[ He doesn't quite jump at the comment, but his back stiffens a little, shoulders squaring, not expecting the attention, the warmth in Viktor's voice at his observation. A marvel seems like he's slightly overselling it. He hasn't done anything particularly of note, but then he supposes any bit of fanciful magic must be made all the more striking given the fact that Viktor hasn't seen him perform acts like this for the simple pleasure of creating. ]
You, my dear, are biased in the worst way.
[ Try as he might, he cannot quite muster the haughty tone he wishes for, instead finding himself embarrassed in the oddest way at unmerited compliments, even if the giver is effusive with his praise. Blessedly, distraction comes in the form of Viktor eating one of the ridiculously large grapes, spitting it out near as soon as he does. Emet-Selch watches with vague amusement, vanishing the one he had taken a bite from into nothing but a flicker of aether, cleaning his fingers of juice with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket while Viktor does his magic trick.
It is, he thinks, rather impressive. That much fine detail work while an item is moving is no small feat, and Viktor executes it so easily after very nearly dying. To do so is not a large spend of his aether, but there's a part of Emet-Selch he has to swallow down that wants to stop him, a horrible kernel of fear that he has overestimated Viktor's ability to withstand a drain on his power.
A needless worry - the grape unfurls like a flower blooming in impossible colors and Emet-Selch releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when Viktor turns his attention back, all bright laughter and satisfaction at his little trick. ]
I will thank you to keep your little tricks to a minimum until you've had at least a proper night of sleep, ideally two, and a proper meal.
[ As to the question, Emet-Selch fixes himself another little plate of treats, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
[ Is he biased or the best judge? Has he not watched, witnessed, felt, across years, across lifetimes, this slow swing from despair and duty to hope? A marvel, a miracle, to see the man who had been Solus zos Galvus become this, not merely a force for good, but a man who allows himself the indulgence of play. Viktor does not argue Emet-Selch's assertion, only answers with a smile, and thinks to himself that the sudden set of his shoulders calls to mind that bird of his, feathers ruffled.
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
[ He's eating between his complains, so Emet-Selch leave that alone for the time being, feeling marginally more like himself the more he replenishes his own aether, a little less jarred by the whole experience. He'll remember the chill of Viktor's skin for far too long, but at least the thought is easier to compartmentalize. ]
Two and a half generations.
[ The problem with asking what Viktor thought about the story is that now, he has to figure out how to tell it. The issue with that is the same with any bit of his prior history being revealed, Viktor sees more than Emet-Selch ever intends to lay bare. He'd gotten himself into this by showing any aspect of it, though, the same as when he'd invited Viktor to Amaurot, inviting his own demise. ]
When Garlean war dogs are too old to fight on the frontlines, they are retired. Some go to the houses of those who were responsible for them. For those who do not, Garlemald had a series of contracts to sell the dogs at a discounted rate to farms, or households. Well-trained creatures may not have had a place on the battlefield any longer, but they could ward off bandits and the like.
[ He hadn't spotted any of the dogs on the latest trip, and assumed with the crumbling of Garlemald and the war itself, most of those more obscure trade deals had fallen to the wayside. ]
When a vendor could not pay in coin or jewels, and if they produced something of value, we would accept like payment. Garlemald's weather was far too inhospitable for farms.
[ And so, they traded and reappropriated when the trade was insufficient - or if the material was valuable. Emet-Selch does not think it necessary to elaborate to that extent. When he allowed Solus to pass, so too did he arrange for his belongings to be reappropriated, and the ancient, scarred wardog that looked as old as Emet-Selch felt, had been given to this farm. He had enjoyed their cheese quite a bit, and the farm was far enough away that no one would question why they would have a gift of Garlean favor on their farm. ]
A kind endeavor. Both for the d-dogs and the families who received them.
[ There is a well in him still, of sadness, of anger, of hurt and fear, so deep as to be near impossible to plumb, so cold near the bottom it threatens to freeze his blood. But he is not the hot-headed boy who'd left behind Vilja to be Viktor all those years ago. He is not the green adventurer, all too ready to take up arms and meet violence with violence. He knows now that nothing is simple. Black and white, Good and Evil are not the clean cut concepts of fairy tales and folk stories. There is nuance to every situation, every tale.
Nuance makes it no easier to digest the horrors and harm he has witnessed. In some ways, it makes it worse. All he can do is face the waves of grief, of old anger, as they come, and embrace whatever is left after. Here, a glimpse of good, of order, of balance from a man who'd made a nation with the intent of tearing down the entire world. Silence settles over Viktor, a still, heavy, thinking quiet.
There was a time when Viktor could not look at the man sat beside him without seeing blood. Countless lives lost in his name, by his hand. Ruins of families, of whole nations, piled before him. Nuance had, of course, complicated that very simple vision. He could not overlook the madnesses of loss, of tempering, of too much time and an altered memory. Faced with the loss of his own loved ones, has he not brought half a world to another near ruined star? Tasked countless people with holding hope for what must feel to many a pointless endeavor?
And look at who is here beside him, shoring up walls, banking fires, building roads instead of ruin. Forgiveness had not come easily, but it had come. Looking at Hades now, Viktor does not see blood, hate, hurt. He does not see Solus zos Galvus, not anymore.
A strange smile settles across his features, dim, foggy, nearly wistful. It is an odd look, he knows, and unmistakably unusual. He could blame it on lingering weakness, but that would, he thinks, do both of them a disservice. As a rule, he has been careful not to bring up those parts of Emet-Selch's past, but they are right there in front of the both of them now. So, he reaches out, slides fingers over Emet-Selch's palm and squeezes, tight as he can. ]
It- it means the world to me that you've chosen kinder endeavors here. On the First. For our people.
[ 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
You, my dear, are biased in the worst way.
[ Try as he might, he cannot quite muster the haughty tone he wishes for, instead finding himself embarrassed in the oddest way at unmerited compliments, even if the giver is effusive with his praise. Blessedly, distraction comes in the form of Viktor eating one of the ridiculously large grapes, spitting it out near as soon as he does. Emet-Selch watches with vague amusement, vanishing the one he had taken a bite from into nothing but a flicker of aether, cleaning his fingers of juice with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket while Viktor does his magic trick.
It is, he thinks, rather impressive. That much fine detail work while an item is moving is no small feat, and Viktor executes it so easily after very nearly dying. To do so is not a large spend of his aether, but there's a part of Emet-Selch he has to swallow down that wants to stop him, a horrible kernel of fear that he has overestimated Viktor's ability to withstand a drain on his power.
A needless worry - the grape unfurls like a flower blooming in impossible colors and Emet-Selch releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when Viktor turns his attention back, all bright laughter and satisfaction at his little trick. ]
I will thank you to keep your little tricks to a minimum until you've had at least a proper night of sleep, ideally two, and a proper meal.
[ As to the question, Emet-Selch fixes himself another little plate of treats, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
What is your theory of how I came to know it?
no subject
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
no subject
[ He's eating between his complains, so Emet-Selch leave that alone for the time being, feeling marginally more like himself the more he replenishes his own aether, a little less jarred by the whole experience. He'll remember the chill of Viktor's skin for far too long, but at least the thought is easier to compartmentalize. ]
Two and a half generations.
[ The problem with asking what Viktor thought about the story is that now, he has to figure out how to tell it. The issue with that is the same with any bit of his prior history being revealed, Viktor sees more than Emet-Selch ever intends to lay bare. He'd gotten himself into this by showing any aspect of it, though, the same as when he'd invited Viktor to Amaurot, inviting his own demise. ]
When Garlean war dogs are too old to fight on the frontlines, they are retired. Some go to the houses of those who were responsible for them. For those who do not, Garlemald had a series of contracts to sell the dogs at a discounted rate to farms, or households. Well-trained creatures may not have had a place on the battlefield any longer, but they could ward off bandits and the like.
[ He hadn't spotted any of the dogs on the latest trip, and assumed with the crumbling of Garlemald and the war itself, most of those more obscure trade deals had fallen to the wayside. ]
When a vendor could not pay in coin or jewels, and if they produced something of value, we would accept like payment. Garlemald's weather was far too inhospitable for farms.
[ And so, they traded and reappropriated when the trade was insufficient - or if the material was valuable. Emet-Selch does not think it necessary to elaborate to that extent. When he allowed Solus to pass, so too did he arrange for his belongings to be reappropriated, and the ancient, scarred wardog that looked as old as Emet-Selch felt, had been given to this farm. He had enjoyed their cheese quite a bit, and the farm was far enough away that no one would question why they would have a gift of Garlean favor on their farm. ]
no subject
[ There is a well in him still, of sadness, of anger, of hurt and fear, so deep as to be near impossible to plumb, so cold near the bottom it threatens to freeze his blood. But he is not the hot-headed boy who'd left behind Vilja to be Viktor all those years ago. He is not the green adventurer, all too ready to take up arms and meet violence with violence. He knows now that nothing is simple. Black and white, Good and Evil are not the clean cut concepts of fairy tales and folk stories. There is nuance to every situation, every tale.
Nuance makes it no easier to digest the horrors and harm he has witnessed. In some ways, it makes it worse. All he can do is face the waves of grief, of old anger, as they come, and embrace whatever is left after. Here, a glimpse of good, of order, of balance from a man who'd made a nation with the intent of tearing down the entire world. Silence settles over Viktor, a still, heavy, thinking quiet.
There was a time when Viktor could not look at the man sat beside him without seeing blood. Countless lives lost in his name, by his hand. Ruins of families, of whole nations, piled before him. Nuance had, of course, complicated that very simple vision. He could not overlook the madnesses of loss, of tempering, of too much time and an altered memory. Faced with the loss of his own loved ones, has he not brought half a world to another near ruined star? Tasked countless people with holding hope for what must feel to many a pointless endeavor?
And look at who is here beside him, shoring up walls, banking fires, building roads instead of ruin. Forgiveness had not come easily, but it had come. Looking at Hades now, Viktor does not see blood, hate, hurt. He does not see Solus zos Galvus, not anymore.
A strange smile settles across his features, dim, foggy, nearly wistful. It is an odd look, he knows, and unmistakably unusual. He could blame it on lingering weakness, but that would, he thinks, do both of them a disservice. As a rule, he has been careful not to bring up those parts of Emet-Selch's past, but they are right there in front of the both of them now. So, he reaches out, slides fingers over Emet-Selch's palm and squeezes, tight as he can. ]
It- it means the world to me that you've chosen kinder endeavors here. On the First. For our people.
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?