[ He's read the same pages over and over again but if someone attempted to ask him what he'd just read, he would be functionally useless. He could probably make an effort at a lie, and have that lie be passable, but he could not recall what the last pages were. Unimportant, made all the more so when he thinks about the dejected set of Viktor's ears.

Then, Viktor arrives and Emet-Selch finds himself entirely sidetracked from any attempt at a normal greeting when he spots the empty pickle jar. His brow furrows, doing mental math on the story behind it. ]

Leftover, or have you filched from tomorrow's breakfast?

[ At least the need for tea to go with the cakes gives him something to do other than stare at Viktor. They don't have their stove or their stock of teas, but Emet-Selch did think to pack some of them so they are not bereft of choice. He, of course, brought Viktor's favorites and tries not to think about this like it's some sort of bribery as the water heats. ]

It takes years - lifetimes, even, to gain a fraction of the understanding needed to manage the Underworld. [ He trails off, irritated by how perplexingly difficult he finds the relatively simplistic solution of apologize. His initial foray sounds far too much like an excuse; worse, he can practically feel Hythlodaeus' eyes on them, delightedly watching him fumble his way through. Apologies were not a skillset he'd actively practiced in years, and yet found himself in dire need of more often than not with Viktor. It was incredibly tedious, if necessary. ] I am sorry for my dismissal of your perception. My...assumption was based on your lifespan, aye. 'Twas a thoughtless comment.