Emet-Selch had done all that he had felt required of him: he'd let his two compatriots know of his condition. And with that accomplished, he'd set the watch aside, and crumpled back onto Mettaton, letting out a heavy breath as he settled into as comfortable a position as he could. Letting the other Ascians know that he was alive again (as well as that he'd died, he supposed) was one thing, but staying up to see if they replied went beyond what he thought could be expected of him. He was tired; they could wait.
And with Mettaton finally in something that at least looked like good, thorough sleep, Emet-Selch had little and less reason to fight off an encroaching unconsciousness. Despite how exhausted he was, he knew it would probably be fitful, prone to waking in twitching starts, thoughts muddled with memories of blood and dark burrows and the scent of rot all around him. That was just how it had been, ever since he'd revived, and what he assumed would continue for some time to come.
But not this time. His body had finally won the conflict with his mind and his heart, pulling him into a heavy, thorough unconsciousness. Even without the incidence of death, he hadn't slept well for several weeks preceding; with dying added into the mix, what this mortal flesh needed most of all were long, deep periods of rest. And with his Bonded safe and in close, constant contact, all concerns that required consciousness had been lifted- and his body could, so-to-speak, pounce, dragging him into a heavy instance of repose.
And so he remained, oblivious to Elidibus' ominous lack of response. Were it not for the slight movement of his chest, and a body temperature greater than ambient, it would be possible to mistake him for having slipped back into the realm of the dead. His coloring was still poor, sickly, his wounds extensive, and his body fragile. He was not well, and there was no mistaking it.
The room is entered; Emet-Selch had a visitor, but is unprepared to receive him, sleeping through anything that might've been mistaken as concern on his guest's face.
There's no movement, no sound, no reaction at all to the partial exposure of his body, as Elidibus peels away protective blankets. That his chest had taken significant damage across it becomes expressly evident for all that it's covered, considering the amount of bandaging applied. Applied and in need of refreshing, as they had both old blood transferred there from being pressed to Mettaton's body, as well as signs of fresher bleeding underneath- a silent record of how his weakened body had tried to propel itself, for whatever reason (to reach his Bonded, of course). The newer bleeding seems to have been well contained and not urgently serious, at least, having not soaked entirely through the bandages- but were a warning for why the Ascian needed to keep still, lest he make anything worse. Another bandage lay at the side of his neck, in much the same condition.
But any prodding goes unremarked on, unnoticed, unreacted to. Even when his non-functioning eye is opened for him, there's not so much as a flinch. Elidibus could proceed, could observe as much as he liked, and there was precisely naught that Emet-Selch could do about it. Granted, even had he been awake his only defense would have been commentary, as so much as sitting up under his own power was exhausting and not something to be attempted casually.
Yet sleep, deep as it was, eventually fades. And where individual gestures like the sound of a coin hitting the wall, or the prodding of his eye, or the moving of blankets wasn't enough to rouse him, the steadier contact of damp fabric rubbed against skin might have helped coax Emet-Selch back to the surface sooner than otherwise. What was that, and why was it happening? His breathing changes slightly; he shivers, as though more of his skin was exposed, and eventually his eyes half-open, his working one struggling to focus on the source of this strange sensation. His head tilts, his eyes blink, expression moderately uncomfortable as his gaze adjusts to the light, and then fails to adjust to what he sees in it.
Elidibus, damp cloth in hand (a damp cloth stained reddish, he notes absently), applying said cloth to his body. Emet-Selch freezes, tensing as much as his weakened muscles allowed.
...A moment later though, he relaxes. This was clearly a dream, some absurdity his unconscious mind had come up with. He did want to be washed off, after all, the old blood and bits of fur and dirt that he'd picked up from his Bonded weren't pleasant to have left on his skin, so this was just an expression of that desire. That it was Elidibus performing the task, well, that was dreams for you. They were always a bit nonsensical. He closes his eyes again, waiting for the dream to move on.
But it didn't. And rather than falling back asleep (or continuing to sleep?), that peculiar feeling of being washed... persists. His brow furrows. His eyes open again, focusing once more on Elidibus there, in his hospital room, where Emet-Selch lay tangled up with his fiancé, wearing nothing but blankets over his lower half and bandages on his chest and throat. Bits of his skin were wet (and somewhat cleaner). Elidibus was bathing him. The Convocation's very own Emissary, made into the manifestation of their people's hopes, was washing him, by hand.
A low, strangled sort of noise escapes his throat: his initial response to something he could not now un-experience. There's flashes of inclinations: to laugh, to try and go back to sleep, to ignore it all. There were a lot of things he could say, some more flippant than others, some rude, some demanding, most some manner of perplexed.
His eyes close yet again, but not to sleep or pretend to. His voice is slightly taut, words given in a tone that makes a valiant attempt towards idleness. "I didn't know you were so eager to... change careers, Elidibus. But nursing. I'm not certain it suits you."
The last time he'd seen the Emissary, the other man had treated wounds wrought by dragon claw. Was this going to become some sort of pattern?
no subject
And with Mettaton finally in something that at least looked like good, thorough sleep, Emet-Selch had little and less reason to fight off an encroaching unconsciousness. Despite how exhausted he was, he knew it would probably be fitful, prone to waking in twitching starts, thoughts muddled with memories of blood and dark burrows and the scent of rot all around him. That was just how it had been, ever since he'd revived, and what he assumed would continue for some time to come.
But not this time. His body had finally won the conflict with his mind and his heart, pulling him into a heavy, thorough unconsciousness. Even without the incidence of death, he hadn't slept well for several weeks preceding; with dying added into the mix, what this mortal flesh needed most of all were long, deep periods of rest. And with his Bonded safe and in close, constant contact, all concerns that required consciousness had been lifted- and his body could, so-to-speak, pounce, dragging him into a heavy instance of repose.
And so he remained, oblivious to Elidibus' ominous lack of response. Were it not for the slight movement of his chest, and a body temperature greater than ambient, it would be possible to mistake him for having slipped back into the realm of the dead. His coloring was still poor, sickly, his wounds extensive, and his body fragile. He was not well, and there was no mistaking it.
The room is entered; Emet-Selch had a visitor, but is unprepared to receive him, sleeping through anything that might've been mistaken as concern on his guest's face.
There's no movement, no sound, no reaction at all to the partial exposure of his body, as Elidibus peels away protective blankets. That his chest had taken significant damage across it becomes expressly evident for all that it's covered, considering the amount of bandaging applied. Applied and in need of refreshing, as they had both old blood transferred there from being pressed to Mettaton's body, as well as signs of fresher bleeding underneath- a silent record of how his weakened body had tried to propel itself, for whatever reason (to reach his Bonded, of course). The newer bleeding seems to have been well contained and not urgently serious, at least, having not soaked entirely through the bandages- but were a warning for why the Ascian needed to keep still, lest he make anything worse. Another bandage lay at the side of his neck, in much the same condition.
But any prodding goes unremarked on, unnoticed, unreacted to. Even when his non-functioning eye is opened for him, there's not so much as a flinch. Elidibus could proceed, could observe as much as he liked, and there was precisely naught that Emet-Selch could do about it. Granted, even had he been awake his only defense would have been commentary, as so much as sitting up under his own power was exhausting and not something to be attempted casually.
Yet sleep, deep as it was, eventually fades. And where individual gestures like the sound of a coin hitting the wall, or the prodding of his eye, or the moving of blankets wasn't enough to rouse him, the steadier contact of damp fabric rubbed against skin might have helped coax Emet-Selch back to the surface sooner than otherwise. What was that, and why was it happening? His breathing changes slightly; he shivers, as though more of his skin was exposed, and eventually his eyes half-open, his working one struggling to focus on the source of this strange sensation. His head tilts, his eyes blink, expression moderately uncomfortable as his gaze adjusts to the light, and then fails to adjust to what he sees in it.
Elidibus, damp cloth in hand (a damp cloth stained reddish, he notes absently), applying said cloth to his body. Emet-Selch freezes, tensing as much as his weakened muscles allowed.
...A moment later though, he relaxes. This was clearly a dream, some absurdity his unconscious mind had come up with. He did want to be washed off, after all, the old blood and bits of fur and dirt that he'd picked up from his Bonded weren't pleasant to have left on his skin, so this was just an expression of that desire. That it was Elidibus performing the task, well, that was dreams for you. They were always a bit nonsensical. He closes his eyes again, waiting for the dream to move on.
But it didn't. And rather than falling back asleep (or continuing to sleep?), that peculiar feeling of being washed... persists. His brow furrows. His eyes open again, focusing once more on Elidibus there, in his hospital room, where Emet-Selch lay tangled up with his fiancé, wearing nothing but blankets over his lower half and bandages on his chest and throat. Bits of his skin were wet (and somewhat cleaner). Elidibus was bathing him. The Convocation's very own Emissary, made into the manifestation of their people's hopes, was washing him, by hand.
A low, strangled sort of noise escapes his throat: his initial response to something he could not now un-experience. There's flashes of inclinations: to laugh, to try and go back to sleep, to ignore it all. There were a lot of things he could say, some more flippant than others, some rude, some demanding, most some manner of perplexed.
His eyes close yet again, but not to sleep or pretend to. His voice is slightly taut, words given in a tone that makes a valiant attempt towards idleness. "I didn't know you were so eager to... change careers, Elidibus. But nursing. I'm not certain it suits you."
The last time he'd seen the Emissary, the other man had treated wounds wrought by dragon claw. Was this going to become some sort of pattern?