[ As he says the words, he knows they're not the right ones but it is a useless, belated realization, the words escaping before he can stop himself. ]
Well, one certainly would not consider you particularly pleased with me right now.
[ Viktor is not, he realizes, angry, or even irritated. Hurt is a far more accurate term, which he only seems to realize upon actually daring to study Viktor, taking in the sight of his drooped ears, the tense set of his posture. Guilt is a mostly unfamiliar emotion, rare as water in the desert but he feels the first stirrings of it now as Viktor beats a hasty escape and leaves him here with nothing but the souls who'd borne witness.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he returns to his room - their room, the simulacra are nestled in bed, Emet-Selch reading to the shade of Viktor. Emet-Selch erases both of them with barely a thought, and reaches out to Hythlodaeus, only to pause. There's no answer. He's there. Emet-Selch stretches out his awareness and can feel the bastard, but every attempt to reach out to him is like attempting to reach through an invisible wall.
You can clean up your own messes once in a while, Hythlodaeus murmurs, and closes the connection entirely, leaving him standing in the ice-cold room, genuinely irritated for multiple reasons, now.
When was the last time he apologized properly? He's made vague concessions to Viktor here and there, acknowledged when he was too sharp, too clumsy with his words, but an actual apology - detailing where and when he went wrong and apologizing for that? He doesn't recall. It would be easier, he reckons, if he understood exactly what it was he was intended to apologize for. On some level it was satisfying to have Viktor push back against him with such intent - he'd rather that intent focused literally anywhere else, but he'd take it if needed. Viktor needed the wherewithal to get through these coming moons, certainly, but Emet-Selch found he did not particularly enjoy when that pushback was aimed in his direction.
Worse, and useless, is the knee-jerk thought that it doesn't matter that Viktor is upset because that's not the truth. It is a lie he feeds himself to assuage himself of any guilt. Emet-Selch was right; he had the knowledge and the experience, he was correct because only he understood the Underworld in this way; everyone else was dead and gone, their aether long since repurposed, reformed, lacking knowledge. But wasn't that the issue? Minimizing what Viktor could feel, which was far more than anyone alive could manage. Their bindings had intertwined them so inextricably - Emet-Selch couldn't know just what Viktor could feel. He could be certain that Viktor would not have the lifetimes of knowledge to know how to tend to the Sea, and that his awareness was undeniably less intense than the man who was ostensibly responsible, but...
How irritating. He cleans what little needs to be cleaned, starts a fire in the fireplace by hand just to have something to do, and spends the rest of his time working on busywork, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door to announce Viktor's arrival. Hythlodaeus answers exactly none of his summons, nor his intermittent inquires, nothing but cool, clear nothingness save for amusement at his consternation. ]
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Well, one certainly would not consider you particularly pleased with me right now.
[ Viktor is not, he realizes, angry, or even irritated. Hurt is a far more accurate term, which he only seems to realize upon actually daring to study Viktor, taking in the sight of his drooped ears, the tense set of his posture. Guilt is a mostly unfamiliar emotion, rare as water in the desert but he feels the first stirrings of it now as Viktor beats a hasty escape and leaves him here with nothing but the souls who'd borne witness.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he returns to his room - their room, the simulacra are nestled in bed, Emet-Selch reading to the shade of Viktor. Emet-Selch erases both of them with barely a thought, and reaches out to Hythlodaeus, only to pause. There's no answer. He's there. Emet-Selch stretches out his awareness and can feel the bastard, but every attempt to reach out to him is like attempting to reach through an invisible wall.
You can clean up your own messes once in a while, Hythlodaeus murmurs, and closes the connection entirely, leaving him standing in the ice-cold room, genuinely irritated for multiple reasons, now.
When was the last time he apologized properly? He's made vague concessions to Viktor here and there, acknowledged when he was too sharp, too clumsy with his words, but an actual apology - detailing where and when he went wrong and apologizing for that? He doesn't recall. It would be easier, he reckons, if he understood exactly what it was he was intended to apologize for. On some level it was satisfying to have Viktor push back against him with such intent - he'd rather that intent focused literally anywhere else, but he'd take it if needed. Viktor needed the wherewithal to get through these coming moons, certainly, but Emet-Selch found he did not particularly enjoy when that pushback was aimed in his direction.
Worse, and useless, is the knee-jerk thought that it doesn't matter that Viktor is upset because that's not the truth. It is a lie he feeds himself to assuage himself of any guilt. Emet-Selch was right; he had the knowledge and the experience, he was correct because only he understood the Underworld in this way; everyone else was dead and gone, their aether long since repurposed, reformed, lacking knowledge. But wasn't that the issue? Minimizing what Viktor could feel, which was far more than anyone alive could manage. Their bindings had intertwined them so inextricably - Emet-Selch couldn't know just what Viktor could feel. He could be certain that Viktor would not have the lifetimes of knowledge to know how to tend to the Sea, and that his awareness was undeniably less intense than the man who was ostensibly responsible, but...
How irritating. He cleans what little needs to be cleaned, starts a fire in the fireplace by hand just to have something to do, and spends the rest of his time working on busywork, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door to announce Viktor's arrival. Hythlodaeus answers exactly none of his summons, nor his intermittent inquires, nothing but cool, clear nothingness save for amusement at his consternation. ]