, he thinks, a little odd to be in the instructor's seat in this capacity. An unthinkable amount of years ago he'd had at least some passing interaction with youths in his capacity as Emet-Selch, be they with the Word of various other seats or a child of one of them. He does not think himself particularly adept with children, but he's passable enough. To teach an adult, over-powered and under-educated in his abilities, is entirely different. With a child, the most one might expect is a creature from a nightmare coming to life. Easy enough to dispose of, and the nightmares of children were not filled with the knowledge of actual horrors. Viktor has seen plenty of horror from which to draw.
Any of his lessons are ones he must adjust and even then, he is not certain how much is actually useful and how much simply the nudge in the right direction is all that must occur, because the soul remembers. He'd taken to every bit Emet-Selch introduced with an ease and familiarity that ached at points when contrasted with the manual labor performed in the kitchens and in the apothecary. How much more they could be, if they just knew.
If Emet-Selch taught them. If they revealed the nature of the world and how it was, and did not make evident how it was Emet-Selch came to know these abilities well enough to teach them.
A handful of yalms away, grape vines crawl across the ground and up their stakes, and Emet-Selch hides a smile despite himself, pleased. Even if they're terrible, the very fact that grapes sprouted and grew is enough. The barrier he maintains between them always feels as if it gets a bit hot when one of them uses their abilities; he doesn't know how else to describe it, even if it is an intangible heat, almost indistinguishable from holding back the full force and brightness of Viktor's soul. The barrier keeping them separate is necessary for so many reasons, one most of all that he does not wish to snuff all of that light and warmth out accidentally.
There's the briefest moment where he thinks Viktor has been awfully quiet longer than he expects which is about when he hears the other man utter an observation with no panic, no fear whatsoever. Viktor falls, a marionette with its strings cut and Emet-Selch presses his lips into a thin line, rising what feels like through sludge. Painfully slow, he makes his way over to where Viktor lies crumpled in front of his grapes.
He's raised the barrier between them ilms for bits and pieces of context, but never dared to do more than the tiniest corner. Too much and he runs the risks he worries about, but he has had little reason to lift them aside from that. This, he thinks with grim amusement, is reason enough. The warmth behind the barrier has always felt like sitting on the other side of a sunny window. The chill is pronounced, seeping through to his bones, making the process of prying his gloves off with his teeth that much more arduous.
One hand nudges itself beneath the nape of his neck, tilting his head up, angling fingers to his pulse while he plants the other atop Viktor's chest, nudging aside cloth to reach skin and flattening his hand once he does. Replenishing aether is not wholly unfamiliar, even if he is a bit unpracticed. He would rather it weren't familiar at all, but workers exhausting themselves - stars, even Hythlodaeus pouring a little too much of himself into a concept to test it and refusing to ask Emet-Selch despite him being there - ]
Is it so hard to listen to me when I speak? [ Despite the sharp edge to his tone, his touch is gentle. When he feeds his own aether into Viktor, following the a guide thread to the rest of the weave, he is gentle. It is not an ocean of force shoving aether back into him, forcibly resuscitating him. Like coaxing the embers of a flame to relight, adding small kindling first and only graduating to larger pieces once he's certain he won't smother the flames. Slowly, the warmth comes back, slowly his vision fills with gold once again and he's never been so glad to look at something and feel his eyes ache a little. Whether or not Viktor can hear him as he works, Emet-Selch complains. ] One plant's fruit at a time. One. Not the whole damned grove, not the largest possible grapes that one could conceivably force a vine to bear. One. And to warn me. I was quite clear on that point as well, you know.
LMAOOO
While he busies himself with growing from seed, Emet-Selch sets about making ready to eat, his stomach reminding him that it has been since early morning when he'd haphazardly made eggs and piled them atop toast and then forgotten to eat half of it before getting distracted. Plates. Cutlery. Little knives for cheese because while they could use their existing cutlery, Emet-Selch sees no need to abide savagery when he's perfectly capable of creating a set that will suffice.
It is, he thinks, a little odd to be in the instructor's seat in this capacity. An unthinkable amount of years ago he'd had at least some passing interaction with youths in his capacity as Emet-Selch, be they with the Word of various other seats or a child of one of them. He does not think himself particularly adept with children, but he's passable enough. To teach an adult, over-powered and under-educated in his abilities, is entirely different. With a child, the most one might expect is a creature from a nightmare coming to life. Easy enough to dispose of, and the nightmares of children were not filled with the knowledge of actual horrors. Viktor has seen plenty of horror from which to draw.
Any of his lessons are ones he must adjust and even then, he is not certain how much is actually useful and how much simply the nudge in the right direction is all that must occur, because the soul remembers. He'd taken to every bit Emet-Selch introduced with an ease and familiarity that ached at points when contrasted with the manual labor performed in the kitchens and in the apothecary. How much more they could be, if they just knew.
If Emet-Selch taught them. If they revealed the nature of the world and how it was, and did not make evident how it was Emet-Selch came to know these abilities well enough to teach them.
A handful of yalms away, grape vines crawl across the ground and up their stakes, and Emet-Selch hides a smile despite himself, pleased. Even if they're terrible, the very fact that grapes sprouted and grew is enough. The barrier he maintains between them always feels as if it gets a bit hot when one of them uses their abilities; he doesn't know how else to describe it, even if it is an intangible heat, almost indistinguishable from holding back the full force and brightness of Viktor's soul. The barrier keeping them separate is necessary for so many reasons, one most of all that he does not wish to snuff all of that light and warmth out accidentally.
There's the briefest moment where he thinks Viktor has been awfully quiet longer than he expects which is about when he hears the other man utter an observation with no panic, no fear whatsoever. Viktor falls, a marionette with its strings cut and Emet-Selch presses his lips into a thin line, rising what feels like through sludge. Painfully slow, he makes his way over to where Viktor lies crumpled in front of his grapes.
He's raised the barrier between them ilms for bits and pieces of context, but never dared to do more than the tiniest corner. Too much and he runs the risks he worries about, but he has had little reason to lift them aside from that. This, he thinks with grim amusement, is reason enough. The warmth behind the barrier has always felt like sitting on the other side of a sunny window. The chill is pronounced, seeping through to his bones, making the process of prying his gloves off with his teeth that much more arduous.
One hand nudges itself beneath the nape of his neck, tilting his head up, angling fingers to his pulse while he plants the other atop Viktor's chest, nudging aside cloth to reach skin and flattening his hand once he does. Replenishing aether is not wholly unfamiliar, even if he is a bit unpracticed. He would rather it weren't familiar at all, but workers exhausting themselves - stars, even Hythlodaeus pouring a little too much of himself into a concept to test it and refusing to ask Emet-Selch despite him being there - ]
Is it so hard to listen to me when I speak? [ Despite the sharp edge to his tone, his touch is gentle. When he feeds his own aether into Viktor, following the a guide thread to the rest of the weave, he is gentle. It is not an ocean of force shoving aether back into him, forcibly resuscitating him. Like coaxing the embers of a flame to relight, adding small kindling first and only graduating to larger pieces once he's certain he won't smother the flames. Slowly, the warmth comes back, slowly his vision fills with gold once again and he's never been so glad to look at something and feel his eyes ache a little. Whether or not Viktor can hear him as he works, Emet-Selch complains. ] One plant's fruit at a time. One. Not the whole damned grove, not the largest possible grapes that one could conceivably force a vine to bear. One. And to warn me. I was quite clear on that point as well, you know.