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The first time Emet-Selch visited him alone, he did not speak, content to let the Ascian ramble on to himself as he viewed the Warrior’s progress in the Ocular.
“Who are you?” came the question, to which he did not answer. He didn’t owe this man anything. An exasperated sigh, then the noise of his teleportation exit.
G’raha Tia let out his held breath in a rush. He did not think he could go toe to toe with Emet-Selch at this juncture. He had to wait, bide his time. Hope the Warrior could find her way through. Find the Light. Contain it. Just for a while longer.
Please.
The second time Emet-Selch visited him alone, words were short. G’raha knew he was being baited into a reaction and it pleased him that his calm demeanor was grating on the Ascian’s nerves. But he would not reward his theatrics.
“Who are you?” came the question.
“I am the Exarch,” he responded, which was met with rolled eyes, a snap of the fingers, and he was away.
G’raha laughed softly to himself. He did not know his foe’s game, but his boredom provided some amusement. Still, he knew he was being watched and caution was of the utmost importance. Letting his guard down now would be a dangerous mistake.
The fifth time Emet-Selch visited him alone, he had to restrain himself from strangling the man just to get him to stop talking. He was barely paying attention but even the noise from the Ascian was enough to give him a headache. No matter. He needed to focus on the Warrior’s progression with the miners in Amh Araeng, after which-
“Like Lahabrea, constantly jumping from vessel to vessel.”
At this, G’raha Tia felt his ears shift and his thoughts stilled. He did not move to show interest, but never before had Emet-Selch spoken so freely about his brethren.
“Such fire, such determination! So much passion… fleeting and forgotten…”
“I am sorry” ran from G’raha’s mouth like a river before he could stop it and his hand shot to cover it.
The Ascian snorted, seeming to snap out of his morose memories. “Sorry? Whatever for? It was his own miscalculation that brought it about, his own arrogance.”
“Sentiment is hard to fake,” he replied uneasily. “And you never lie, as has been explained.”
At this, G’raha turned to find Emet-Selch glaring up at him. He watched something flicker behind those golden eyes. Conflict, sorrow, rage.
“Who are you?” he spat. “Who are you that makes you presumptuous enough to offer sympathy? You, who uses my Tower like a boy’s plaything?”
The Ascian advanced up the Ocular stairs and backed G’raha against the mirror.
“You have performed feats that none of the Unsundered could have done, with less of a soul than we who have seen eternity. Who. Are. You?”
Before G’raha could answer, or think to cast a spell in his defense, he felt his hood being ripped from his head, dispelling the glamours with it. He blinked in the sudden brightness as the Ascian grabbed his chin to pull him to his gaze. G’raha met eyes of gold as they took in his face. His slight struggle was met with a light sear of pain down his neck. Not damage. But definitely a warning. He quieted.
“Well well, Allagan royal blood. I was correct in your origins, but you…” Emet-Selch’s eyes widened and he gave a terrible lopsided grin in recognition. “I know you. The young Miqo’te scholar who trapped himself in the Tower some years ago. You helped the Warrior in clearing this place of its connection with the Thirteenth. But you are not so young anymore, are you, G’raha Tia ?”
G’raha couldn’t breathe. One hundred years of planning on the First, many more on the Source - undone with a murmured apology. He shut his eyes and prayed to Azeyma for forgiveness. He had tried. He had tried. He had failed.
A soft gloved thumb against the crystal that streaked his face pulled him back to the present. Emet-Selch’s glee was gone, replaced with brows furrowed in concentration and something like… pity.
“This place really has taken its literal pound of flesh, hasn’t it?” murmured the Ascian. “That is how you do it. Offer yourself as a sacrifice. It feeds on you.”
Then, “You are dying, you know that, yes?”
“I am aware.”
“No, you’re not.”
Emet-Selch let his face go and pressed a palm against his chest as he continued. “I don’t mean death as in the end of the body. I mean permanent death. No Lifestream awaits you, Exarch.”
"How do you know?" G'raha asked and, without thinking much of it, brought his arm up to curl his hand around Emet-Selch's. He felt the man stiffen for a moment, then relax again.
"I am gifted with the power to see the state of souls," the Ascian explained, as if already bored with the thought. "Part of my duties in a bygone age was to help those transition unto death, and teach others to perform the rites. That is the meaning behind my title."
G'raha looked away, feeling slightly nauseous. "I see."
"You are more Rejoined than others. That is the only reason you still breathe, my dear."
G'raha nearly shot into the wall at his words. Not the state of his soul, not the Rejoinings or his imminent death.
My dear.
"Why are you telling me this?"
There was no longer anywhere to retreat when Emet-Selch brought his lips dangerously close to his and bunched his robes in his gloved hand.
"Of all the sundered souls I have ever had the displeasure of meeting," the man murmured, "you know the terrible burden of living most of all."
Not that he had ever expected to be kissed by an Ascian, but even if he had, G'raha would not have expected the combination of tenderness and possessiveness that seemed now, in the moment, exactly expected of Emet-Selch given the conversation. The part of him that screamed to cast a spell melted away as one of the man's arms snaked around his middle and pulled him closer, the other still tangled in the front of his robes. How long has it been? The touch of another? G'raha wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down. Some part of him, some part of him he didn't understand, remembered what this felt like. Not Emet-Selch specifically, but someone, long ago.
The man pulled away and dragged a thumb across his cheeks, one, then the other. "I have brought men to tears, but it usually takes more time, and at least dinner and wine."
G'raha used one hand to wipe his eyes with the barest of chuckles. "My apologies, there was… I cannot explain… someone, he was… like you."
"I am not him, as if I would-"
"No, like you ," G'raha hissed, ears flicking in frustration. "Like an Ascian, but… not."
He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a soft laugh that was more mourning than mirth.
“Of course it would be you. You who would have the greatest chance of remembering.”
“Remember what ?”
But Emet-Selch did not reply. Instead, the Ascian let go of his robes and settled his cowl back over his head. G’raha sighed in relief, but felt a trickle of magic down the sides. Subtle, but old-feeling.
He patted the fabric, trying to figure out the change. Emet-Selch rolled his eyes.
“A simple spell. No one will be able to remove your little disguise but you and I. Not by purpose or accident, spell or fight. It will remain neatly in place. Say you did it yourself, if it pleases you.”
The Ascian turned and stepped lightly down the stairs, portal already forming near the door. He was almost to it when G’raha acted.
“Wait!”
The man stopped, but did not turn.
“We have a small vineyard here,” G’raha continued, almost tripping over his words. “We do have our simple pleasures, after all. There’s a vintage from the first harvest that is particularly good, if you would care to… speak again.”
Emet-Selch turned slightly so his wide smirk could easily be seen. “It’s a date then, my dear Exarch.”
The sixth time Emet-Selch visited him alone, he brought two glasses.