[It would've been pretty insulting, to be fair, even if it had been unintentional. Had the situation been reversed, he would've been nearly as annoyed, regardless of rationality. There were expectations.
Emet-Selch, though, feels no particular conflict in having been claimed by Zodiark, yet also desirous of Mettaton's own stake on him. Zodiark was perfect and eternal, and wanting to undo that tie was unthinkable- but he cared (what a terrible word) for Mettaton as well, and what was the point of caring for something if you couldn't keep it? Or be kept by it? So long as he didn't think about it too closely, there was no conflict. He still nestles that bit harder against him before relaxing, appreciating the tighter grip, even the affectionate rubbing.
That he was being scent-marked as well would strike him as odd, but not that much different from having his neck marked up by Mettaton's lips. More of a subtle claim, at that.]
A good thing tempering isn't catching... or else you would be long lost, by now.
[It's not contagious. He'd have to drag him before Zodiark for that, not that he would.]
But yours... 'tis smaller than expected. [Or Amaurotines had unusually large souls, skewing his perspective.] I wondered if I might crush it through mere proximity.
[Rather than inspiring a more reasonable disgust, Emet-Selch just feels protective of Mettaton instead, his own soul tightening its hold on him. It was his, to break or preserve; an unusual feeling.]
But yes- it does feel wholly 'you', at the same time. Open and direct, and honest of emotion. [It was no wonder he could remain in the present so easily.] ...I'd thought that sealing your soul into an object to be a reckless pursuit, but if you're from a place where they are ever available to be reached, I suppose it actually affords you a measure of protection.
[Mettaton finds himself dazed, exhaling at the sensation tightening about him on such a distinct level. It's almost familiar, interacting with someone else's soul directly, though he's never had such an encounter like this. If Emet-Selch's wondering if he might crush him, is that an explanation of this behavior...? Interesting.
It's true. The Ascian's taken him in so thoroughly that he's glad tempering isn't contagious, because he'd be done for. He gets the joy instead of Emet-Selch winding about his very essence like vines, and Mettaton hums, the shift in feeling as if he's leaning into his lover.
Mettaton's experience is too limited to humans and monsters to say any differently, but if he were forced to guess in the moment, he'd say such inordinate size is a trait unique to the Amaurotine. It would further explain why Emet-Selch is so appalled by fractures of a soul.
With his hands having drifted to Emet-Selch's upper back, he begins a pattern of tracing over the entire expanse of his back. He's warm, pleasant, soft, and Mettaton doesn't want to miss a moment of him.]
Yours feels like the biggest soul I've ever encountered. The strength of it is... staggering. [Mettaton talks on a smile, like he's thrilled at what he feels of him; he even takes a hand to fan himself dramatically before returning it to Emet-Selch's back.] Any perceived ability to crush me doesn't surprise me, considering how delicate my soul must feel. Especially compared to this.
[By this, he refers directly to the magnitude of Emet-Selch, giving to that tightening grip by nudging closer yet. If he wants to envelop his soul, he's free to — Mettaton considers that as good as having him in return.]
My body does offer more protection than most of my kind's afforded, yes. Any attack fueled by cruelty could instantly kill any monster, but I could probably survive it... Cruelty's all it takes to kill one of us, otherwise. Strength is arbitrary. So I hope your curiosity in crushing me... is fueled by love, instead. Since you have such exclusive access to me...
[Cruelty's so easy to come by, however. They must be easy to kill.]
[With more deliberation does he attempt to contain the whole of Mettaton's soul within his own. Moving something he couldn't see around something he also couldn't see, operating through touch and instinct alone.... It felt as though he could memorize every aspect of him in the process, and even the thought is a comfortable one.
Having any access to souls at all, after these months without was... reassuring on a deep level. Emet-Selch had thought he'd have to persist in this world cut off from that aspect of himself entirely, and to have that not be the case--
If Mettaton provided nothing more to him, he would remain grateful for this alone.
And it was far too pleasant to wrap himself around him like this. As dark as the Ascian's soul was anyway, it hardly mattered that it could not be seen, that it was trying to blot out the light entirely from the one within its amorphous grasp. The sort of thing that could've easily become threatening, oppressive, had there not been trust involved.
Emet-Selch hums in general, if tired, contentment, from the mixed feeling of their souls, to Mettaton's hands exploring his back in the most comfortable of ways. A both deep and casual intimacy that affected him greatly, and he quietly kisses the side of his lover's throat again. And while the appreciation for his soul was one thing (it was a very impressive entity, Emet-Selch could agree), when Mettaton describes how easy it was to kill a monster, he stills entirely.]
Any attack... [He trails off, almost in disbelief. Mettaton's soul had struck him as fragile, yes, but that was an unprecedented level of brittle. Cruelty was as common as air.] Is that true even here? Like this?
[How... exceedingly foolish again, if so. Trusting anyone this far. His own soul shifts endlessly around Mettaton's, as though restless. Leaning up enough so that he can observe the idol's face, he looks. Annoyed. Concerned. The latter was generally combined with the former. It wasn't as absolute as unhappiness feeding on anything positive, but it was common.]
...How did your people even survive contact with humanity long enough to be sealed away? How do they survive contact with each other?
[Emet-Selch's expression doesn't appear to faze him, a mild smile still upon his features. What a question. The former's easy, the latter's just strange. (What does he mean, survive contact with each other? Before coming here, Mettaton hardly believed that anybody would act with senseless violence.) Mettaton seems to spare it some thought, attention directed toward the corner of the ceiling.]
We survived barely, of course. Being spared at all was a mercy, no doubt. But that was millennia ago, darling. ... I can't say we have issues with killing each other, in the meantime. Even if we wanted to... We fight with magic, and we resist magic. It's the brutality humans are capable of that could kill us.
[As he speaks, his voice is at a low, intimate volume, sometimes veering breathless against all odds while he appreciates such an odd mix of thrill and security. Emet-Selch grows more and more familiar feeling as time passes, though he takes the time to simply appreciate the sensation of him so close. Overall, his Bonded is a very, very comfortable presence for him, even as they try to learn more about each other. If he takes a step back to think on it, the development surprises him.
Relax, though. He directs his attention more wholly upon the Ascian upon noticing his restlessness, remaining perfectly at ease. While his hands continue moving against his back, palms flat against skin with fingers trailing behind, so too does he try to relax him by spirit. Something of a reciprocal pull, closer to himself.
He doesn't provide any of this to soothe anyone, of course. It's just a matter of fact. His own opinion on it isn't much matter, either, since this is his condition, if not a few degrees removed by being so different otherwise.]
Here, though... I don't think our souls are quite the same. [A glance toward the wall, something Mettaton does when he's made uncomfortable by something.] There was... another monster kidnapped alongside us, besides me. Not a ghost. Not a robot.
[Ghosts: can't be killed, corporealizing: kind of ruins that, robot: provides durability, so he makes sure to specify that this is an average monster. Mettaton refocuses his gaze upon Emet-Selch, somber. Talking about this is difficult for him to do: every time he does, he's usually doing it to reassure, since it's always in talking to the victim himself. He's obliged to do what he can to lift his spirits.]
... They did not treat him with any kindness. We both stand out in this crowd, even full of Mirrorbound. He survived it all... And remains as affable as ever. So I guess our frailty isn't the case, here.
They were awful. That was the kind of sentiment that would gravely wound, or even kill us.
[He can't help but lean closer to better hear Mettaton's voice, even though he was at no risk of not catching his words. His soul itself seemed inclined to still and listen, as though it could capture sound as well as spirit.
But that was right; Mettaton had mentioned that monsters could only kill with unwavering intent. And while Emet-Selch had assumed that to be little obstacle, perhaps he'd misjudged them (could there possibly be another population in existence that was predisposed to kindness, other than his own people?). So with that, on top of natural defenses against the only danger readily available... he could see why they'd managed to not destroy themselves once isolated from the real threat: humanity.
Regardless of intent, he's soothed a little nonetheless by the broader press of Mettaton's hands, the way the idol's soul seemed to embrace him in turn.
But when the conversation turns towards their captivity, it was hard to miss the puca's reaction. The discomfiture is obvious. Mettaton rarely avoided gazing directly at something, from what he'd noticed. And Emet-Selch had wondered how the man had dealt with all they'd been through and witnessed. If he had dealt with it at all. As poorly as the Ascian had fared, as new as the sense of helplessness had been, the actual actions on the part of their captors had been no surprise. His view of humanity remained justifiably intact. But Mettaton seemed quite... innocent. And possibly from a society unused to cruelty. What mark had their experiences left on him? It wasn't as though Emet-Selch had ever known him beforehand.]
So here, you're rendered some physicality, despite yourselves....
[Leaning in, he brushes a kiss to Mettaton's cheek, before pressing the side of his face against his, for a moment. To reassure? Emet-Selch isn't sure. He's also not sure why he's possessed of the inclination to. Part of that... 'caring' thing, perhaps.]
Your friend is quite forgiving, then. [There's a note of approval there, actually. He also just assumes that they're friends.] And how technically fortunate that this world saw fit to render your kind a degree more durability. Considering all that you'll continue to face.
[Not a very optimistic statement. It's downright pessimistic, even. He sighs. If Mettaton's people had attained their freedom through an impossible lack of bloodshed, to live a life of peaceful coexistence with humanity (an even more impossible thought), how... cruel again to be dragged here instead. Where there was freedom, yes... but fear and violence alongside it.
...At least they had a reason to look forward to going home, he supposed. A thought that has his own melancholy deepen. Shaking his head slightly, he has another thought.]
But... you presumably can't leave your current form without dying, same as myself- so I wonder what would've happened if you had arrived without one. A ghost outside the machine... would you have been made corporeal? If I'd appeared without mortal flesh, I doubt they would've allowed me to remain imperceptible to nearly everyone.
It settles over him heavier than Emet-Selch's body upon him the very moment he suggests arriving without his body. He can't even imagine himself prior to it, in Aefenglom, around all of these humans and other beings. Mortifying. What would he even do here? He wouldn't even have the options to keep him occupied in his hopeless perseverance, and he doubts very much that he'd have any company. Even independent of this body, it concerns him to consider who he might be without Napstablook to keep him at his best. (How does the very thought alone bring him right back to that mindset? Feeling worthless. ...That's in the past now. There's no way any sort of multiverse-based selection system would choose him, anyway, no matter the reasons, whether they're significant or arbitrary.)
The regret he'd feel if he had to be in such a unique set of circumstances but without a form he could consider his own is immense. He feels smaller now, perhaps glad to also feel swallowed up by Emet-Selch in this moment.
He hopes Emet-Selch doesn't notice all of this displeasure, but he dreads that he does. He probably does. Definitely. They're only connected by soul, their Bond incredibly transparent. That's... why he Bonded with him. (There's the feeling of relief, here. Just a bit.)
Mettaton rejects the thought of being a ghost who was also corporeal without form. What would that even be like? Uncomfortable, is what.]
No.
[Not the exact phrasing he was meaning to give...]
I believe that's why, by some design, we're brought as we are. With our hosts. They might have to provide one, or something...
[That's a bit more relieving, the thought that there would be something... As implausible as this all is. Though he imagines it would not be a great body... Most bodies, in Mettaton's experience, aren't right for him, but his selection hasn't been great. Not even his incorporeal one was right, but he could make do with others.
In response to earlier reassurances that linger (helpfully), Mettaton turns his head to press closer to Emet-Selch's, his hands smoothing down to the Ascian's lower back. He's not even too disturbed by the thought of what "all" they'll continue to face that will make having durability worthwhile, even as he considers it privately.
The Rathmores changed him. Of course they did, even if he keeps it private; nobody who wasn't there would want to talk about that. Even among those who were there, few do. Emet-Selch forces him to rethink his views, too, whether he likes it or not. He doesn't like feeling blindsided by his own adoration, and though he doesn't feel he'd ever stop loving people and could never stop hoping for their best... it sobers someone to experience something like that, and then find themselves Bonded to a man he met in those oppressive walls. It's a minor falter in ideology, an unsettling one, but one he places more hope in yet. He could find appreciation for a greater understanding of people. He just needs time.]
[That hadn't been the response he'd expected- both in word or in tone- and he hums quietly at the various emotions he couldn't help but feel, as close and as open as they were. This time it's curiosity that mixes with the concern; it was unusual for Mettaton to feel so unsettled. Bringing up his life and status as a ghost tended to make him uncomfortable, for some reason, though. The Ascian wasn't sure if it was worse this time, or whether he was just more attuned to his mood.
Emet-Selch still didn't see why. The problem had been incorporeality, surely. A practical issue, more than anything else. Was it just a matter of looking back on an unhappier time?]
You've asked whether I've modified this host to my choosing... but what of you?
[His soul shifts continuously around him, though not restless or agitated this time. It's more of a slow stroking, protective as it envelopes, as though trying to shut out the outside world entirely. His voice is the same, quiet and even, even though it wasn't as though they were in any threat of being overheard.]
How much do you share with your current appearances? What were you like, before your various forms were designed?
[The downside of gaining the Ascian's investment, is that he asks questions like these. Especially since it's actual interest, rather than idle curiosity. And while he wonders at the discomfiture, it's not enough to dissuade him.
Though he does continue to lean his head firmly against Mettaton's, unconsciously rubbing a little more against it. Emet-Selch didn't have too many reassuring instincts left to him, but what insufficient remnants remained were trying.
He's more than fine with not dragging up more memories of their torture; it was something he avoided considering anyway, with limited success. No, its effects manifested in other ways. It probably always would.]
I... I didn't look a thing like this. This is entirely my fantasy. None of these bodies bear resemblance to my... What I looked like. [With a bit of a laugh,] My classic's closest, I suppose. In that it lacks legs. But that's it.
[legs are crucial.
His eye's closed. He realizes he's answered quite readily, all things considered, but he did it without much awareness for it. Maybe he was prepared to say that all along, given how curious he's been about Emet-Selch.
It helps, having such deep intimacy, low volume, and close proximity. It's terribly relaxing, and in this moment, Mettaton doesn't know how he'd gone along without. He sighs, this time by necessity so as to relax more heavily into his Bonded's care. Mettaton feels again like his hearing is restricted to this bed, the sound of Emet-Selch breathing, his voice by the side of his face, soft and calming. He has every note of his voice memorized like song, from the deepest sorrow he's expressed to his coldest ire when he'd earned it, and it's so easy to sink into.
He tries to figure out where to go from there. Emet-Selch has been forthcoming about himself, and not just on matters of his appearance. He has little else prepared to explain, though he has the wherewithal to recognize how odd this might sound to anyone who didn't know how much distress he was in, without the body he'd always envisioned himself with. Emet-Selch, on the other hand, possessed an original body, lost it, and became incorporeal. If he could use his experience, maybe he could explain it.]
... Where you lost your original body, I have always been incorporeal. That's why I could will myself into perception. Not that being perceived does much for an unremarkable presence. ... It was... Simple in form. Not humanoid. White, varying transparency, empty-eyed, indistinguishable. I guess. But it wasn't "me." Back then... I'd do anything for a form like this.
[He doesn't even have any other words for his own form, and the thought of describing it is awkward.]
Nobody who knew me recognizes me, as I am. That person who I was is a thing of the past. ... Maybe, you'll see my cousin in a memory of mine. Since Bonds are likely to do that. If you see them... I looked like them.
[Holding him a bit tighter, Emet-Selch takes a moment to appreciate this form of intimacy, in addition to all else they'd already experienced. A natural continuation, a gradual exposing of ever more parts of themselves. Not necessarily comfortable, but... comforting, perhaps, in a way.
Mentally, he reclassifies the 'ghosts' of Mettaton's world from 'spiritual remnants of previously living entities' to 'naturally occurring incorporeal entities.' Which was fair enough, he supposed; in retrospect, it had been something of an assumption to believe that what constituted a ghost would be the same across worlds.
And he's quiet for a time as he thinks on all of that, nuzzling slowly at the side of Mettaton's face. A form without much shape, basic, insubstantial. Possessing of little willpower, and immortal almost as an afterthought. A pitiful existence in all regards. And considering how vibrant Mettaton was as his current self- difficult for the Ascian to imagine. Was his exuberance making up for lost time, he wondered. Or a constant seeking of distraction to keep from reminiscing on what life had once been limited to.
The idea of disconnecting from the past, in particular from one's very self is an alien thought to him. Of course Mettaton was the same person that he was before; form was immaterial. His soul was, presumably, unaltered.]
...I shall let you know should I encounter them in a dream.
[And as he considers again how reticent Mettaton was about his ghost self in all ways, from history to appearance... Emet-Selch felt as though he could understand that bit more of why he'd chosen to Bond with someone who'd guessed at the basics. If the secret was out anyway, there was less of an image to uphold. If his past self was so anathema... no wonder he would do all he could to keep the information to the absolute minimum of people.]
Did you leave many behind, when you severed from your past? ['Was there anyone to miss you', he does not say. Apart from that cousin, perhaps, depending on the relationship they had.] Or was it more of an... easy break? [That was a kinder way to put it.]
[While his composure remains surprisingly stable when recalling something that causes him great discomfort - recalling the body he'd once been restricted to - the mention of those he left behind seems to have a greater impact on unearthing any sorrow. There's no sorrow in finding himself, only the byproduct of it. It's not just a frown this time, but remorse.]
Ah...
[It doesn't matter how many there were who remembered him, because he left someone very important behind. He pulls on Emet-Selch's body even though they're already flush against each other, even though Emet-Selch is as close to his very soul without altogether fusing with it. He doesn't mind terribly that there weren't many to miss him, as much as the strength of being missed and missing in return.
He treats the proximity like a cure for his disquiet over these admissions, burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. It helps: these tactile experiences are long desired, after all.]
... Only Bl- my cousin, I imagine. Maybe another. [Only one or two people, basically.] But that didn't make it easy.
[Difficult enough to dissuade him immediately upon hearing their voice not to continue on in the pursuit of his dreams of humanity, while keeping his attention even when they'd been granted freedom.
Here, in the now, Emet-Selch serves as company he can have as a blend of his entire experience. Something he never imagined he could have, and he grazes his fingertips along his sides against warm skin. The thought eases the lingering heartache that comes from splitting with someone.]
[Even more unusual feelings from Mettaton. And, once aware of them, he's momentarily at a loss of what to do with them. Not out of any sort of discomfort, but- how... did comforting work again...?
Probably a continuation of what he'd already been doing, Emet-Selch decided, he probably had that instinct for a reason. Though they couldn't much press any closer, he tilts his head a little at feeling the face in his hair. His soul maintained its slow ministrations, as though it were a dark blanket to wrap him up in. This closeness- none of it could replace what had already been lost. But it was something. He hums very softly at the feeling of fingers running along his sides, the lightness of the sensation almost causing him to twitch, though not unpleasantly.
The feelings in themselves, of course, were far too familiar to Emet-Selch. Most anything on the sorrowful end of the negative spectrum was. So that much, at least, settles onto him quite comfortably, as though it had always been there, despite originating from someone else. Unlike positive feelings, which remained a source of great suspicion, something to recoil from, these he could accept very easily.
The only strange part was the awareness of his own affectionate reactions- a heavy and tinged with melancholy sort, but affection all the same. A desire to sooth. What a strange thing to feel in response to someone else's unhappiness.
Though he's a touch amused at the hiding of that name, he doesn't question it, assuming Mettaton had some reason to keep it to himself. The Ascian could understand the value of names.]
...'Tis not number, but closeness which matters in the end. And yet you still selected this path.
[There's no judgement there. Not even remotely. If anything, he's entirely sympathetic. Sometimes... you had to take decisions that removed you from others. Important others. Even though their circumstances and reasons were entirely different, Emet-Selch could recognize the feeling.
There was one thing he didn't understand, though.]
But if they already knew what you were... why was it necessary to hide from them once you'd obtained these forms of yours?
[It really, really wasn't necessary. It wasn't unusual to learn that a ghost was off to corporealize, begin their life anew, yet Mettaton himself stole off without a word. Sometimes he wonders if anybody else noticed he was gone. He assumes not. Maybe Napstablook tried looking for him, but likely not — given their energy level, the best they'd have in them is resignation to a life alone. He doesn't blame them. Immediately despondent, assuming he'd left them because they were dragging him down or intolerable company otherwise. The fact that Mettaton is aware of how they must have taken it never fails to make him feel worse for leaving them in the dark.
He waits a moment, thinking it over. It takes Mettaton sorting through a number of excuses that don't actually pose the largest obstacle if questioned further, and questioning is something Emet-Selch is good at doing. He's not intending to lie — there's no reason, and Emet-Selch's companionship pulls Mettaton deeply into complacency, unguarded. But his other reasons aren't lies so much as not thorough enough. At the core of it all, there's always one thing left: guilt.]
Because... I told them I'd never leave them behind, for corporeality. But. Well. Here I am.
[There was no obstacle but his own feelings. He went against his word. Fame can go to one's head, and he took every opportunity to forget about what he'd left behind. It made it easier.
That goes unsaid, but the sentiment persists. It was easier to ignore it and leave it behind, to create an artificial distance between anyone who got close to him. All he needs are his fans, after all. Maybe that's not the case.]
The day I arrived here... I finally met them again, as my fan. Of course, I knew they'd like what I do. That they'd be a fan is no surprise to me. But it's strange. Meeting somebody you've always known... but they don't recognize you in the same way. They only know you in a removed sense. I'm their idol now, not their long lost family. I was going to tell them, and... I will. But I didn't. When they looked at me with such admiration, I...
[So he knew they were likely left in the darkest of mental spaces for years, but when he saw them in person, he couldn't bring himself to blur the lines between star and constant companion. What sort of reaction would that have elicited after he saw them excited for once? They would have been made upset all over again, he's sure.
Being transparent to Emet-Selch feels unusually natural. He can't place why, but it's something about his very being. He has his barbs, and the robot already knows he feels familiar, but his perceptiveness forces everything to lay out before both of them for appraisal. Feeling enclosed by the Ascian is so welcome that he can't even bring himself to think of what it feels like without the presence of his immense soul, darkness and all. From within that security, Mettaton latches on.]
I forgot... what I'd given up. How nice it is to have people close to me.
What a terrible feeling. Understandable under the circumstances, but terrible nonetheless. And considering Mettaton's words... Emet-Selch isn't about to tell him that he shouldn't feel that way. If it wasn't quite a betrayal of his companions, it was quite unkind behavior. Selfish and cowardly- but tinged with desperation, he imagined. To desire everything that corporeality entailed, to the point of abandoning all else. It didn't strike him as an easy or even careless decision.
Or perhaps since he cared about him, Emet-Selch was willing to make more concessions for his behavior. Or because he could feel some of the weight of how his choices had settled on him. The Ascian had wondered what had lay beyond Mettaton's usual cheer and exuberance, and... all of this seemed to be an answer.
Turning his head, he rests his lips against the side of Mettaton's face, allowing them to linger there, as though distracted by his thoughts. But he eventually pushes himself up enough to observe his face, expression neutral, serious- even as his soul remains circling warmly around him, latching on in return.]
The benefit to immortality... is that it affords you time to reconnect.
[Even if Mettaton had abandoned them for some time without a trace... with patience, and considering there had been no malicious intent- he thought it was possible to be forgiven. But though the idol said he would tell them- Emet-Selch was skeptical. It'd be an easy thing to continue putting off, indefinitely. Avoiding the immediate pain in favor of... long-term pain and continued guilt. He sighs, inwardly.]
Do you fear losing their admiration? Disappointing them, somehow...? It'll no doubt be an unpleasant experience for you both... but in the long term, wouldn't they prefer to have a person close to them return, rather than idolize a stranger from a distance?
[Mettaton's last comment gets a slightly uncomfortable look, but neither agreement nor denial. It was true- but it was a terrible thing to recognize as true.]
Well... I hope you do tell them, when you're given the chance to.
[He closes his eye with the contact of lips against his cheek, focuses on not only the sense for Emet-Selch's being entwined with his, but also the way he feels assessed. But his eyelid rises half-way when his Bonded shifts away, and he takes in his appearance, his severe expression juxtaposed against the potent connection they share, Emet-Selch's soul a pleasant thing tied to his own in Bond. Mettaton's transparent in his emotion, all of the regret easy to see on his features. Were he not on his back, his ears clearly press into the pillow in an attempt to flatten. His fingers trace back up from the small of his back, headed up for Emet-Selch's mid-back again.
He'd tell Napstablook eventually, and they'd forgive him in word. But it'll take far longer than that. A misstep this significant isn't something easy to forget, and it would take a long time trying to put the pieces together... To no avail, because their relationship would be new and different now.
But it isn't as though he's lost them completely. Not like Emet-Selch, who lost everything and was faced with so many difficult choices along the way, with seemingly no hope to ever come anywhere close to piecing things back together. Yes, immortality offers time to heal when everything can be made right, and he can't take that for granted. It just feels terrible right now, imagining all of the stilted interactions they'll have before anything feels at ease again. If that ever comes. He sighs, looking at the ceiling.]
...It won't be the same as it was before. And... I'll have to take "Mettaton" from them, too. They'll be stuck with an odd mix of the two people... I'm not excited about it. How could it ever be the same, after that? But. I know they miss me. I'll tell them... if not because I miss them, too.
But you're right. We have time afforded to us, at least. Bl- Napstablook, has always been impossibly morose, so I expect it'll take... A long time.
[They'll figure out what to make of their new relationship as it happens. Mettaton may have his worries, but he's optimistic. He smiles sadly at the Ascian, wrapping his arms around his back again and pulling tighter.
It's on his mind, Emet-Selch's life. Considering immortality, time, and chances. Compared to him, however, Emet-Selch can't simply reconnect with a loved one. That sure puts things into perspective for the robot. It's sad, and from an observer's perspective, he's mournful just thinking about it, but curious all the same.]
Did you have anybody important to you like this, Hades, darling? Who you miss...?
[That openness and clarity of emotion is still something that Emet-Selch could appreciate in his Bonded. It felt... trustworthy, reliable, safe, something that allowed him to relax his own guard. Enough that he could be at all concerned for someone else's emotional state, as though that were anything he should care about. As annoying as Mettaton could be when he was cheerful, the Ascian didn't like seeing him unhappy. What a weird feeling.
But that was right- 'Mettaton' must be a name as new as his body, else his cousin surely would've realized who he was long before. For now, though, Emet-Selch decides not to inquire further on it. It felt like more of a side detail, rather than something of current relevance.]
It won't be the same. [There was no getting around that. And something far easier to recognize when it was someone else's problem.] Still, even though it may take an age to reach that point, perhaps you'll both appreciate wherever it is you end up. Even if it's... quite distant from where you started.
[This was all strangely optimistic for him. Not very strongly or positively- it felt more as an acknowledgement of future difficulty, rather than any sort of hope. Change was terrible, and best avoided under most circumstances. But in this case, at least... change had already happened.
And as he finds himself turning it over in his mind, there wasn't an obvious solution or best choice. Ideally, Mettaton shouldn't have made that promise to remain, but- if this Napstablook was as morose as claimed, Emet-Selch doubted that any attempt to leave would've gone over well or been any easier. Such abandonment- with warning or without- would hurt both, yet remaining would've left Mettaton unfulfilled and unhappy as well. Granted, the path Mettaton took was probably the worst one, but it wasn't as though the other options were much better.
...Still. They were both alive. They could mend things.
Emet-Selch sighs eventually, returning to nestle his face back down against Mettaton's neck. They both seemed to have a preference for that place, on each other. Or it was a natural place to rest.
And he supposed it was inevitable to have that question turned back on himself, but that made it no more of a comfortable thing to answer.]
And of course I did. But they were lost to me even before the sundering.
[And now he'd never see them again. Not as they were.]
[Such encouragement, even if it's from a realistic view, doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated by Mettaton. It's nice to consider that something good could come out of their efforts with the acknowledgement that it'll take time. Mettaton's both patient and impatient for things to just be better. He nods, then, in acknowledgement of Emet-Selch's words. Change is usually an exciting prospect to the Puca, but maybe not when it has to do with changing something he longs for. Still, he can cope, he thinks.
And ultimately, the notion he appreciates most is Emet-Selch's kindness. It's not exuberant reassurances, never in hell would he imagine that out of the Ascian, but he knows he's listening, processing, and giving his best thoughts to him. It softens Mettaton terribly, as if it were possible yet. More like a deepening of the feeling.
He doesn't look quite so unhappy anymore as Emet-Selch lowers to his neck, and he gives it willingly, yielding.
It's odd, having told someone... this much of himself. Emet-Selch feels as though he sits differently upon him now, but he knows that's his own perception. It's a foreign feeling, but not unwelcome. He takes to it, clutches him closer with his arms, decides that he's found somebody incredibly important out of Emet-Selch. Easy as it might be to start thinking about how he'll lose him someday, too, given their conversation, Mettaton doesn't. He only thinks of him here, in his arms, in this city, with fondness enough to make him feel warm. He thinks about their connection, their Bond, and how he fits him in heart. Would his own soul, a bright thing uncolored by attribute, emerge from this tinged by darkness he couldn't detect? It's so thorough a hold that he couldn't say, but that he doesn't mind the thought... Mettaton smiles to himself, finding it amusing more than possible, and kisses the side of Emet-Selch's head.
Of course, his response is a curious one. Had it been a yes, and I lost them, he would have understood the sentiment and pried deeper. Now he's just confused, and still wants to pry. He tilts his head into Emet-Selch's.]
Before the sundering? Do you mean, they left you? Why...?
[By will? By force? Which is worse...? He can't say yet, but he's eager to know. It's one thing to have lost someone dear to tragedy, but did this mean that in these final days, Emet-Selch had only the love for his people left and a hole left behind by someone dear? Already, he feels for him.]
[It was strange to know this much of someone else, and moreover, to care to. That even though there was nothing to be gained in it, that he did hope that Mettaton and his cousin would find some mutually comfortable future, even should it take a long time. It wasn't a sentiment that cost Emet-Selch anything, nor did it influence anything, so what was the point in it? And yet it remained. Some small, useless investment in someone else's happiness. In being pleased at seeing Mettaton feeling even a bit better.
As Emet-Selch was more than aware that not only could he not change anything, he could lose all of this at any time. It was hard to imagine going without it, and harder to escape thinking about what would eventually be. Was it really a kindness to know that he wouldn't remember it?
Mettaton's arms felt warm around him, his presence warmer; perhaps enough to keep the Ascian's mood from sinking utterly at the thought, at the topic. It still settles heavily upon him, but in a more melancholic manner, resigned and wistful. Though it was impossible to settle much closer to Mettaton, Emet-Selch shifts nonetheless, as though trying. That his words would only lead to more questions was something he knew, but he still hesitates, reluctant at yet another inevitability. But he eventually responds.]
...There were two in particular that I became close to. When disaster came to our star, and we were left with no choice but to create our lord Zodiark- neither agreed with this decision.
[It had felt like a betrayal at the time, and that sentiment hadn't changed, for all that grief had joined it. Would they have ever worked through such a divide? He wasn't sure. A decision to sacrifice the majority of their population wasn't a small thing.]
[He hums, pleased to have his Bonded in a position that feels right. That satisfaction to have him at all has him do the best he can to facilitate Emet-Selch's movement, the way one might bend their body in some attempt to better fit the contours of another person. Mettaton's own body isn't well suited for that, but he tries nonetheless, a subtle shift of his own or a bend in his back. He wraps a leg around Emet-Selch's, taking a moment to appreciate real sensation, and the body he could feel because of it.
Emet-Selch had all but two friends. (A hint for himself: he might have been much the same prior to the sundering. Maybe with less to despair about, but much the same. It wouldn't surprise him.) Mettaton can't say anything, especially now that he's completely disclosed that he didn't have much in the ways of close company himself. Now, he's loved by many, known of equally, and known intimately by few. He doesn't really wish to antagonize him over the matter, anyway: close company, he's realized, is a rarity among a sea of acquaintanceship, and that's for somebody amicable. There's nothing wrong with that.
It's nice to imagine him with people close to him, in a time before all of this, and Mettaton spares a smile to it. Toiling to restore his world is surely all Emet-Selch's been doing — he doesn't strike him as somebody with the energy for much else. Thinking of him before that, maybe he wasn't that different, but it was no doubt simpler than working to restore a civilization and a god.
His hands move up his back some more, stroking over his shoulders appreciatively.]
At least half of your population must have accepted this drastic course of action. Yet the two you held closest disagreed... That couldn't have been easy. Making such a crucial decision, and lacking their support.
["What became of them?" No, no. Does he even need to ask? They're probably gone, with the rest of his people. If Emet-Selch is only here by virtue of Zodiark, and they disagreed, they are not among those... two others, he recalls, who have their complete souls. They may have even been among the people who wished to bind Zodiark. It would seem like betrayal, and Mettaton gets that sense. Though he doesn't doubt it must have been difficult on either side of the decision.
He wonders if Emet-Selch ever feels responsible for the death of his people. He lost half, then all, and he was one of those who created Zodiark in the first place. Aside from cherishing them, if there's any reason to fight for the restoration of his people, he can see why that would weigh heavily upon him. Especially with dissension so close to him.
Fingers trace over his spine, moving up his neck before rubbing down each shoulder again, spanning his fingers along their breadth. Every sense of his is full of the Ascian, a depth so easy to slip into that Mettaton's no doubt already well under the surface.]
... I doubt they were spared the fate of the rest of your people. [He still considers it a wonder that Emet-Selch is one of the many who would be before him, but what would the chances be of his companions being spared?
On a smaller voice, against his hair,] How terrible. To end it on such a note, too. I wonder, if I can ask if you have regrets... About your friends, or the choices made.
[Had he ever spoken about this, like this, to anyone? When he'd first woken up in the broken world, had found only that Lahabrea and Elidibus had been 'spared' along with himself- he'd felt closer to them then than he ever had before or since. It hadn't lasted, as the years went on, the weight of them settling on the three of them in different ways. But apart from that moment of shared despair and fury and resolution to make things right, Emet-Selch had never opened up or discussed all that had happened to anyone.
Who was there to tell? Even those few mortals he'd made the mistake of caring about never knew who or what he actually was. Those Warriors of Light knew... quite a bit, and he didn't think he'd mind telling, at least some of them, more of it, but--
They had been the sword to sever his ambitions, render all those years and lives for naught. That was inescapable. Something both sides were aware of. Mettaton, for all that he disagreed with him on the value of mortal entities, was at least an unrelated party. Perhaps that made it easier.
Being held like this certainly helped too, and Emet-Selch spares a murmur of approval at the tie of their legs, the touch of arms and hands along his back. He felt... exceptionally cared for and about, and he gently presses a kiss to the base of Mettaton's neck. Soul and body so closely intertwined, it was hard to contemplate a state other than this. Shifting, one arm tucked against the other man's chest, the Ascian's fingers knead slowly in the space between neck and shoulder as he speaks.]
They were not spared. They did not number among those who gave themselves to Zodiark, nor those who chose to create Hydaelyn. [Small mercies. He's not sure if he would have ever forgiven that.] And so they were sundered along with the rest. Even were they pieced back together... I don't believe their memories would return.
[They were gone.]
You may ask whatever you like. [It was uncomfortable to speak of all this, but not terrible. Perhaps it was the contact, or the newness of the situation that left him off-balance enough to try.] But what would having regrets accomplish?
[Which wasn't an answer. It also wasn't something he tended to think about. There was futility he would struggle through and futility he would ignore, and thoughts of regret were in the latter. He was too far in to regret anything.]
Convincing them would've led to the same result, their souls broken. If they'd convinced myself, the Convocation would've been reduced another member, and Zodiark may not have been successfully created, leading to the deaths of all. Where- what space is there for regret?
[Of not having his last memories of them be unpleasant ones, if they had been able to reach some sort of accord? Would that really have been better?]
[The very thought of somebody's soul being broken apart and distributed to new life... It's so odd to consider that the robot can only marvel at it. Something so splendid to him, however, takes on a bit of a horrifying cast in light of the events Emet-Selch outlined to him via text — for this to lead to that, he might see how it could be seen as unsettling, even. From a purely distant standpoint: Mettaton mostly sees it as interesting, as heartrending as it is to imagine his cherished people broken to pieces.
Souls like his have a lot to give, a lot of pieces to break into, don't they? Mettaton does feel comparatively smaller, and he knows his soul is whole. There's a regard for Emet-Selch in this moment, but an even greater appreciation for... the fact that he's all here, as he is, in this moment. It's not to dislike those with pieces of souls, but a simple fondness for the fact that he's still himself. A reciprocal embrace from within that darkness.
(Does Emet-Selch ever recognize pieces of souls he sees in people? Has he ever found a friend...? How bittersweet that would be. This new question bites him suddenly, and he'll no doubt ask.)
Emet-Selch is quick to address the most prominent possible regrets, as if he'd spared some thought to it already. Some, anyway. It's all of the regrets that Mettaton wonders if he's even allowed to think about, shackled to his zeal for Zodiark as he is, that makes him wonder if he could ask. What if there were another way? Mettaton doesn't have a good impression of Hydaelyn (and still can't wrap his mind around why some of the Amaurotine felt so threatened that they needed to make another god (what exactly daunted them so about Zodiark, if he brought them salvation?! questions for later)) but what if there were a reason for her conception? Were there ideas that required less sacrifice, had greater support, could have yielded better results?
...In the end, Mettaton's not one who likes to hold onto regrets, himself. He does, rarely, but he doesn't like it. Not when he can keep looking on, moving ever forward and finding ways to make right what's wrong. What good would it do to dwell on what already happened? Turning back time and replaying events for a different outcome is something nobody could do, save for a god, probably.
He smiles despite himself, quiet and appreciative of all he feels from the Ascian while his hands wander over his upper back, slow and broad in their strokes, taking in his build, muscle and bone. Perhaps not unlike this, Emet-Selch's palpation yields that layer of pliant, false tissue that seems to cover a metal framework complex in its construction, enough to facilitate all manner of head and neck movement.]
The regret of not seeing eye to eye, with your loved ones. That maybe they disagreed with you for good reason... Or, even if yours was the most viable solution— [He has no greater way of phrasing this:] As someone so involved in mobilizing the solution... Do you feel responsible for their deaths? For the way things played out?
[It's asked from an inquisitive angle, perhaps even one probing for lingering feeling. This is about regrets, after all. Mettatons palms press into his back as he moves them down, then back up again in a slow rhythm.]
I would've hoped that, of everyone, they would've understood. It wasn't as though we'd never had our disagreements. Even heated ones. But we'd never walked away--
[Cutting himself off, he takes a breath. Perhaps he did regret things ending as they had between them, after all. How pointless.]
Their good reason would have killed everyone, and the world with us. [A flash of irritation, though heavily guilt-laden.] Do you think any of us wanted to accept so costly a price?
[Zodiark remained perfect and blameless, and Emet-Selch couldn't imagine a world without Him. His creation had been necessary, but that hadn't made those sacrifices any easier to accept.]
So of course I don't feel responsible. Were it not for Hydaelyn and Her thralls, our people would have been long restored. If it weren't for Her Light....
[His hold tightens briefly; his soul thrashes in place before resettling, though more tensely. Just considering the injustice of it all, it was both infuriating and depressing. And while he'd survived all these years sustained by the hope that, despite the interminable delay, he'd be able to save his people in the end....]
And so it seems She'll succeed in burying us entirely, and the truth with us. She chose Her weapons well this time.
[Even as he settles, there's a brittleness, a bitterness to it. It was still muffled, soothed in part by Mettaton's continued presence, the constant, minor reassurance that there was no threat here, he wasn't being challenged or insulted.
Because of course there was guilt. Both for what he'd had to do then, and what he'd failed to accomplish now. Every year was another tick of failure, until he could no longer number them.
He takes another breath, tries instead to focus on the shape of Mettaton's hands upon his back, the reliable, restful motion. A distracted thought towards the construction of the idol's body, superficially human and clearly not- both in terms of obvious things like breath or heartbeat, but the details he could only feel if pressed upon. When Mettaton had described it as his ideal body, had he meant being a humanoid robot in particular, or was this only the closest representation of what he wanted that he could realistically obtain?
Even if it couldn't calm him entirely, the distracted focus kept the Ascian's current state from deteriorating too far.]
[As he speaks, Mettaton's hands continue, daring to move ever north to include a firm grip on his shoulders before traveling back down again to rub into his mid-back. It's easier to feel Emet-Selch's feelings when their Bond is traced down to its most base of parts, easier yet to feel his muted fury, though it'd be easy to feel any emotion either of them had. He redoubles on his effort to calm him, in body and spirit, though it's such a defeating situation for him to be in. Maybe it's their Bond, but he feels upset with Hydaelyn and those who felt it necessary to bring her about. Indignant that she'd ruin the work the Convocation put into doing whatever they could to salvage their people and Amaurot, because to Mettaton, in this moment, that's what they did. They truly must have done it in fear, for Emet-Selch to be equally upset about it. It didn't have to happen.
Even worse is the apparent knowledge that the Ascian's fate is written in stone. The Warriors of Light know he falls, by their hand... Is there any defying such a fate? The mortals would be spared his designs, but his ambitions, which aren't so purely insidious as they are desperate, go unrealized. All of the lives lost and all of the years spent working toward that goal for him to be killed.
No matter whose plan was executed, it seems Emet-Selch's cause would always fail. Fate keeps designing for it to be so.
Mettaton presses his lips against the top of his head, pitying his circumstances. He allows his arms to cross, pulling the other man into himself.]
It fixes nothing, but. ... I'm sorry. That you've lost so much. That you've been subjected to such a torturous fate. That it doesn't work out. That your last moments with your friends were spent feeling... left alone. It's unfair.
[He kisses him this time. One of his hands remains firmly planted against Emet-Selch's back, while the other moves to lace in his hair. His very being, too, only closes in on him with his own attempt at enclosing him, to comfort. He finds himself thinking about how much he likes him, and wants only the best for him, despite their mismatch in views.]
You have plenty to regret, Hades, dear. And... very little in the ways of coming to grips with that remorse. [He sighs. The more action he takes, the worse things seem to get. It's a distressing set of circumstances that feels as though nobody could come out of it happy.] I don't... understand. Why they'd make Hydaelyn, if already so much had gone into Zodiark's creation. If he already brought you salvation. Were they really so terrified of him...?
[He's a little taken aback, soul and body stilling. It was a form of recognition that... he wasn't sure he'd ever received, and his emotions reflect this uncertainty.
None of those Warriors had said as much. And he didn't expect it- and when it came to regret over his death, Emet-Selch didn't want it. How cruel would it be for them to regret it now, after the fact, accomplishing nothing? A regret that wouldn't even be able to travel back with them. But had any of them ever expressed empathy for anything else? Would it have made a difference if they had? They respected him, he thought, and he could no longer deny that they cared about him either.
But it was one of those awkward things no one brought up. Or perhaps they felt nothing at all, being from the place impacted by the Ascians' work, knowing of the lives they'd taken, and the suffering they'd wrought. What was one person's grief in comparison to that?
It was the most unsympathetic view, so he assumed it to be correct.
...It shouldn't matter. It didn't matter, but he found himself holding onto Mettaton's words nonetheless.
And holding onto him in general, breathing in his nearness on all levels. Eyes closed, dwelling on the sensation of the kiss, the fingers in his hair, the hand on his back. He didn't feel held in place so much as just- held, doused in the mix of their feelings, giving himself over to both. But he settles further, if more heavily, away from the limited energy that anger brought. Digging in that bit more, with what strength he could manage, as though he could keep himself from falling entirely. Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was sinking further into despair, or just... sinking in general. A slow drift downward was inevitable, he supposed.
But affection deepened. He hadn't thought it could deepen so far.]
...Fear was a large part of it. And misunderstanding. They believed that for all that Zodiark's new laws governing reality appeared immutable, that time would find flaws in them. That Hydaelyn would serve to bind Him, should His power run rampant. But outside of this....
[This was the bit Emet-Selch tended to avoid mentioning. The only reason the heroes knew was because someone else told them. And while it was entirely true that a small number of his people feared Zodiark, for no proven cause, ruining the world in their panic- this other aspect was slightly less sympathetic towards the Ascian cause.]
...Once our world was healed, and life began to take root upon it again, our Convocation decided that after enough of it had amassed, a portion would be given to Zodiark in order that He may restore those who had first fed His creation.
[A forced sacrifice of the younger races. Emet-Selch still sees nothing wrong with this; his people deserved the world more than anyone else.]
So Hydaelyn was created to preserve them. Borne in part of this desire, 'tis no wonder She chooses to protect them at all cost, even if it meant breaking the world to do so. Hiding the past and lying to them, all to make exacting our plan ever harder. So long as none are given to Zodiark, I suppose She cares not how many of them perish....
[His tone is almost reprimanding, but mostly low, disbelieving. Mettaton's steady warmth immediately cools over, and he further communicates this shift in a slowing of his actions.
So. Sacrificing seven human lives for freedom would have checked out as okay, in Mettaton's book. Sacrificing one to protect the rest? Also okay. Sacrificing seven to destroy them all isn't okay. But what about sacrificing half of a people to save a world, restoring a world to its former health, then... trading in that sacrifice for an equivalent found in another life? A life that no doubt had no say in this transaction, because they didn't even exist yet. That strikes him as rotten. Probably more of his Bonded's usual thinking, that his people are far more deserving of their own lives and world.
Both sides are so extreme in their designs. Mettaton's exasperation and disappointment are mounting steadily just thinking on it as he stares at the ceiling, unmoving. It makes a lot more sense, why Hydaelyn would be created by a group of Amaurotine who disagreed with this deal. Zodiark's laws governing reality hardly seem to compare to this willful disregard for another population.
For as much as Emet-Selch has neglected mentioning this so far, Mettaton doesn't feel lied to or misled. He already thought of this whole affair, of the Rejoinings and calamitous nature of Emet-Selch's actions, as being driven by Ascians who did not value mortal life, even if it's also driven by a desire for the restoration of their home. He's already had to live among a race of people who craved humanity's destruction out of grief and had to rationalize his own desire for their continued survival despite the prevailing sentiment. Nothing's simple. This is just a lot more complex than what he's accustomed to, especially in stakes.
Even though he's frosted over, Mettaton isn't totally detached. His fondness is not gone, but his disapproval over injustice guides his feelings.]
Did those who sacrificed their lives know of this angle. The condition to sacrifice another's life, decided upon by your Convocation. Did they consider their sacrifice one that would be later undone... at the cost of other life?
[His voice is too flat to have any questioning intonation. Nonetheless, he holds him close. The Amaurotine are kind, says Emet-Selch... and clearly, there were some who disagreed so strongly with this bargain that Hydaelyn came to be. He recalls the first time he heard of Emet-Selch's story, and the Ascian said they might be upset with him about his ambitions... Which might very well be true for this part, too. Was the Convocation simply full of Amaurotine like Emet-Selch, who devalued life other than their own?
He wonders if this is why his friends turned their backs on him.]
[The sudden cooling doesn't come as a surprise to him; there was a reason this was a detail he always neglected to mention. Emet-Selch makes a soft, humorless sort of sound against Mettaton's neck. Of course he wouldn't approve of this, considering how much he favored humanity in general.
No one took well to the idea of involuntary sacrifice.]
Changed your mind about sympathizing, have you?
[His voice is low, with a falsely idle lilt. His fingers still distractedly knead near Mettaton's shoulder, as though his hand needed something to occupy itself.]
But no. They did not.
[It's stated with more reluctance than anything previously said. And it almost seems as though Emet-Selch intends to leave it at that, the words hanging in the air- but he pushes on with effort.]
No, their lives were freely offered, with no hope nor expectation of revival.
[Does he know what they would've thought of what the survivors had become willing to do in order to save them? Or how they would've felt at the cost since- the millions of lives taken in order to just have the chance to sacrifice more to an awakened Zodiark?
Not that the sundered races were alive, but would they have seen it like that?
--It didn't matter. They would be revived, brethren and Zodiark both. The Ascian's voice and manner also chills, arrogance slipping back in, a dark sort of resolution.]
But do they not have more right to the world than any other? Were it not for their perfect offering, all of us and the star itself would have been lost. Do they not deserve to be rescued?
[Something that could not be done without cost. But despite the price, despite everything- Emet-Selch could not imagine ever taking another path. Even knowing it would end up like this, how--
So long as he lived, he would see to their return.]
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Emet-Selch, though, feels no particular conflict in having been claimed by Zodiark, yet also desirous of Mettaton's own stake on him. Zodiark was perfect and eternal, and wanting to undo that tie was unthinkable- but he cared (what a terrible word) for Mettaton as well, and what was the point of caring for something if you couldn't keep it? Or be kept by it? So long as he didn't think about it too closely, there was no conflict. He still nestles that bit harder against him before relaxing, appreciating the tighter grip, even the affectionate rubbing.
That he was being scent-marked as well would strike him as odd, but not that much different from having his neck marked up by Mettaton's lips. More of a subtle claim, at that.]
A good thing tempering isn't catching... or else you would be long lost, by now.
[It's not contagious. He'd have to drag him before Zodiark for that, not that he would.]
But yours... 'tis smaller than expected. [Or Amaurotines had unusually large souls, skewing his perspective.] I wondered if I might crush it through mere proximity.
[Rather than inspiring a more reasonable disgust, Emet-Selch just feels protective of Mettaton instead, his own soul tightening its hold on him. It was his, to break or preserve; an unusual feeling.]
But yes- it does feel wholly 'you', at the same time. Open and direct, and honest of emotion. [It was no wonder he could remain in the present so easily.] ...I'd thought that sealing your soul into an object to be a reckless pursuit, but if you're from a place where they are ever available to be reached, I suppose it actually affords you a measure of protection.
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It's true. The Ascian's taken him in so thoroughly that he's glad tempering isn't contagious, because he'd be done for. He gets the joy instead of Emet-Selch winding about his very essence like vines, and Mettaton hums, the shift in feeling as if he's leaning into his lover.
Mettaton's experience is too limited to humans and monsters to say any differently, but if he were forced to guess in the moment, he'd say such inordinate size is a trait unique to the Amaurotine. It would further explain why Emet-Selch is so appalled by fractures of a soul.
With his hands having drifted to Emet-Selch's upper back, he begins a pattern of tracing over the entire expanse of his back. He's warm, pleasant, soft, and Mettaton doesn't want to miss a moment of him.]
Yours feels like the biggest soul I've ever encountered. The strength of it is... staggering. [Mettaton talks on a smile, like he's thrilled at what he feels of him; he even takes a hand to fan himself dramatically before returning it to Emet-Selch's back.] Any perceived ability to crush me doesn't surprise me, considering how delicate my soul must feel. Especially compared to this.
[By this, he refers directly to the magnitude of Emet-Selch, giving to that tightening grip by nudging closer yet. If he wants to envelop his soul, he's free to — Mettaton considers that as good as having him in return.]
My body does offer more protection than most of my kind's afforded, yes. Any attack fueled by cruelty could instantly kill any monster, but I could probably survive it... Cruelty's all it takes to kill one of us, otherwise. Strength is arbitrary. So I hope your curiosity in crushing me... is fueled by love, instead. Since you have such exclusive access to me...
[Cruelty's so easy to come by, however. They must be easy to kill.]
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Having any access to souls at all, after these months without was... reassuring on a deep level. Emet-Selch had thought he'd have to persist in this world cut off from that aspect of himself entirely, and to have that not be the case--
If Mettaton provided nothing more to him, he would remain grateful for this alone.
And it was far too pleasant to wrap himself around him like this. As dark as the Ascian's soul was anyway, it hardly mattered that it could not be seen, that it was trying to blot out the light entirely from the one within its amorphous grasp. The sort of thing that could've easily become threatening, oppressive, had there not been trust involved.
Emet-Selch hums in general, if tired, contentment, from the mixed feeling of their souls, to Mettaton's hands exploring his back in the most comfortable of ways. A both deep and casual intimacy that affected him greatly, and he quietly kisses the side of his lover's throat again. And while the appreciation for his soul was one thing (it was a very impressive entity, Emet-Selch could agree), when Mettaton describes how easy it was to kill a monster, he stills entirely.]
Any attack... [He trails off, almost in disbelief. Mettaton's soul had struck him as fragile, yes, but that was an unprecedented level of brittle. Cruelty was as common as air.] Is that true even here? Like this?
[How... exceedingly foolish again, if so. Trusting anyone this far. His own soul shifts endlessly around Mettaton's, as though restless. Leaning up enough so that he can observe the idol's face, he looks. Annoyed. Concerned. The latter was generally combined with the former. It wasn't as absolute as unhappiness feeding on anything positive, but it was common.]
...How did your people even survive contact with humanity long enough to be sealed away? How do they survive contact with each other?
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We survived barely, of course. Being spared at all was a mercy, no doubt. But that was millennia ago, darling. ... I can't say we have issues with killing each other, in the meantime. Even if we wanted to... We fight with magic, and we resist magic. It's the brutality humans are capable of that could kill us.
[As he speaks, his voice is at a low, intimate volume, sometimes veering breathless against all odds while he appreciates such an odd mix of thrill and security. Emet-Selch grows more and more familiar feeling as time passes, though he takes the time to simply appreciate the sensation of him so close. Overall, his Bonded is a very, very comfortable presence for him, even as they try to learn more about each other. If he takes a step back to think on it, the development surprises him.
Relax, though. He directs his attention more wholly upon the Ascian upon noticing his restlessness, remaining perfectly at ease. While his hands continue moving against his back, palms flat against skin with fingers trailing behind, so too does he try to relax him by spirit. Something of a reciprocal pull, closer to himself.
He doesn't provide any of this to soothe anyone, of course. It's just a matter of fact. His own opinion on it isn't much matter, either, since this is his condition, if not a few degrees removed by being so different otherwise.]
Here, though... I don't think our souls are quite the same. [A glance toward the wall, something Mettaton does when he's made uncomfortable by something.] There was... another monster kidnapped alongside us, besides me. Not a ghost. Not a robot.
[Ghosts: can't be killed, corporealizing: kind of ruins that, robot: provides durability, so he makes sure to specify that this is an average monster. Mettaton refocuses his gaze upon Emet-Selch, somber. Talking about this is difficult for him to do: every time he does, he's usually doing it to reassure, since it's always in talking to the victim himself. He's obliged to do what he can to lift his spirits.]
... They did not treat him with any kindness. We both stand out in this crowd, even full of Mirrorbound. He survived it all... And remains as affable as ever. So I guess our frailty isn't the case, here.
They were awful. That was the kind of sentiment that would gravely wound, or even kill us.
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But that was right; Mettaton had mentioned that monsters could only kill with unwavering intent. And while Emet-Selch had assumed that to be little obstacle, perhaps he'd misjudged them (could there possibly be another population in existence that was predisposed to kindness, other than his own people?). So with that, on top of natural defenses against the only danger readily available... he could see why they'd managed to not destroy themselves once isolated from the real threat: humanity.
Regardless of intent, he's soothed a little nonetheless by the broader press of Mettaton's hands, the way the idol's soul seemed to embrace him in turn.
But when the conversation turns towards their captivity, it was hard to miss the puca's reaction. The discomfiture is obvious. Mettaton rarely avoided gazing directly at something, from what he'd noticed. And Emet-Selch had wondered how the man had dealt with all they'd been through and witnessed. If he had dealt with it at all. As poorly as the Ascian had fared, as new as the sense of helplessness had been, the actual actions on the part of their captors had been no surprise. His view of humanity remained justifiably intact. But Mettaton seemed quite... innocent. And possibly from a society unused to cruelty. What mark had their experiences left on him? It wasn't as though Emet-Selch had ever known him beforehand.]
So here, you're rendered some physicality, despite yourselves....
[Leaning in, he brushes a kiss to Mettaton's cheek, before pressing the side of his face against his, for a moment. To reassure? Emet-Selch isn't sure. He's also not sure why he's possessed of the inclination to. Part of that... 'caring' thing, perhaps.]
Your friend is quite forgiving, then. [There's a note of approval there, actually. He also just assumes that they're friends.] And how technically fortunate that this world saw fit to render your kind a degree more durability. Considering all that you'll continue to face.
[Not a very optimistic statement. It's downright pessimistic, even. He sighs. If Mettaton's people had attained their freedom through an impossible lack of bloodshed, to live a life of peaceful coexistence with humanity (an even more impossible thought), how... cruel again to be dragged here instead. Where there was freedom, yes... but fear and violence alongside it.
...At least they had a reason to look forward to going home, he supposed. A thought that has his own melancholy deepen. Shaking his head slightly, he has another thought.]
But... you presumably can't leave your current form without dying, same as myself- so I wonder what would've happened if you had arrived without one. A ghost outside the machine... would you have been made corporeal? If I'd appeared without mortal flesh, I doubt they would've allowed me to remain imperceptible to nearly everyone.
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[Feel that unease. Mettaton frowns, hesitant.
It settles over him heavier than Emet-Selch's body upon him the very moment he suggests arriving without his body. He can't even imagine himself prior to it, in Aefenglom, around all of these humans and other beings. Mortifying. What would he even do here? He wouldn't even have the options to keep him occupied in his hopeless perseverance, and he doubts very much that he'd have any company. Even independent of this body, it concerns him to consider who he might be without Napstablook to keep him at his best. (How does the very thought alone bring him right back to that mindset? Feeling worthless. ...That's in the past now. There's no way any sort of multiverse-based selection system would choose him, anyway, no matter the reasons, whether they're significant or arbitrary.)
The regret he'd feel if he had to be in such a unique set of circumstances but without a form he could consider his own is immense. He feels smaller now, perhaps glad to also feel swallowed up by Emet-Selch in this moment.
He hopes Emet-Selch doesn't notice all of this displeasure, but he dreads that he does. He probably does. Definitely. They're only connected by soul, their Bond incredibly transparent. That's... why he Bonded with him. (There's the feeling of relief, here. Just a bit.)
Mettaton rejects the thought of being a ghost who was also corporeal without form. What would that even be like? Uncomfortable, is what.]
No.
[Not the exact phrasing he was meaning to give...]
I believe that's why, by some design, we're brought as we are. With our hosts. They might have to provide one, or something...
[That's a bit more relieving, the thought that there would be something... As implausible as this all is. Though he imagines it would not be a great body... Most bodies, in Mettaton's experience, aren't right for him, but his selection hasn't been great. Not even his incorporeal one was right, but he could make do with others.
In response to earlier reassurances that linger (helpfully), Mettaton turns his head to press closer to Emet-Selch's, his hands smoothing down to the Ascian's lower back. He's not even too disturbed by the thought of what "all" they'll continue to face that will make having durability worthwhile, even as he considers it privately.
The Rathmores changed him. Of course they did, even if he keeps it private; nobody who wasn't there would want to talk about that. Even among those who were there, few do. Emet-Selch forces him to rethink his views, too, whether he likes it or not. He doesn't like feeling blindsided by his own adoration, and though he doesn't feel he'd ever stop loving people and could never stop hoping for their best... it sobers someone to experience something like that, and then find themselves Bonded to a man he met in those oppressive walls. It's a minor falter in ideology, an unsettling one, but one he places more hope in yet. He could find appreciation for a greater understanding of people. He just needs time.]
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Emet-Selch still didn't see why. The problem had been incorporeality, surely. A practical issue, more than anything else. Was it just a matter of looking back on an unhappier time?]
You've asked whether I've modified this host to my choosing... but what of you?
[His soul shifts continuously around him, though not restless or agitated this time. It's more of a slow stroking, protective as it envelopes, as though trying to shut out the outside world entirely. His voice is the same, quiet and even, even though it wasn't as though they were in any threat of being overheard.]
How much do you share with your current appearances? What were you like, before your various forms were designed?
[The downside of gaining the Ascian's investment, is that he asks questions like these. Especially since it's actual interest, rather than idle curiosity. And while he wonders at the discomfiture, it's not enough to dissuade him.
Though he does continue to lean his head firmly against Mettaton's, unconsciously rubbing a little more against it. Emet-Selch didn't have too many reassuring instincts left to him, but what insufficient remnants remained were trying.
He's more than fine with not dragging up more memories of their torture; it was something he avoided considering anyway, with limited success. No, its effects manifested in other ways. It probably always would.]
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[legs are crucial.
His eye's closed. He realizes he's answered quite readily, all things considered, but he did it without much awareness for it. Maybe he was prepared to say that all along, given how curious he's been about Emet-Selch.
It helps, having such deep intimacy, low volume, and close proximity. It's terribly relaxing, and in this moment, Mettaton doesn't know how he'd gone along without. He sighs, this time by necessity so as to relax more heavily into his Bonded's care. Mettaton feels again like his hearing is restricted to this bed, the sound of Emet-Selch breathing, his voice by the side of his face, soft and calming. He has every note of his voice memorized like song, from the deepest sorrow he's expressed to his coldest ire when he'd earned it, and it's so easy to sink into.
He tries to figure out where to go from there. Emet-Selch has been forthcoming about himself, and not just on matters of his appearance. He has little else prepared to explain, though he has the wherewithal to recognize how odd this might sound to anyone who didn't know how much distress he was in, without the body he'd always envisioned himself with. Emet-Selch, on the other hand, possessed an original body, lost it, and became incorporeal. If he could use his experience, maybe he could explain it.]
... Where you lost your original body, I have always been incorporeal. That's why I could will myself into perception. Not that being perceived does much for an unremarkable presence. ... It was... Simple in form. Not humanoid. White, varying transparency, empty-eyed, indistinguishable. I guess. But it wasn't "me." Back then... I'd do anything for a form like this.
[He doesn't even have any other words for his own form, and the thought of describing it is awkward.]
Nobody who knew me recognizes me, as I am. That person who I was is a thing of the past. ... Maybe, you'll see my cousin in a memory of mine. Since Bonds are likely to do that. If you see them... I looked like them.
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Mentally, he reclassifies the 'ghosts' of Mettaton's world from 'spiritual remnants of previously living entities' to 'naturally occurring incorporeal entities.' Which was fair enough, he supposed; in retrospect, it had been something of an assumption to believe that what constituted a ghost would be the same across worlds.
And he's quiet for a time as he thinks on all of that, nuzzling slowly at the side of Mettaton's face. A form without much shape, basic, insubstantial. Possessing of little willpower, and immortal almost as an afterthought. A pitiful existence in all regards. And considering how vibrant Mettaton was as his current self- difficult for the Ascian to imagine. Was his exuberance making up for lost time, he wondered. Or a constant seeking of distraction to keep from reminiscing on what life had once been limited to.
The idea of disconnecting from the past, in particular from one's very self is an alien thought to him. Of course Mettaton was the same person that he was before; form was immaterial. His soul was, presumably, unaltered.]
...I shall let you know should I encounter them in a dream.
[And as he considers again how reticent Mettaton was about his ghost self in all ways, from history to appearance... Emet-Selch felt as though he could understand that bit more of why he'd chosen to Bond with someone who'd guessed at the basics. If the secret was out anyway, there was less of an image to uphold. If his past self was so anathema... no wonder he would do all he could to keep the information to the absolute minimum of people.]
Did you leave many behind, when you severed from your past? ['Was there anyone to miss you', he does not say. Apart from that cousin, perhaps, depending on the relationship they had.] Or was it more of an... easy break? [That was a kinder way to put it.]
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Ah...
[It doesn't matter how many there were who remembered him, because he left someone very important behind. He pulls on Emet-Selch's body even though they're already flush against each other, even though Emet-Selch is as close to his very soul without altogether fusing with it. He doesn't mind terribly that there weren't many to miss him, as much as the strength of being missed and missing in return.
He treats the proximity like a cure for his disquiet over these admissions, burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. It helps: these tactile experiences are long desired, after all.]
... Only Bl- my cousin, I imagine. Maybe another. [Only one or two people, basically.] But that didn't make it easy.
[Difficult enough to dissuade him immediately upon hearing their voice not to continue on in the pursuit of his dreams of humanity, while keeping his attention even when they'd been granted freedom.
Here, in the now, Emet-Selch serves as company he can have as a blend of his entire experience. Something he never imagined he could have, and he grazes his fingertips along his sides against warm skin. The thought eases the lingering heartache that comes from splitting with someone.]
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Probably a continuation of what he'd already been doing, Emet-Selch decided, he probably had that instinct for a reason. Though they couldn't much press any closer, he tilts his head a little at feeling the face in his hair. His soul maintained its slow ministrations, as though it were a dark blanket to wrap him up in. This closeness- none of it could replace what had already been lost. But it was something. He hums very softly at the feeling of fingers running along his sides, the lightness of the sensation almost causing him to twitch, though not unpleasantly.
The feelings in themselves, of course, were far too familiar to Emet-Selch. Most anything on the sorrowful end of the negative spectrum was. So that much, at least, settles onto him quite comfortably, as though it had always been there, despite originating from someone else. Unlike positive feelings, which remained a source of great suspicion, something to recoil from, these he could accept very easily.
The only strange part was the awareness of his own affectionate reactions- a heavy and tinged with melancholy sort, but affection all the same. A desire to sooth. What a strange thing to feel in response to someone else's unhappiness.
Though he's a touch amused at the hiding of that name, he doesn't question it, assuming Mettaton had some reason to keep it to himself. The Ascian could understand the value of names.]
...'Tis not number, but closeness which matters in the end. And yet you still selected this path.
[There's no judgement there. Not even remotely. If anything, he's entirely sympathetic. Sometimes... you had to take decisions that removed you from others. Important others. Even though their circumstances and reasons were entirely different, Emet-Selch could recognize the feeling.
There was one thing he didn't understand, though.]
But if they already knew what you were... why was it necessary to hide from them once you'd obtained these forms of yours?
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He waits a moment, thinking it over. It takes Mettaton sorting through a number of excuses that don't actually pose the largest obstacle if questioned further, and questioning is something Emet-Selch is good at doing. He's not intending to lie — there's no reason, and Emet-Selch's companionship pulls Mettaton deeply into complacency, unguarded. But his other reasons aren't lies so much as not thorough enough. At the core of it all, there's always one thing left: guilt.]
Because... I told them I'd never leave them behind, for corporeality. But. Well. Here I am.
[There was no obstacle but his own feelings. He went against his word. Fame can go to one's head, and he took every opportunity to forget about what he'd left behind. It made it easier.
That goes unsaid, but the sentiment persists. It was easier to ignore it and leave it behind, to create an artificial distance between anyone who got close to him. All he needs are his fans, after all. Maybe that's not the case.]
The day I arrived here... I finally met them again, as my fan. Of course, I knew they'd like what I do. That they'd be a fan is no surprise to me. But it's strange. Meeting somebody you've always known... but they don't recognize you in the same way. They only know you in a removed sense. I'm their idol now, not their long lost family. I was going to tell them, and... I will. But I didn't. When they looked at me with such admiration, I...
[So he knew they were likely left in the darkest of mental spaces for years, but when he saw them in person, he couldn't bring himself to blur the lines between star and constant companion. What sort of reaction would that have elicited after he saw them excited for once? They would have been made upset all over again, he's sure.
Being transparent to Emet-Selch feels unusually natural. He can't place why, but it's something about his very being. He has his barbs, and the robot already knows he feels familiar, but his perceptiveness forces everything to lay out before both of them for appraisal. Feeling enclosed by the Ascian is so welcome that he can't even bring himself to think of what it feels like without the presence of his immense soul, darkness and all. From within that security, Mettaton latches on.]
I forgot... what I'd given up. How nice it is to have people close to me.
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What a terrible feeling. Understandable under the circumstances, but terrible nonetheless. And considering Mettaton's words... Emet-Selch isn't about to tell him that he shouldn't feel that way. If it wasn't quite a betrayal of his companions, it was quite unkind behavior. Selfish and cowardly- but tinged with desperation, he imagined. To desire everything that corporeality entailed, to the point of abandoning all else. It didn't strike him as an easy or even careless decision.
Or perhaps since he cared about him, Emet-Selch was willing to make more concessions for his behavior. Or because he could feel some of the weight of how his choices had settled on him. The Ascian had wondered what had lay beyond Mettaton's usual cheer and exuberance, and... all of this seemed to be an answer.
Turning his head, he rests his lips against the side of Mettaton's face, allowing them to linger there, as though distracted by his thoughts. But he eventually pushes himself up enough to observe his face, expression neutral, serious- even as his soul remains circling warmly around him, latching on in return.]
The benefit to immortality... is that it affords you time to reconnect.
[Even if Mettaton had abandoned them for some time without a trace... with patience, and considering there had been no malicious intent- he thought it was possible to be forgiven. But though the idol said he would tell them- Emet-Selch was skeptical. It'd be an easy thing to continue putting off, indefinitely. Avoiding the immediate pain in favor of... long-term pain and continued guilt. He sighs, inwardly.]
Do you fear losing their admiration? Disappointing them, somehow...? It'll no doubt be an unpleasant experience for you both... but in the long term, wouldn't they prefer to have a person close to them return, rather than idolize a stranger from a distance?
[Mettaton's last comment gets a slightly uncomfortable look, but neither agreement nor denial. It was true- but it was a terrible thing to recognize as true.]
Well... I hope you do tell them, when you're given the chance to.
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He'd tell Napstablook eventually, and they'd forgive him in word. But it'll take far longer than that. A misstep this significant isn't something easy to forget, and it would take a long time trying to put the pieces together... To no avail, because their relationship would be new and different now.
But it isn't as though he's lost them completely. Not like Emet-Selch, who lost everything and was faced with so many difficult choices along the way, with seemingly no hope to ever come anywhere close to piecing things back together. Yes, immortality offers time to heal when everything can be made right, and he can't take that for granted. It just feels terrible right now, imagining all of the stilted interactions they'll have before anything feels at ease again. If that ever comes. He sighs, looking at the ceiling.]
...It won't be the same as it was before. And... I'll have to take "Mettaton" from them, too. They'll be stuck with an odd mix of the two people... I'm not excited about it. How could it ever be the same, after that? But. I know they miss me. I'll tell them... if not because I miss them, too.
But you're right. We have time afforded to us, at least. Bl- Napstablook, has always been impossibly morose, so I expect it'll take... A long time.
[They'll figure out what to make of their new relationship as it happens. Mettaton may have his worries, but he's optimistic. He smiles sadly at the Ascian, wrapping his arms around his back again and pulling tighter.
It's on his mind, Emet-Selch's life. Considering immortality, time, and chances. Compared to him, however, Emet-Selch can't simply reconnect with a loved one. That sure puts things into perspective for the robot. It's sad, and from an observer's perspective, he's mournful just thinking about it, but curious all the same.]
Did you have anybody important to you like this, Hades, darling? Who you miss...?
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But that was right- 'Mettaton' must be a name as new as his body, else his cousin surely would've realized who he was long before. For now, though, Emet-Selch decides not to inquire further on it. It felt like more of a side detail, rather than something of current relevance.]
It won't be the same. [There was no getting around that. And something far easier to recognize when it was someone else's problem.] Still, even though it may take an age to reach that point, perhaps you'll both appreciate wherever it is you end up. Even if it's... quite distant from where you started.
[This was all strangely optimistic for him. Not very strongly or positively- it felt more as an acknowledgement of future difficulty, rather than any sort of hope. Change was terrible, and best avoided under most circumstances. But in this case, at least... change had already happened.
And as he finds himself turning it over in his mind, there wasn't an obvious solution or best choice. Ideally, Mettaton shouldn't have made that promise to remain, but- if this Napstablook was as morose as claimed, Emet-Selch doubted that any attempt to leave would've gone over well or been any easier. Such abandonment- with warning or without- would hurt both, yet remaining would've left Mettaton unfulfilled and unhappy as well. Granted, the path Mettaton took was probably the worst one, but it wasn't as though the other options were much better.
...Still. They were both alive. They could mend things.
Emet-Selch sighs eventually, returning to nestle his face back down against Mettaton's neck. They both seemed to have a preference for that place, on each other. Or it was a natural place to rest.
And he supposed it was inevitable to have that question turned back on himself, but that made it no more of a comfortable thing to answer.]
And of course I did. But they were lost to me even before the sundering.
[And now he'd never see them again. Not as they were.]
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And ultimately, the notion he appreciates most is Emet-Selch's kindness. It's not exuberant reassurances, never in hell would he imagine that out of the Ascian, but he knows he's listening, processing, and giving his best thoughts to him. It softens Mettaton terribly, as if it were possible yet. More like a deepening of the feeling.
He doesn't look quite so unhappy anymore as Emet-Selch lowers to his neck, and he gives it willingly, yielding.
It's odd, having told someone... this much of himself. Emet-Selch feels as though he sits differently upon him now, but he knows that's his own perception. It's a foreign feeling, but not unwelcome. He takes to it, clutches him closer with his arms, decides that he's found somebody incredibly important out of Emet-Selch. Easy as it might be to start thinking about how he'll lose him someday, too, given their conversation, Mettaton doesn't. He only thinks of him here, in his arms, in this city, with fondness enough to make him feel warm. He thinks about their connection, their Bond, and how he fits him in heart. Would his own soul, a bright thing uncolored by attribute, emerge from this tinged by darkness he couldn't detect? It's so thorough a hold that he couldn't say, but that he doesn't mind the thought... Mettaton smiles to himself, finding it amusing more than possible, and kisses the side of Emet-Selch's head.
Of course, his response is a curious one. Had it been a yes, and I lost them, he would have understood the sentiment and pried deeper. Now he's just confused, and still wants to pry. He tilts his head into Emet-Selch's.]
Before the sundering? Do you mean, they left you? Why...?
[By will? By force? Which is worse...? He can't say yet, but he's eager to know. It's one thing to have lost someone dear to tragedy, but did this mean that in these final days, Emet-Selch had only the love for his people left and a hole left behind by someone dear? Already, he feels for him.]
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As Emet-Selch was more than aware that not only could he not change anything, he could lose all of this at any time. It was hard to imagine going without it, and harder to escape thinking about what would eventually be. Was it really a kindness to know that he wouldn't remember it?
Mettaton's arms felt warm around him, his presence warmer; perhaps enough to keep the Ascian's mood from sinking utterly at the thought, at the topic. It still settles heavily upon him, but in a more melancholic manner, resigned and wistful. Though it was impossible to settle much closer to Mettaton, Emet-Selch shifts nonetheless, as though trying. That his words would only lead to more questions was something he knew, but he still hesitates, reluctant at yet another inevitability. But he eventually responds.]
...There were two in particular that I became close to. When disaster came to our star, and we were left with no choice but to create our lord Zodiark- neither agreed with this decision.
[It had felt like a betrayal at the time, and that sentiment hadn't changed, for all that grief had joined it. Would they have ever worked through such a divide? He wasn't sure. A decision to sacrifice the majority of their population wasn't a small thing.]
We... did not part on the best of terms.
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Emet-Selch had all but two friends. (A hint for himself: he might have been much the same prior to the sundering. Maybe with less to despair about, but much the same. It wouldn't surprise him.) Mettaton can't say anything, especially now that he's completely disclosed that he didn't have much in the ways of close company himself. Now, he's loved by many, known of equally, and known intimately by few. He doesn't really wish to antagonize him over the matter, anyway: close company, he's realized, is a rarity among a sea of acquaintanceship, and that's for somebody amicable. There's nothing wrong with that.
It's nice to imagine him with people close to him, in a time before all of this, and Mettaton spares a smile to it. Toiling to restore his world is surely all Emet-Selch's been doing — he doesn't strike him as somebody with the energy for much else. Thinking of him before that, maybe he wasn't that different, but it was no doubt simpler than working to restore a civilization and a god.
His hands move up his back some more, stroking over his shoulders appreciatively.]
At least half of your population must have accepted this drastic course of action. Yet the two you held closest disagreed... That couldn't have been easy. Making such a crucial decision, and lacking their support.
["What became of them?" No, no. Does he even need to ask? They're probably gone, with the rest of his people. If Emet-Selch is only here by virtue of Zodiark, and they disagreed, they are not among those... two others, he recalls, who have their complete souls. They may have even been among the people who wished to bind Zodiark. It would seem like betrayal, and Mettaton gets that sense. Though he doesn't doubt it must have been difficult on either side of the decision.
He wonders if Emet-Selch ever feels responsible for the death of his people. He lost half, then all, and he was one of those who created Zodiark in the first place. Aside from cherishing them, if there's any reason to fight for the restoration of his people, he can see why that would weigh heavily upon him. Especially with dissension so close to him.
Fingers trace over his spine, moving up his neck before rubbing down each shoulder again, spanning his fingers along their breadth. Every sense of his is full of the Ascian, a depth so easy to slip into that Mettaton's no doubt already well under the surface.]
... I doubt they were spared the fate of the rest of your people. [He still considers it a wonder that Emet-Selch is one of the many who would be before him, but what would the chances be of his companions being spared?
On a smaller voice, against his hair,] How terrible. To end it on such a note, too. I wonder, if I can ask if you have regrets... About your friends, or the choices made.
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Who was there to tell? Even those few mortals he'd made the mistake of caring about never knew who or what he actually was. Those Warriors of Light knew... quite a bit, and he didn't think he'd mind telling, at least some of them, more of it, but--
They had been the sword to sever his ambitions, render all those years and lives for naught. That was inescapable. Something both sides were aware of. Mettaton, for all that he disagreed with him on the value of mortal entities, was at least an unrelated party. Perhaps that made it easier.
Being held like this certainly helped too, and Emet-Selch spares a murmur of approval at the tie of their legs, the touch of arms and hands along his back. He felt... exceptionally cared for and about, and he gently presses a kiss to the base of Mettaton's neck. Soul and body so closely intertwined, it was hard to contemplate a state other than this. Shifting, one arm tucked against the other man's chest, the Ascian's fingers knead slowly in the space between neck and shoulder as he speaks.]
They were not spared. They did not number among those who gave themselves to Zodiark, nor those who chose to create Hydaelyn. [Small mercies. He's not sure if he would have ever forgiven that.] And so they were sundered along with the rest. Even were they pieced back together... I don't believe their memories would return.
[They were gone.]
You may ask whatever you like. [It was uncomfortable to speak of all this, but not terrible. Perhaps it was the contact, or the newness of the situation that left him off-balance enough to try.] But what would having regrets accomplish?
[Which wasn't an answer. It also wasn't something he tended to think about. There was futility he would struggle through and futility he would ignore, and thoughts of regret were in the latter. He was too far in to regret anything.]
Convincing them would've led to the same result, their souls broken. If they'd convinced myself, the Convocation would've been reduced another member, and Zodiark may not have been successfully created, leading to the deaths of all. Where- what space is there for regret?
[Of not having his last memories of them be unpleasant ones, if they had been able to reach some sort of accord? Would that really have been better?]
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[The very thought of somebody's soul being broken apart and distributed to new life... It's so odd to consider that the robot can only marvel at it. Something so splendid to him, however, takes on a bit of a horrifying cast in light of the events Emet-Selch outlined to him via text — for this to lead to that, he might see how it could be seen as unsettling, even. From a purely distant standpoint: Mettaton mostly sees it as interesting, as heartrending as it is to imagine his cherished people broken to pieces.
Souls like his have a lot to give, a lot of pieces to break into, don't they? Mettaton does feel comparatively smaller, and he knows his soul is whole. There's a regard for Emet-Selch in this moment, but an even greater appreciation for... the fact that he's all here, as he is, in this moment. It's not to dislike those with pieces of souls, but a simple fondness for the fact that he's still himself. A reciprocal embrace from within that darkness.
(Does Emet-Selch ever recognize pieces of souls he sees in people? Has he ever found a friend...? How bittersweet that would be. This new question bites him suddenly, and he'll no doubt ask.)
Emet-Selch is quick to address the most prominent possible regrets, as if he'd spared some thought to it already. Some, anyway. It's all of the regrets that Mettaton wonders if he's even allowed to think about, shackled to his zeal for Zodiark as he is, that makes him wonder if he could ask. What if there were another way? Mettaton doesn't have a good impression of Hydaelyn (and still can't wrap his mind around why some of the Amaurotine felt so threatened that they needed to make another god (what exactly daunted them so about Zodiark, if he brought them salvation?! questions for later)) but what if there were a reason for her conception? Were there ideas that required less sacrifice, had greater support, could have yielded better results?
...In the end, Mettaton's not one who likes to hold onto regrets, himself. He does, rarely, but he doesn't like it. Not when he can keep looking on, moving ever forward and finding ways to make right what's wrong. What good would it do to dwell on what already happened? Turning back time and replaying events for a different outcome is something nobody could do, save for a god, probably.
He smiles despite himself, quiet and appreciative of all he feels from the Ascian while his hands wander over his upper back, slow and broad in their strokes, taking in his build, muscle and bone. Perhaps not unlike this, Emet-Selch's palpation yields that layer of pliant, false tissue that seems to cover a metal framework complex in its construction, enough to facilitate all manner of head and neck movement.]
The regret of not seeing eye to eye, with your loved ones. That maybe they disagreed with you for good reason... Or, even if yours was the most viable solution— [He has no greater way of phrasing this:] As someone so involved in mobilizing the solution... Do you feel responsible for their deaths? For the way things played out?
[It's asked from an inquisitive angle, perhaps even one probing for lingering feeling. This is about regrets, after all. Mettatons palms press into his back as he moves them down, then back up again in a slow rhythm.]
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[Cutting himself off, he takes a breath. Perhaps he did regret things ending as they had between them, after all. How pointless.]
Their good reason would have killed everyone, and the world with us. [A flash of irritation, though heavily guilt-laden.] Do you think any of us wanted to accept so costly a price?
[Zodiark remained perfect and blameless, and Emet-Selch couldn't imagine a world without Him. His creation had been necessary, but that hadn't made those sacrifices any easier to accept.]
So of course I don't feel responsible. Were it not for Hydaelyn and Her thralls, our people would have been long restored. If it weren't for Her Light....
[His hold tightens briefly; his soul thrashes in place before resettling, though more tensely. Just considering the injustice of it all, it was both infuriating and depressing. And while he'd survived all these years sustained by the hope that, despite the interminable delay, he'd be able to save his people in the end....]
And so it seems She'll succeed in burying us entirely, and the truth with us. She chose Her weapons well this time.
[Even as he settles, there's a brittleness, a bitterness to it. It was still muffled, soothed in part by Mettaton's continued presence, the constant, minor reassurance that there was no threat here, he wasn't being challenged or insulted.
Because of course there was guilt. Both for what he'd had to do then, and what he'd failed to accomplish now. Every year was another tick of failure, until he could no longer number them.
He takes another breath, tries instead to focus on the shape of Mettaton's hands upon his back, the reliable, restful motion. A distracted thought towards the construction of the idol's body, superficially human and clearly not- both in terms of obvious things like breath or heartbeat, but the details he could only feel if pressed upon. When Mettaton had described it as his ideal body, had he meant being a humanoid robot in particular, or was this only the closest representation of what he wanted that he could realistically obtain?
Even if it couldn't calm him entirely, the distracted focus kept the Ascian's current state from deteriorating too far.]
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Even worse is the apparent knowledge that the Ascian's fate is written in stone. The Warriors of Light know he falls, by their hand... Is there any defying such a fate? The mortals would be spared his designs, but his ambitions, which aren't so purely insidious as they are desperate, go unrealized. All of the lives lost and all of the years spent working toward that goal for him to be killed.
No matter whose plan was executed, it seems Emet-Selch's cause would always fail. Fate keeps designing for it to be so.
Mettaton presses his lips against the top of his head, pitying his circumstances. He allows his arms to cross, pulling the other man into himself.]
It fixes nothing, but. ... I'm sorry. That you've lost so much. That you've been subjected to such a torturous fate. That it doesn't work out. That your last moments with your friends were spent feeling... left alone. It's unfair.
[He kisses him this time. One of his hands remains firmly planted against Emet-Selch's back, while the other moves to lace in his hair. His very being, too, only closes in on him with his own attempt at enclosing him, to comfort. He finds himself thinking about how much he likes him, and wants only the best for him, despite their mismatch in views.]
You have plenty to regret, Hades, dear. And... very little in the ways of coming to grips with that remorse. [He sighs. The more action he takes, the worse things seem to get. It's a distressing set of circumstances that feels as though nobody could come out of it happy.] I don't... understand. Why they'd make Hydaelyn, if already so much had gone into Zodiark's creation. If he already brought you salvation. Were they really so terrified of him...?
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None of those Warriors had said as much. And he didn't expect it- and when it came to regret over his death, Emet-Selch didn't want it. How cruel would it be for them to regret it now, after the fact, accomplishing nothing? A regret that wouldn't even be able to travel back with them. But had any of them ever expressed empathy for anything else? Would it have made a difference if they had? They respected him, he thought, and he could no longer deny that they cared about him either.
But it was one of those awkward things no one brought up. Or perhaps they felt nothing at all, being from the place impacted by the Ascians' work, knowing of the lives they'd taken, and the suffering they'd wrought. What was one person's grief in comparison to that?
It was the most unsympathetic view, so he assumed it to be correct.
...It shouldn't matter. It didn't matter, but he found himself holding onto Mettaton's words nonetheless.
And holding onto him in general, breathing in his nearness on all levels. Eyes closed, dwelling on the sensation of the kiss, the fingers in his hair, the hand on his back. He didn't feel held in place so much as just- held, doused in the mix of their feelings, giving himself over to both. But he settles further, if more heavily, away from the limited energy that anger brought. Digging in that bit more, with what strength he could manage, as though he could keep himself from falling entirely. Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was sinking further into despair, or just... sinking in general. A slow drift downward was inevitable, he supposed.
But affection deepened. He hadn't thought it could deepen so far.]
...Fear was a large part of it. And misunderstanding. They believed that for all that Zodiark's new laws governing reality appeared immutable, that time would find flaws in them. That Hydaelyn would serve to bind Him, should His power run rampant. But outside of this....
[This was the bit Emet-Selch tended to avoid mentioning. The only reason the heroes knew was because someone else told them. And while it was entirely true that a small number of his people feared Zodiark, for no proven cause, ruining the world in their panic- this other aspect was slightly less sympathetic towards the Ascian cause.]
...Once our world was healed, and life began to take root upon it again, our Convocation decided that after enough of it had amassed, a portion would be given to Zodiark in order that He may restore those who had first fed His creation.
[A forced sacrifice of the younger races. Emet-Selch still sees nothing wrong with this; his people deserved the world more than anyone else.]
So Hydaelyn was created to preserve them. Borne in part of this desire, 'tis no wonder She chooses to protect them at all cost, even if it meant breaking the world to do so. Hiding the past and lying to them, all to make exacting our plan ever harder. So long as none are given to Zodiark, I suppose She cares not how many of them perish....
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[His tone is almost reprimanding, but mostly low, disbelieving. Mettaton's steady warmth immediately cools over, and he further communicates this shift in a slowing of his actions.
So. Sacrificing seven human lives for freedom would have checked out as okay, in Mettaton's book. Sacrificing one to protect the rest? Also okay. Sacrificing seven to destroy them all isn't okay. But what about sacrificing half of a people to save a world, restoring a world to its former health, then... trading in that sacrifice for an equivalent found in another life? A life that no doubt had no say in this transaction, because they didn't even exist yet. That strikes him as rotten. Probably more of his Bonded's usual thinking, that his people are far more deserving of their own lives and world.
Both sides are so extreme in their designs. Mettaton's exasperation and disappointment are mounting steadily just thinking on it as he stares at the ceiling, unmoving. It makes a lot more sense, why Hydaelyn would be created by a group of Amaurotine who disagreed with this deal. Zodiark's laws governing reality hardly seem to compare to this willful disregard for another population.
For as much as Emet-Selch has neglected mentioning this so far, Mettaton doesn't feel lied to or misled. He already thought of this whole affair, of the Rejoinings and calamitous nature of Emet-Selch's actions, as being driven by Ascians who did not value mortal life, even if it's also driven by a desire for the restoration of their home. He's already had to live among a race of people who craved humanity's destruction out of grief and had to rationalize his own desire for their continued survival despite the prevailing sentiment. Nothing's simple. This is just a lot more complex than what he's accustomed to, especially in stakes.
Even though he's frosted over, Mettaton isn't totally detached. His fondness is not gone, but his disapproval over injustice guides his feelings.]
Did those who sacrificed their lives know of this angle. The condition to sacrifice another's life, decided upon by your Convocation. Did they consider their sacrifice one that would be later undone... at the cost of other life?
[His voice is too flat to have any questioning intonation. Nonetheless, he holds him close. The Amaurotine are kind, says Emet-Selch... and clearly, there were some who disagreed so strongly with this bargain that Hydaelyn came to be. He recalls the first time he heard of Emet-Selch's story, and the Ascian said they might be upset with him about his ambitions... Which might very well be true for this part, too. Was the Convocation simply full of Amaurotine like Emet-Selch, who devalued life other than their own?
He wonders if this is why his friends turned their backs on him.]
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No one took well to the idea of involuntary sacrifice.]
Changed your mind about sympathizing, have you?
[His voice is low, with a falsely idle lilt. His fingers still distractedly knead near Mettaton's shoulder, as though his hand needed something to occupy itself.]
But no. They did not.
[It's stated with more reluctance than anything previously said. And it almost seems as though Emet-Selch intends to leave it at that, the words hanging in the air- but he pushes on with effort.]
No, their lives were freely offered, with no hope nor expectation of revival.
[Does he know what they would've thought of what the survivors had become willing to do in order to save them? Or how they would've felt at the cost since- the millions of lives taken in order to just have the chance to sacrifice more to an awakened Zodiark?
Not that the sundered races were alive, but would they have seen it like that?
--It didn't matter. They would be revived, brethren and Zodiark both. The Ascian's voice and manner also chills, arrogance slipping back in, a dark sort of resolution.]
But do they not have more right to the world than any other? Were it not for their perfect offering, all of us and the star itself would have been lost. Do they not deserve to be rescued?
[Something that could not be done without cost. But despite the price, despite everything- Emet-Selch could not imagine ever taking another path. Even knowing it would end up like this, how--
So long as he lived, he would see to their return.]
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