[ Emet-Selch's voice is emotionless, flat, but there's an edge to it he can't quite dull. This, he thinks, is the difficulty with attempting to contextualize the past. Viktor has asked. He will answer. But he does not want grace extended when he is not deserving of it.
There was no kindness in any of the decisions that were made. They were practical decisions made to make life easier. They were favors, bought and traded. Emet-Selch had enjoyed the dogs far more than people. That it was a kindness to them was incidental, even if he'd enjoyed that more than any particular benefit the people had enjoyed in their pursuit of imports.
But Viktor would see everything in the best possible way, even when he ought not to. At least here and now, Viktor looks - not happy. Not forgiving. He looks oddly melancholy, and for a moment, Emet-Selch feels the most uncomfortable sense of regret. For a moment, he'd wanted to be the kind of person who'd done it out of the kindness of his heart, no matter how ridiculous. He'd wanted to be worthy of the grace Viktor would offer without hesitation, but that was not reality. He was not that man, had never been that man.
[ Viktor answers Emet-Selch's icy wall with a wry but warming grin, the faintest hint of fond exasperation crossing his features - an unusual look on his face, in particular, but not quite so unfamiliar upon the soul of Azem. Emet-Selch will never willingly see himself or the world as Viktor does, but that is not a problem in need of fixing. It is a point where the two of them can meet, can make balance. ]
I do not seek to absolve you. Only look for the good worth preserving. 'Tis worthwhile to try and keep what one can, I think.
[ Fingers hover over the assembled selections, as instructed, and he picks one of the cheeses he hasn't tried before, sliding the snack onto his tongue, and then listing bodily to lean against Emet-Selch, watching the horizon in silence.
Next, he selects another pickle, crunches into it and hums happily. ]
When I am too old to f-fight, you can trade me to a pickle farm.
[ Worse, he thinks, is the fact that Viktor doesn't rise to the easy bait of Emet-Selch's annoyance dangled in front of him, carrot on a string. Everything would be easier if Viktor sunk to the levels Emet-Selch were willing to, but instead, he drags Emet-Selch from the muck every time. ]
There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
[ Freedom has always felt like the greatest gift that might could be given. Once, he had thought it simply part and parcel of his love of wandering. And it is, but it's more than that, too. Freedom to choose, to cut whatever path feels best, to live - he'd wanted that for all else, because it was not something he could claim himself. Not with his soul writ into the braid of time he and Hydaelyn had made, into the Sundering, into the summoning of Zodiark, into the lives of every lingering member of the Convocation.
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Emet-Selch's voice is emotionless, flat, but there's an edge to it he can't quite dull. This, he thinks, is the difficulty with attempting to contextualize the past. Viktor has asked. He will answer. But he does not want grace extended when he is not deserving of it.
There was no kindness in any of the decisions that were made. They were practical decisions made to make life easier. They were favors, bought and traded. Emet-Selch had enjoyed the dogs far more than people. That it was a kindness to them was incidental, even if he'd enjoyed that more than any particular benefit the people had enjoyed in their pursuit of imports.
But Viktor would see everything in the best possible way, even when he ought not to. At least here and now, Viktor looks - not happy. Not forgiving. He looks oddly melancholy, and for a moment, Emet-Selch feels the most uncomfortable sense of regret. For a moment, he'd wanted to be the kind of person who'd done it out of the kindness of his heart, no matter how ridiculous. He'd wanted to be worthy of the grace Viktor would offer without hesitation, but that was not reality. He was not that man, had never been that man.
Viktor, irritatingly, made him want to try. ]
Finish eating instead of complimenting.
no subject
I do not seek to absolve you. Only look for the good worth preserving. 'Tis worthwhile to try and keep what one can, I think.
[ Fingers hover over the assembled selections, as instructed, and he picks one of the cheeses he hasn't tried before, sliding the snack onto his tongue, and then listing bodily to lean against Emet-Selch, watching the horizon in silence.
Next, he selects another pickle, crunches into it and hums happily. ]
When I am too old to f-fight, you can trade me to a pickle farm.
no subject
There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
no subject
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?