This would, of course, lead to exhaustion rising to claim its toll. Perhaps even fast enough to not be truly worried that an immediate response was not forthcoming.
Perhaps.
Recent events with the machinations of the Evergreen Circle have utterly taxed the caregivers, witches, and aides of the Coven. So when Elidibus, looking every bit the altruistic type of person who would volunteer and also has more than two brain cells to rub together, is not devastated by brainwashing, grief, guilt, remorse, or all of the above, he doesn't even have to try to convince someone to let him help. They practically fling a smock and a volunteer armband at him.
He does, however, have to do a little work to find out the location of his fellow Ascian and current bed partner and after that, it's just a matter of stopping another volunteer, readily convincing her that he can handle this particular room since the occupants are friends and he'd like a chance to check on them. She looks at him like he's her savior, which is something of a surprise until she explains what the cause for her relief is.
Ah. Yes, that puts matters into perspective. Nevertheless, he grins and chuckles and nods his understanding, accepts the tools she'd been carrying to the room, and lets her escape. Elidibus steps into the room and closes the door firmly and silently behind him before letting the act of emotions drain away from his features.
Mostly. There is something there. The uninitiated might have called the furrowed brow a mannerism brought on by 'disappointment'. But those who have dealt with the Emissary over countless millennia may be able to read deeper than that superficial assumption. Distant as it may appear to be, this is what concern might look like, were concern a creature newly born into the world and not yet sure of its purpose.
Never fear. It will be hiding deep in the recesses of Elidibus's psyche by the time Emet-Selch awakens and risks bringing it to the Emissary's attention, thus ending its short life.
Elidibus takes a moment to look over the patients which have been left in his care. One is his primary concern of course, but given they are likely to be tangled around each other by this point- it's what Bonded do, or so he learned- he'll have to deal with that matter.
What had sent the other volunteer scurrying was a concern over the Puca which, perhaps understandably so, was very protective of Emet-Selch currently. Doctors and aides had already gotten a few broken bones trying to get too close after Mettaton had gained some stamina back. While the volunteer had protection and been sent because she could be gentle and convincing and was going to back out of the room again if things went south quickly, she had definitely been glad it was Elidibus taking the risk, not her.
But it appears even machines run out of energy. Or... whatever the Puca is currently anyway. The entry did not stir Mettaton and drawing closer to Emet-Selch's side of the bed brought no ire. Hmm. Elidibus draws the smallest denomination of cune from his belt ouch and sends it into a nearby wall. He watches for any signs of motion, any twitch of a long ear.
Nothing. Excellent.
Carefully, since he really doesn't intend to awaken either one at first, Elidibus draws back the blankets to expose Emet-Selch's upper torso. Bandages are immediately noticed, as they cover a great deal of flesh. But so too is the smear of blood and gunk everywhere, thanks to Mettaton's presence; it seems the doctors were confused about whether they could use water around the machine? Or maybe the Puca had woken up about that point and made it a moot issue with his bad behavior. Elidibus sighs.
Which brings the matter around to the items he brought in. A basin, a pitcher of steaming water. Plenty of clean cloth. It's true, the Emissary wasn't sure at first if he was going to go so far as to use the tools he'd been given. He'd hoped to talk to his fellow Unsundered about the contents of the message. But if more sleep was needed to recover, then Elidibus wouldn't sit idle. He could begin with an examination of the condition Emet-Selch's host is in.
And to do that, he was going to have to wash away the grime. Maybe change those bandages. Untangle Mettaton. Wash... Mettaton? Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Pulling over the room's only seat- a stool at a good height to examine (or bathe) patients- Elidibus leans over Emet-Selch. Though the warm, damp towel drops to rest on a patch of flesh around the neck and left shoulder area, the Emissary does take the time to try and carefully pry open the eyelid of what was, at least reckoning, the non-functioning eye. Still nonfunctioning? The right arm is... well, let's save that for later, as he would need to contend with moving Mettaton to get a better look at that.
The check is over quickly enough. Which leaves us with an opening that goes something like this.
When Emet-Selch wakes up, he finds Elidibus- one hopes it's Elidibus and not suddenly the real Ardbert- giving him a sponge bath.
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?
One thing Emet-Selch might notice. Elidibus does seem to be better at this than when he'd last cleaned any portion of his contemporary's body. Perhaps this makes the situation even more surreal than it already seems. It's almost as if he cares.
Make no mistake. This initial cleaning is not his intended result. Elidibus is giving Emet-Selch's host body a critical examination. If even a fraction of what was said in the message is true and that it might be imperative to take care of their current hosts, then he wants to know what condition his fellow Unsundered are in. Particularly the Architect, who had already had notable degradation.
And if this resurrection did not restore lost limbs or that eye, what else will cease to function after this recent incident? One could suspect he started before Emet-Selch woke up because there would be protests otherwise. They would only be partially correct.
There are many factors involved. Keeping up the act of what he's ostentatiously here to do, yes. The practicality behind cleaning away the extra grime before removing the bandages before thinking of tending to the injuries underneath. Of course. Planning on how to extract Emet-Selch's frame from an overly protective Puca, sure. And naturally, that full-body examination, which is clinical to the point of terrible from someone who claims to be a 'brother'. By the time awakening is a factor, the Emissary has no doubt managed to thoroughly check over as much of the body as he thus far has access to.
There is a slight pause in action when Emet-Selch first shows signs of stirring. But he continues, letting his contemporary wake up- or rather, decide whether or not he's awake or still dreaming something utterly ridiculous. By this point, it's pretty reasonable to assume he's got a basin of dirty water. But thanks to magic, it's just a matter of touching the basin in a certain spot to empty it, then refill from a pitcher that seems to have plenty more water than it seems capable of holding. It's during one such change that the bed-ridden Ascian speaks.
Elidibus turns his head to look down on Emet-Selch. Then to the door which is still firmly closed and then back once again. A decision is made, whether to speak like 'Ardbert' in a public place and hint toward preferring his identity not be placed at further risk. Or, simply answer as he was addressed. Slowly turning back and wringing out the cloth once again, he reaches out to continue his work. He also chooses the latter of the two options, though he speaks quietly enough that the noise and bustle outside will not let his voice carry beyond the confines of the small room.
"I see your tongue has suffered little from your aborted demise, Emet-Selch," the Emissary offers calmly. "Though no doubt had you your full wits, it might occur to you that rather than change careers, I am simply adapting to our current needs." Elidibus won't wipe anywhere that will impede the other Ascian's ability to speak. In fact, he's largely done what he can without a few further matters taken care of. Namely, Mettaton. And bandages.
But first, "In the absence of anyone more suited and since it is oft ill-advised to allow the patient to treat himself, I have stepped into that capacity. It allows me a chance to comprehend the damage done and what this... Resurrection magic can accomplish." Disturbingly little other than the retrieval of the soul itself, it seems. And if such is the case, he is no doubt struggling with the instinct to reject any mortal care administered to such a precious commodity as an Ascian's sole host body. Even if there's only so much he can do. For a brief moment, the fledgling feeling of concern might flit through the Emissary's gaze.
Then gone again. Because cleanup, an examination of the shell, and changing bandages? These are things he can do. Blandly, Elidibus concludes, "Now that you are awake, I would like to continue my task. So if you would kindly unravel yourself from your puca's clutches, I will endeavor to do so."
And once that's done, there's no doubt going to be a talk over what that message said and the events that led to it being sent. But first things first, as unusual as it might be for an Ascian to consider a 'disposable body' as a priority over information.
Well, there's nothing threatening. But there's something.
At feeling Emet-Selch stir at all, even if it's by being manipulated like a lifeless doll, Mettaton grips onto him tighter like his favorite teddy bear. In dreamland, being reminded of his Bondmate's movement and even the stir of his soul (though their robust Bond has been temporarily damaged by their death, the worst part of dying) is a warmth, a security. Mettaton nuzzles his cheek against the top of Emet-Selch's head in the process of trying to cuddle closer.
It's a nice reminder, recalling that Emet-Selch is alive and near. But it'd be selfish of him to request Emet-Selch remain awake just for this consolation. No, they could meet in their dreams instead... Except for that there's the voice of an interloper afoot.
At the first evidence of Elidibus' voice, Mettaton stirs anew. His tone is measured and calm enough that it doesn't rouse him immediately, what with this being the first hint of deep sleep Hotland's idol has managed in... weeks, it felt like. But with enough talking, Mettaton buries his face in dark locks of hair; he burrows, he rouses, his leg twitches and tightens in its entanglement with his bedridden Ascian.
Mettaton doesn't comprehend what Elidibus is saying, just that there's an intruder, and Emet-Selch is under his protection. The robot has a habit of thinking like this, especially when he's disoriented or slipping into a feral, primal mindset. In a beat, Mettaton comes to with a start: in a hasty burst of energy, his hand reaches across Emet-Selch's body and slams down against the mattress in agitated protectiveness. He pushes himself up the best he can, leaning low over Emet-Selch's torso as his upper lip peels back and he stares, glares with a single luminous, golden eye, right at (or through?) Elidibus, the unexpected company.
—And just as quickly as that moment came to be, Mettaton blinks. His lips part, and his eye widens as he stares stupid at Elidibus. Then, at Emet-Selch. Then back to Elidibus.
Then, back to Emet-Selch again, who he pouts at and sinks toward. Mettaton is not the former "glory" he was back when he first met the Emissary, with glinting, silvery fur and an overall glow to his demeanor. His ears are ratty and hang like a lop's, his hair a tangly mess—though it'd be a surprise to anyone that this isn't the worst it had been. It remains caked with blood and dirt, but the bangs are desperately smoothed down, even if they remain unkempt. Where Emet-Selch's body is riddled in bandages and the evidence of wounds, Mettaton's entire chassis is flecked with dried, old blood, with every patch of fur having been plucked and torn away at until he was left with more bald spots than patches of blood-caked fur. His arms, and even his hips once they were revealed, would bear this same self-destructive pattern. In short: Mettaton is a horrid mess of still caked blood, black fur, and dirt, and nobody in this fine establishment has sought to change this fate of his. Much to his vanity-fueled dismay.
The Puca sighs, an expression of relief, realizing that Emet-Selch is fairly calm, and that this is a face he recognizes, and his attention's directed again to Emet-Selch's compatriot. His voice is smooth and melodious as ever, unaffected by his own recent resurrection and poor condition.
"Elidibus, darling! What a surprise... Did you leave Emmy a message, that you were stopping by?"
If so, he should've liked to hear about it! Mettaton dislikes being viewed while in such a state of disarray, and he would've made more of an effort to stay awake! But moments more spent staring at him has him piecing together some more... impressions.
Such as the linens. The cloth in hand, drenched in water. Emet-Selch's arm left arm being pulled toward Elidibus. That's the arm he'd most recently injured, he considers: the bicep is wrapped in dirty bandages, his ring finger bejeweled in a reddish-gold band. Only the roots of his ears seem to twitch at all, the rest of him unwilling to cooperate.
Elidibus speaks, and Emet-Selch frowns, grudgingly opening his eyes once again to look at him. In addition to the unexpected feeling of wet cloth being rubbed over parts of his body, there had been familiar, reassuring sensations, such as being held tightly by robotic arms, and the press of a face against the top of his head. It had certainly made the whole waking up process that much more confusing, but as the seconds ticked by and reality settled into this strange version of itself, there was nothing he could do but face it as it was.
That he had called him Elidibus rather than Ardbert: a deliberate choice, if one taken in an instant, without checking particularly hard for whether there was anyone else in the room besides the three of them. But Emet-Selch was recently dead and currently tired; keeping up too many pretenses didn't appeal whatsoever. That, and he can well guess as to why the Emissary was here, and it wasn't out of an urge to strip him down and wash him alone. Their conversation would be suspicious enough for anyone expecting the Ardbert persona anyway.
Lacking the energy to waste on waving off Elidibus' claim of simply adapting to the situation he'd found himself in, he's struck next by the realization that the Emissary seemed... entirely intent on continuing, now that he was awake. But that there was a hint of some manner of emotion there- it's that alone that keeps Emet-Selch from immediately arguing against this course of action. Well, that and the utter surreality of it all drained him, kept him languid against the bed, barely accepting that this was all happening to him in the first place. But at the request for him to somehow detangle himself from Mettaton- that only has his frown deepen. He would do no such thing, especially not to satisfy curiosity. If Elidibus was determined to keep cleaning him, he could feel around whatever part of the puca he was currently pressed to.
But before he can reply, there's a greater stirring, through Bond and body of his companion, something more than that welcomed burrowing and clutching (all things that Emet-Selch relaxes sleepily into, as though long-accustomed to all of this contact). Alarm, aggression- flashes of instinct that are clear even through their badly damaged Bond stir his pulse, but he didn't need their souls tied to recognize what Mettaton was doing. Guarding him against a possible threat.
With surprising speed considering the weakness he knew Mettaton shared with him, Emet-Selch finds himself hunched over, the interloper warned against further contact. Throughout, it's a reaction he remains entirely calm for, apart from an initial startle at Mettaton having so quickly roused. With a small sigh, he reaches up to pet gently at the monster's side with his better hand (not that his arm liked being lifted like this at all), a reassurance that he was fine (well, that he wasn't being threatened). That he was in no need of defense.
But it's soon that Mettaton comes to that realization himself, that this was someone that he knew (or at least, had met before), and certainly someone that his Bonded knew. The pout in his direction gets a brief half-smile, very faintly amused, as Mettaton settles in his relief, moving himself back where he had been on the bed, greeting Elidibus in a far more normal way.
What's clearest of all, perhaps, is that Emet-Selch sees nothing problematic or unusual in the puca's possessive and protective instincts; why wouldn't he favor a monstrous defense of his welfare? But the puca hadn't actually attacked Elidibus, and had recognized him quickly enough and backed down- so it was all fine, as far as he was concerned.
"He did not," Emet-Selch sighs, shifting back against Mettaton's body, before belatedly remembering that he didn't actually know that for certain, having not checked his watch in... however long it had been since he'd sent those messages out. Maybe the other Ascian had sent plenty of warnings. "Well, I didn't invite him, anyway." That much he could say for certain.
But when did Ascians ever wait for invitations to turn up anywhere?
"While I won't deny the value of a hands-on experience," he looks back to Elidibus then, a mild reproach evident in his tone, as much for show as for anything, "I would've thought a verbal accounting would have sufficed. Are you truly so eager to tend to my wounds...?"
After another thought, another realization (another point of utter strangeness), he reluctantly adds: "Though you've improved your technique. Perhaps 'tis a job not unsuited to you after all."
Elidibus did not send a message informing Emet-Selch of his impending arrival. But really, was it hard to believe that something so vital as what was written would not result in an appearance? Even if one were to set aside Elidibus's... perspective on the idea of once again losing his fellow Ascian to true death, there was also the matter of recent events.
Emet-Selch may have some knowledge of the Emissary's intentions of observing the Evergreen Circle. Probably had brief questions asked. You know, just enough to guess a bit at what Elidibus had been up to. And if he had somehow missed Emet-Selch's capture and subsequent death at the hands of this cult...
Elidibus did not know. But he wanted to ascertain the truth and there are some things one simply does not do through text messages.
Mettaton awakens. And while Elidibus briefly stopped his work, he does not flinch. The feral, protective expression on the Puca's face is met with unflinching calm as the Emissary waits for the next move. Just one of those small, unassuming moments in which the Ascian shows he is not the hyur he appears to be. Though who's to say Ardbert didn't once stare down a growling threat once or twice in his life? There was probably a lot more tension involved on his part, however.
But there is a sigh. Not because Elidibus is relieved. Oh, no. Because Mettaton has, by pulling back somewhat, revealed that he'd replaced some of the grime, fur, and blood that had been patiently wiped away with more of its ilk. And there is Emet-Selch, looking at him like he'd just been asked to... well, that it had been just suggested to not take a well-earned centuries-long nap.
Also a sigh because of 'Emmy'. Really, the puca is incorrigible. But at least he said the Emissary's title correctly. Elidibus studies the two. Puts Emet-Selch's arm down (sorry, Mettaton, people wear rings all the time where he comes from. He's not going to pick up on the significance of engagement bands), and finally patiently expands on his instructions.
"Your bandages are filthy and in dire need of changing. If what you said in your message continues to hold true, then the care for your body is now paramount." What advantage it affords his 'personal curiosity' is clearly low in the order of such importance.
It's hard to tell whether Elidibus is convinced this is not something that can be overcome. But he's certainly willing to consider the idea that the prison this star has sealed them in absolutely can keep them from searching for another body once their current one is spent.
"You, Emet-Selch, are in no condition to see to the matter yourself," Elidibus states, pointing out the obvious. "Because of your Bonded's overzealous guard, which is to be given its due credit," the Ascian gives a brief nod to the ever-watching Mettaton, "there is a dearth of volunteers, chirurgeon or otherwise, who wish to attend the task. If this cannot be rectified, I will stand in their place."
This is... a small stretch of the truth but based on it. Sure people were reluctant but they were willing to try. If Elidibus hadn't shown up at the right time, they would have at least left water and towels to be used and have tried to ask Mettaton what he needed to clean himself. Something along those lines.
What might come as a shock- and perhaps outright suspicion to his fellow Ascian- Elidibus then turns to address the puca directly. "It should be no surprise that I would come the moment I read what Emet-Selch sent, whether or not it was with an explicit entreaty to attend him." Yes, Emet-Selch, you should be getting suspicious. Even if he's indirectly answering the question about why he showed up. Or sit back and watch as Elidibus seeks to use words to coax Mettaton into a cooperative state.
The Emissary doesn't change his tone or manner. That would certainly have given the game away entirely, wouldn't it? With the same calm way he addressed his points to a respected peer, Elidibus offers to the puca, "It seems they have been remiss in your care, having little experience with your unique combination of machine and living creature." Momentarily, the Ascian lets his attention stray to the load of clean cloth still waiting to be used. There really is a lot. Maybe more than could be credited as 'for Emet-Selch's use alone'. It will certainly back up the words which follow.
"I would be remiss were I not to give due consideration for one Emet-Selch favors so ardently. Given your condition, I would believe it prudent to examine you, as well as do something regarding the filth they have left upon your body. And with clear instruction, I should be capable of seeing to any injury or repair you might have sustained. I will need you to lay beside him so that I may attend you both."**
Elidibus. The Emissary. Just offered to give Mettaton. A sponge bath.
And a physical. Well, he does have deft hands.
The Ascian returns his gaze to Emet-Selch as he brings up the matter of his improvements. "I have been given ample opportunity to study and practice since last I tended your injuries." It's said in a dismissive matter, as if the details aren't really important. Still one might wonder what circumstance Elidibus found himself in to pick up a better technique.
**[Disclaimer: What he said can interchangeable with the following. 'Since I know I cannot convince Emet-Selch to send you away and you are also covered in filth, I will wash you so you don't undo all my hard work. Also let him go so I can properly do my task. AND stop attacking the doctors so they can do their job or I will show up every single day and cut into your alone-time.']
His Bonded's overzealous guard. Mettaton is a bit touchy about his uncontrollable Monstrosity, having become a Puca totally against his will. There were a lot of habits he resented of his, from messing-up-beds-beyond-anyone's-good-sense-to-turn-them-into-burrow-like-nests, to snapping-at-doctors-who-are-only-trying-to-help. His anger has whatever fur he has left bristling, and whatever fur he's pulled out would've joined in his mindless offense. But now, smoothed over as it is, Mettaton only huffs.
"It's not my fault they keep putting themselves right in the way of my beautiful, shapely legs. Who can blame them?" he mutters, managing a smirk at the thought (read: convincing himself) that they must enjoy his legs, no matter how sore-ridden. Who wouldn't? "I've only hurt one person!"
(He hurt two. One of them was immediately upon his resurrection; he doesn't remember this.)
But this problem of having been yet caked in grime... it extends much further than Elidibus realizes. Even when he attempts to ask, the doctors are dubious: is this automaton broken? They have a magitech iron, and they know good and well that putting water on it would spell its ruination, as well as a shock hazard. This makes it incredibly difficult to tend to Emet-Selch, since the two are inseparable, as evidenced right now: Emet-Selch will not untangle himself for the sake of a wash, and nobody offers to wash Mettaton.
(Maybe the two of them understand that Emet-Selch's just bound to keep getting gross until someone gives in and gives Mettaton the bath he craves. It was useless to wash Emet-Selch if they wouldn't pay the same dignity to Mettaton.)
He's over the unexpected arrival quickly enough, as it makes sense that one of the Ascians would check in on his own like this, he supposes, and Mettaton acknowledges his rationale with a short nod. Yes, he also understands the alarm of death in this world, of the fact that their souls are bound to their hosts as they are... That death was occurring strangely to Emet-Selch, too, is a grim reality he's aware of. Mettaton glances down at Emet-Selch's skin where the blankets begin, wondering if Elidibus is here to check in on this new state of being bound to his host. He smiles softly, wondering if maybe he's even here out of care. (Why does Elidibus strike him as someone he's known for a time? He'd never noticed that before, when he first met him... Is Mettaton fond of Elidibus already? That makes sense. He's often fond of a lot of people. Monsters grow fond quickly in general. Nothing seems out of place when he thinks about it like that.)
The Emissary's desire to care for Emet-Selch also makes sense, and Mettaton does settle—though he's just as content as Emet-Selch to disobey and remain tangled up in Emet-Selch. But when Elidibus redirects his focus and strikes an offer with Mettaton, why...
"Correction: I'm all living creature, despite being a machine," he begins, already beginning to shift excitedly. But he smiles bright, regarding Elidibus warmly, eagerly. "Would you really do that for me, beautiful? Thank GOD, you're an angel! Everybody here's afraid to let me near a glass of water, lest I," he gestures with a weak arm, and it flops over, comically snake-like; "explode."
The flatness to his expression suggests that he finds this to be absurd. That flatness rounds back out again, and MTT brightens.
"Really, I don't care what your reason is. I'd kill to be clean. It's disgusting. The hospitality rating of this infirmary's easily a one, only because it can't be zero. They have a lot to learn about basic amenities." Here, the excitable Puca turns to Emet-Selch for the Ascian's take. "Well? What do you think, Hades?"
(He accidentally calls Emet-Selch Hades. Where Mettaton's normally decent at minding the names (but not perfect), he's just... not working at his best, exhausted and weak. He doesn't even catch that he's erred.)
Given Emet-Selch's approval first, Mettaton will gladly... attempt to untangle himself. But his limbs are weak, just as his fianceé's are. Mettaton's body is heavy metal, and his weakened soul is having a hard time flexing his fingers or working his limbs.
That Elidibus had been inspecting this cult however closely was something that Emet-Selch wasn't aware of. But it wouldn't surprise him; whatever they had been doing was probably worth looking into, and if there was information to be found that might be of some overall use, why wouldn't Elidibus be after it? And with Mirrorbound having been requested to investigate, there would be nothing strange about another one doing just that. Emet-Selch, however, had wanted nothing to do with the cult. He'd been kidnapped once before, and if this group had anything to do with the recent disappearances (and it was now clear that they had, with the victims recovered), he did not want their attention.
And yet he'd died anyway, for reasons related if not directly so. He hadn't been kidnapped by the cult, after all.
That there was information to provide that would be better spared the potential insecurity of texting- sure. He could accept that. A meeting in person was something Emet-Selch suspected would be inevitable, unavoidable. But for Elidibus to have turned up with such immediacy... he couldn't decide entirely what to make of it. Were it someone else, he might have readily assumed concern, but- well, maybe it was, in its own way. Along with, of course, the practical. The pragmatic.
Perhaps he should have waited a few more days before sending out that message. Or waited until he was out of the hospital entirely.
Then again, he was getting something of a wash (Something that had already been partially undone by a few renewed smears of blood, thanks to Mettaton's aborted aggressive stance, though this too is something that Emet-Selch just accepts. He's had to; the puca was filthy, they cuddled anyway, therefore he became filthy.). Unfathomably strange as it was, it wasn't unpleasant, the promise of being slightly cleaner, and it was technically better than some stranger having such access to him.
So in the end he sighs; his shoulders twitch in something likely intended as a shrug (it's followed by a small wince; neither arm wanted to move much). "I suppose you'll have to do, now that you're already here," even accepting, Emet-Selch could still grumble about it, "having worked your way past my guard's defenses."
It still wouldn't have necessarily been enough to get him to shift very much- but then Elidibus makes his offer to Mettaton. To wash him. An offer the robot, naturally, reacts to with delight (not that he could blame him; it had been a frustration, to have had to live with their current state of grime, lacking the strength to do anything about it themselves). The Ascian, however, is skeptical at this sudden magnanimous offer, no matter how practically stated (Part of him is just caught on the idea of watching Elidibus, of all people, bathing Mettaton. The only person more absurd in that role would be Lahabrea.).
But it was something that needed done, and that they would both appreciate. Questionable motives aside, it would be a hard thing to turn down. Just about to verbalize his allowance, his tolerance, he's struck short as Mettaton turns back to him, asks for his opinion directly.
--The use of his name. It's enough to have him still, if just for a moment, giving Mettaton a somewhat blank stare, before his gaze unwillingly darts sideways back to Elidibus. Of course Mettaton knew his name and used it, and in a circumstance like this, it wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be at his most careful. And as people went, the other Ascians were the ones Emet-Selch minded the least to have hear it (apart from Irhya, of course, but then he knew the two of them used it between each other if they spoke of him). After all, they knew his name. They- should know his name, for all that personal designations hadn't been used amongst them for thousands upon thousands of years. With Elidibus in particular....
Well. Like it or not, he supposed he'd find out if the other man recognized it at all. Sighing more softly, he only nods at first, in acquiescence of Mettaton's beginning struggles to untangle himself from him. "If you'd care to take advantage of Elidibus'... thoughtfulness, I've no objection. I doubt we'll receive a better offer."
It's easier accepted than done. Legs clumsily unlock from one another, arms wriggle free from where they'd been wrapped. The bed was still small, so they were still in contact, of course (and Emet-Selch was still disinclined to not at least have his side or hip pressed to Mettaton anyway), and altogether it's a rather awkward, pitiful struggle to achieve even partial separation. Mettaton had a heavier body to move, and Emet-Selch had been partially eaten; it is an incredibly sad display of dexterity and dignity.
When possible, Emet-Selch slumps back fully against the bed, annoyingly out of breathe for such meager work. Dying had never been so much of a hassle.
It isn't unreasonable to be wary about damaging Mettaton. And it's to their credit that they showed concern for him as something other than an object. It's probably better than Elidibus's initial estimations or thoughts on the matter of what the Puca is. Even now as the robot insists on being 'all living creature', there is a reserved interest, as if it is taken into consideration but not necessarily believed as fact.
But really, at the end of the day, the healers of this place left Emet-Selch's host body (and possibly the only one he gets) in the company of someone covered in filth which would be no kindness for the injuries he's obviously taken. Much less a pleasant experience. It is unacceptable. At least both seem willing to consider
"I see. Then you need no further consideration for your machine body when I begin?" Elidibus seems to accept Mettaton does know what he's talking about. Keen eyes notice some of the struggle involved in the beginning efforts of disentanglement are not just the innate weakness. "...Other than weigh...t."
The word goes from standard tone to at least an octave lower as Mettaton utters Emet-Selch's true name. Elidibus, who had been moving to the Puca's side of the bed with the intent of offering physical aid in alleviating the issue of the robot's physical weight, halts in his tracks. His jaw tenses.
There is something there in his reaction which suggests he felt something and perhaps it can be asked after another time. But the Emissary is frighteningly quick to relax and continue his journey. His response, if you can call it that, is only one of bland commentary. "It would be best to consider this a public place, Mettaton." Was that a usage of a name, of all things? "Though were are alone in this room, I would not regard this as a place which should be privy to any other form of address than Emet-Selch's proper title."
Even Emmy might be preferable. Whatever Elidibus's opinion though, his words and tone seem to indicate he's merely instructing the Puca on proper Amaurotine etiquette.
"Allow me to aid you." With that phrase, the Emissary goes about with his intent to help sort out the two bodies so both might properly take advantage of his offer. He is pointedly gentle.
Mettaton attempts to raise his hand to his mouth to cover it daintily, scandalized, but his arm just... flops sadly. He's having a real rough time using his body. "Weight! Of course I need more consideration than that. But they could just ask! You can't just dunk me in a tub, for example..."
In other words, no: they hadn't ascribed much respect to the robot. Even being told that he had a soul didn't seem to convince him that he could speak to them about his needs. But before he can continue very far, Elidibus stalls, then gives him quite the pointed look. The use of his own name is expected, and after a time, he'd get quite irritated if Elidibus avoided using it for very long: he deserves respect, after all. But when he realizes the mistake he's made...
He tries again to cover his mouth in more drama, but this is more reflex than acting. His arm fails him again. Not even his ears can stand, but his face is screwed up, lips tight and eye wide. He glances to Emet-Selch with a sheepish smile.
"Oh," he breathes, but it's... reassuring that the door's closed. Already, Mettaton's aware that he's slipped a few times in not using Emet-Selch's title... Being freshly revived would obviously scramble his head and make him behave uncontrollably. To Emet-Selch alone, "Sorry, my dearest. That was careless of me..."
Hades is just his name. Mettaton recognizes that Emet-Selch is an important title, but he views his fiancé as Hades, the man behind the mask in all respects. ...He is also decidedly not Amaurotine, and fails to truly grasp this society's inclination toward upholding titles and conforming to proper reservation. But his apology is made, and it's directed entirely at Emet-Selch, not at all at Elidibus. He'd told Emet-Selch that he'd use his title in the presence of others, after all, and he'd erred.
As soon as Elidibus is on the move, Mettaton nods with as much exuberance as his tired body can manage, practically squirming with excitement. "Please do," he beckons, still sidling comfortably against Emet-Selch's hip. But he wouldn't dare go any further from him than this, no matter how much assistance he received. "Anyway, what was I saying...? Oh, yes. This body can tolerate anything short of submersion, darling. So you can do your worst! I'm sick and tired of smelling like old blood, and it's not doing Selchy any favors."
This really would be the best, and only, offer he'd receive. Comfort wasn't a priority for a robot, not by the Coven's staff. Mettaton presents himself to Elidibus' attention—and for Elidibus' intervention and interest, Mettaton's body is caked in old, flecked blood, mostly from his hips, up. Dirt remains caked in nails and mixed with blood; gnarls of thick, dark fur sticks to him in places still, but not nearly as much as when he'd woken up. It looks like he had a little tussle in a fur-lined subterranean burrow or something, and absolutely reamed his opponent and bled them dry.
But he wears for Elidibus and Emet-Selch a bright, eager smile, glancing between them.
"Finally! I've wanted this simple pleasure for too long. You're making dreams come true, Elidibus-darling. —....."
...That name. Those syllables. Mettaton has the sort of heavy deliberation after saying it that Emet-Selch alone might recognize: he is dissatisfied with affixing -darling to so many syllables, and seeks to remedy this. Terrible. Mettaton has finally had it with Elidibus-darling.
Edited (wrote sheep instead of sheepish apparently) Date: 22 Feb 2021 19:24 (UTC)
A reaction. But one Emet-Selch had trouble deciding what meant. There was no flash of recognition of it being anything other than a name, but there was no obvious bewilderment or confusion either. It answered nothing. But it certainly wasn't something to inquire about now, so apart from a briefly uncomfortable look, he allows it to lie.
But Mettaton's recognition of the mistake and his apology gets a faint shrug as he rests back; he'd wave it off if he could, but while the robot's arms are noodly and limp, his are formerly-eaten (if reconstituted) and limp. Had the door been open, had there been other non-Elidibus people around, he would've been more exasperated (that Mettaton had already used his name before, in front of doctors, he doesn't entirely remember; he'd not been in the best frame of mind either), but as it went, it was an error of minimal harm. And with Elidibus' reminder, Mettaton knew better now.
The Emissary's use of Mettaton's name gets a brief, if mildly surprised look, though it settles into one of equally as mild approval. At least Elidibus wasn't as resistant to the idea of using the names of others, unlike Lahabrea.
And with a bit of added help, the two are duly extricated from one another as much as they can be. Though contact remains, it's not of the sort to get too much in the way. And even were there space on the bed, there was only so much extrication either of them would tolerate.
Mettaton's continued anticipation towards a cleaning remained expected, if faintly endearing. He knew how much care his Bonded took towards his appearance, and the days spent without a wash had been- less than comfortable for either of them. The Ascian hadn't quite inured himself to the smell of old blood, and it would be a relief to not keep experiencing it. That Elidibus had decided on this task for himself... it would be worth some gratitude, perhaps, even if he hadn't arrived here with the purpose of washing either of them.
But that heaviness at the end of the puca's words.... Emet-Selch did indeed recognize the threat of that pause. He'd heard it only once before, and he hadn't immediately known what it portended. Emet-Selch-darling had been a spoken atrocity that had only occurred a single time, followed by that same realization that no, this would not do. It was only on their next meeting that the fruits of Mettaton's creativity had solved the issue: Emmy-darling. He'd been no more amused by it than Elidibus had been, but of course the puca had completely ignored his demands not to do that to his poor title. By now he was used to it and Selchy (which was debatably worse), and since he heard them so rarely anyway these days, only in circumstances like this, when they were in another's company- he'd just kind of accepted it.
(Had the awareness of the preferability of Hades-darling over the butchering of his title influenced his decision to give Mettaton his true name? No. ...Not entirely, anyway. It was a bonus, though.)
Regardless: he knows that pause and what it means now, but apart from briefly closing his eyes, steeling himself against Inevitability, he says nothing on it.
"But there you have it, Elidibus. With the lack of a readily available bathtub, there's little harm you can do."
For now, Emet-Selch settles on his half of the bed that now seems even smaller now that he and his robotic Bonded are less compressed upon it, wondering if it was worth casting about for a blanket to re-cover his chest now that it wasn't being currently attended to. It was damp and he was cold, but after a dissatisfied huff he remains sulking back into his pillow, eyes opening again, as though the impending vision of the Emissary cleaning his puca was something too absurd to miss.
Elidibus knows not what horrors of shortened syllables await his title. He misses the nuance that Mettaton's deliberation imparts and thus surely, whatever the robot puca's decision will be on the matter of addressing the Emissary, will come as a complete surprise.
Let us hope there is no fallout.
The Ascian doesn't mind that the apology is not directed toward him. Emet-Selch is the one wronged, so it stands to reason that the Puca rightly should think to turn to his beloved in this manner. Not having to resolve the discussion with further participation lets the Emissary get about his business of untangling bodies and deciding how he's going to go about the matter of cleaning.
It might occur to Elidibus to cover Emet-Selch again should it be pointed out. But the sheets are filthy and there are parts of bedside manner which remain elusive. Right now, he's considering the steps needed to make his task the most efficient. Because yes, he does have a plan on how he's going to wash two bodies which are laying in filthy bedding.
"Yes, it should be a simple matter, then." And it will begin with dry cloths being used to wipe away the largest chunks of gore and fur and the like. Never fear, Mettaton, proper warm and moist towels will follow later, but dry is the best for the initial pass. And like with his fellow Unsundered, Elidibus is dutifully mindful that bodies should not be scrubbed like they were weapons or leather armor. Even the metal bits!
It will be evident early on that the Emissary has ulterior motives for this task besides Emet-Selch's well-being. He would not, even were he not under his fellow Ascian's watchful eyes, do anything construed as horrible to Mettaton during this inspection. But inspection it is underneath the body care; not just for hidden injuries but the puca as a whole. "Fascinating," he muses almost in rhetoric, though a glance at both Emet-Selch and Mettaton actually indicates that he might be making a remark that welcomes response. "The metal seems to have become genuine flesh." After the towel brushes clean most of the gore, the Ascian's fingers draw a line from metal to flesh and fur along one of the puca's forearms. A pity it's so clinical, right? "And this is how this star has affected you?"
Keen eyes are also noting other matters. The way the fur is patchy. Some with the wholly explainable existence of sores where the cwyld infection had been manifest but others... well bare, as if the fur had been torn out. Or fallen out? Hm. Elidibus's expression could be considered interesting to watch as it does show some signs of shifting. Little frowns. Tiny, quizzical moments. Not emotion per se, but a sign that he's focused on his observations.
For Emet-Selch, it might be an echo of memories long past. A younger Elidibus in his study, wholly absorbed into the study of some book or report or another to the point where he's lost track of time. A very very faint echo. There was so much more passion back then.
At some point, Elidibus will reach a place where there might be damage to metal components of the robot turned puca. Here he pauses, carefully studying it after wiping away the gunk and asking, "Do you feel pain from this damage?" But he looks for signs that there has been a breach which might cause the soon-to-come pass of proper water-soaked cloth to be detrimental. "...Will this need a spell of mending or healing, I wonder?"
But all of this has been build-up for the main event. Once the blankets have been pulled away from Mettaton's body. Once the full dry wipe has been completed and finally Emet-Selch has gotten his sheet back (if not by request, then by the way it was folded back by Elidibus when it was removed from Mettaton's body), the Emissary cleans his hands, soaks the first of many warm towels, and begins the process of proper bathing.
But the question that had been long left unasked is suddenly brought forth. "Tell me what circumstances led to your demise, Emet-Selch?"
How strange it was, to experience somebody else's touch. Despite being a touchy person, Mettaton's far more accustomed to touch on his powerful terms. The only chances he has to let other people touch him was when permission is granted: repairs, invitations, or even the force of his will exerting itself upon an unfortunate victim. Most of the time it's eyes only.
Mettaton truly fits being a rabbit. He likes to be touched, but only when he wants it.
So he hums, leaning back, permitting Elidibus the full of his body, even though he refuses to lose touch with Emet-Selch at his side. And he watches Elidibus with a piercing, golden stare, observant and interested, trying to fit his own curiosity together piece by piece. While he gives Elidibus a slow tilt of his head, Elidibus is clearly ogling his body for reasons not sensual, but of clinical interest. Oh well. Mettaton doesn't care either way: as far as he cares, interest is interest. He hums, slightly jutting out his hip salaciously in offering.
"Yes," is his simple reply. "Real flesh, that grows fur and bleeds. Before coming here, I looked quite different. Emet-Selch can testify to that."
Idly, Mettaton stretches his legs. Wiggles his toes. Stares at his entire legs, which are just... very, very different. Thicker, more muscular (?!??!?) thighs. Long, furry rabbit feet have even replaced the pink heels he once wore. Elidibus pauses around his waist, where Mettaton's sustained damage that has yet to be repaired—after all, the Coven's already written him off in the realm of care. It's not in their wheelhouse, machines. Mettaton gazes down at his injury, remembering all too well where it must have come from, but not how it came about.
And so he smiles softly, sadly, and remains quiet for a spell. But he follows up with a nod. "I do feel pain. I am c— alive, you know." Mettaton huffs as a cover-up. And seamlessly, he moves his hand to rub at the area metal's been rent, a steel blade against a steel body. He considers it fortunate that his body gave in first.
"Healing doesn't repair metal. That's for mechanics! Or... transmutation spells. Do you know any, Lidi-darling?"
And Mettaton smiles at Elidibus with a bright fondness, eagerness. But he wouldn't be disappointed one way or another. Emet-Selch's gotten good at transmutation: once he heals up, he knows his Bonded would be glad to help him. As for the name of endearment... Mettaton doesn't flinch at having used that, either. Elidibus is giving Mettaton a sponge bath. Mettaton has a lingering, misplaced memory where the Emissary's a consideration. This warrants a shortening of his name.
But as soon as the question is posed to Emet-Selch, Mettaton volunteers an answer with immediacy, his expression falling, eye wide, forthright and earnest.
"I attacked him." Attacked is a kind word. Mettaton swallows, only barely able to keep his expression from falling with restraint, keeping his face stiff. "I killed him."
An investigation that was for the sake of information, rather than anything like concern: Emet-Selch expected no different. But there were the slightest signs of interest, of something other than neutral observation- curiosity, of a sort. Nothing like that earnest, youthful kind that Emet-Selch could recollect, even now, something that had been both genuine and unhidden. It wasn't as though it were a guarded emotion now, but instead so very faint, so very detached, that he couldn't decide whether it was better or worse to see it at all. It might've been easier to have there been nothing, nothing to remind him of what had used to be.
Of course, he says nothing on it; in addition to investigating, Elidibus was cleaning up his Bonded, which was the desired result. And he leaves Mettaton to comment on the transformation his body had undergone, on arriving to this star. While every monster had their form altered, were made to grow fur, feathers, scales- or some combination thereof- on top of skin, it was perhaps a change most apparently on someone who hadn't had skin to begin with. But the star had made do, the star had adapted, provided a network of something to feed the growth of fur, of living tissue.
The inevitable shortening of Elidibus' title- it gets a flicker of something like amusement. While he certainly didn't like his own title being turned into less of a mouthful, it was fine when it happened to someone else. He could tell Mettaton meant it affectionately, anyway (Even if he wondered a bit as to why; it wasn't as though the puca knew the other Ascian very well at all, he thought. But Mettaton was quick to take to people... he assumed it was something like that. Neither of them had yet worked out what memories had been displaced, what memories had been added.).
But that amusement dies at Elidibus' question- one that Emet-Selch had known would be coming, but which he was no more eager to address than he'd been to start. It distracts from the chill, or from anything other than this.
Mettaton's response to it- honest and direct as it was- has Emet-Selch sigh, low and soft. Well, there wasn't any other way to put it, really, and it was perhaps better to be blunt (not that Emet-Selch truly considered it an attack... to him, that implied something more aggressive than what had occurred, a deliberation towards harm, rather than hunger and instinct). That the pair of them remained together, with no discomfort apparent save for that of the physical persuasion- that they were, indeed, reluctant to part from one another at all- at least seemed to indicate that whatever had occurred wasn't something that had damaged their attachment to one another.
"We were both infected with the cwyld," is what he chooses to add, evenly, glancing from Elidibus' face to his hands upon the robot's body. To the body itself, and the damage to it. "With Mettaton also influenced by that cult. And in his madness, this was the result."
As this is the first time Elidibus has been allowed to examine Mettaton in full, some of the details will be missed if changes have occurred since they last spoke. But now he's obtaining a nice catalog of data. Efforts to maintain touch with Emet-Selch will not be thwarted as it does not impede the Ascian's examination or his efforts.
For now.
"Of course. Yet it does not simply overlay the metal." Keen eyes wander over the patchy fur and tender skin. "It seems to be no fusion either. I would liken it to a transmutation akin to alchemical. Have you ever witnessed its like, Emet-Selch?" Indeed even while the Puca refers to his bed-ridden fiancee as a reference to how much the transformation has impacted the robot, Elidibus's gaze shifts to regard his contemporary. The physical regard is brief since there is work to be continued. But the Emissary is obviously interested in what Emet-Selch might have to say on the matter.
'I am c-- alive...' The subtle hesitation warrants a speculative look. Huffing will not help cover that slip of the tongue from a man who deals frequently with words. He might have considered asking later and yet... Lidi-darling happens. Elidibus narrows his eyes slightly. "My title is Elidibus. I have familiarized myself with mending spellwork. So if this is merely cosmetic and specifically will not cause you pain you cannot endure, I can deal with it this day." The area is given a more detailed examination to see if it is truly cosmetic or if there would be a more complex problem with... well, wiring or such underneath. "What were you about to say, aside from 'alive'?" he adds in an offhand way. As for Metatton's sudden sense of finding the Ascian endearing, it is met with a curious look of inquiry toward Emet-Selch again, as if to say 'is this normal for the puca?'.
Ah yes, and should the metal fatigue be solely aesthetics, spellwork will be wrought with surprisingly random expertise to bring it back to its original shape. [No small thanks to Tataru Taru's teachings and the regular cloth-burning machinations of a certain cherry Bomb.]
Now, there might not be any sensuality involved, but Elidibus does appear to be showing signs of being capable of handling the matter of grooming. His tools are limited to towels, water, and fingers right now and the patient's fur isn't in the best condition, but there is a sense of technique behind the way he checks for what's ready to fall out or is careful about matting. There may be little fur to detangle in the front, but upon the puca's backside, where he could not so easily reach in his madness?
Elidibus is wise. When he seeks to turn Mettaton on his side, it is so the robot faces Emet-Selch. "It seems it would be best to cut these away and allow the fur to regrow." No doubt for all the care the Emissary does show, there's at least a slight tugging sensation at the matting for the puca to feel and know what's being talked about. Now it is ascertained this is indeed flesh and blood and real growing fur that need not be replaced by artificial means, the Ascian feels confident in saying that. "If you will permit me." He has a very sharp knife somewhere on his person for utility and other matters. It will surely do the trick and be brought out and set to the task if permission is given.
Which, given this occurs not long before his question is posed regarding what occurred to put them in this state and Mettaton's subsequent answer, may add an interesting element to the distinct stillness which falls upon the mortal shell. An observer unfamiliar with Elidibus might suspect an odd lack of shock or emotional reaction, given the tight rein of control the Emissary has over his emotional state. But his contemporary will know the signs. And there is a shocking amount of what could only be termed anger being slowly brought under control (a tightening grip, incited emotion lingering in the Ascian's gaze) before Elidibus turns to reasoned thought and calms himself. And returns to the task, just as gently as before.
It would not have mattered before, what happened to Emet-Selch's mortal shell. The body dies, find another body. But he is armed with the knowledge of his contemporary's message. And... knowing what it is like to truly lose both of his fellow Unsundered. It is no wonder he was for a moment truly outraged.
"A pity I was unaware of the Circle's grasp upon your companion, Emet-Selch." He seems somewhat... vexed. In truth, it does irritate him to discover his limited ability toward investigating the cult had resulted in missing a matter of such key importance as Mettaton's infection and the subsequent attack upon his Bonded. Elidibus shifts his attention between the two subjects of interest. "Were you a victim of their kidnappers and experiments, or one of those who were ensorcelled to believe their righteous cause?"
Yes, the Emissary is quite familiar with the details of what happened. People listening might expect that since this is the aftermath, it is only a given the details are out. That is far from the case, though it would suit Elidibus if they continue to presume that.
Inspection, cleaning- both dry and wet- and structural repairs where applicable are finished upon the puca. He had not missed the damage to Mettaton's right ear either. A fully clean cloth and water had been used to gently soak the crusted scab away to reveal the wound underneath. A very minor form of healing spell murmured; something which would stop the bleeding and attend to infection though not completely close it. That is why further antiseptic and bandages are applied. And far be it that Elidibus would simply let him lie in the dirty sheets again. "I will need to move you to a seat until I finish with Emet-Selch and tend to the bedding." Do not worry. Seats in the room are facing and close to the bed. But it will require separation if only by a few inches. And no doubt, it will require being carried by Elidibus. Whose expression is... unreadable, if someone were trying to discern whether this is a practical matter or some form of petty vengeance. Probably the former.
"And this is what you refer to by experiencing Cwyld infection first-hand, I presume?" It is clear, for now at least, the Ascian is going to skirt around the core of the matter. The real issue which probably brought him here. The matter of the depth of their ties to their mortal body in this world. Well, it's not a matter you discuss amongst outsiders, no matter what the possibility is that Mettaton knows the laissez-faire attitude Ascians tend to have toward their mortal host.
There are no changes: Mettaton has been here for well over a year. Aside from the damage sustained from his recent encounter with death, Mettaton is a completely transformed Puca, as far as his body will go. The biggest difference is how ratty he looks in comparison to the shimmering, silver-furred robot he looked like before.
Being cleaned of dried blood will be a vast improvement, no doubt.
At all of Elidibus' observations of his body, he can only hum. Alchemical? Mettaton doesn't quite understand what that means, and he watches his body wherever Elidibus looks, stretching his legs and leaning this way and that to show himself off. Mettaton smiles.
"My condition is a thing of magic, isn't it? Yes. You're not alone in thinking so, darling."
This is an unhelpful comment of self-preening. He also nods along: yes, his title is Elidibus, he knows this well. But Elidibus is just too many syllables. His gaze is challenging, daring the Ascian to make him change his already-settled course. If he wants to hyphenate a -darling onto his name, Lidi it is. But then... he asks for clarification on his stumble in words. C- alive. Mettaton glances to the far side of the room. Silence falls between the three, even though Mettaton smiles.
"Hmm... Who knows? Some synonym, maybe! Ha-ha." It's decidedly unimportant. Moving along. Mettaton's lips are pursed tight.
Good thing Elidibus suggests he turn, and Mettaton has no qualms with this, nor the suggestion of trimming down his fur. He smiles, sultry and inviting as he caresses his hip and tilts to the best of his ability. (Weak as he is, he might need a bit of help turning the rest of the way.)
"Oh my." He bats his lashes. "You're so charmingly forward. You're so lucky, given this chance to touch my supple... skin! Yes, do what you must." Mettaton shrugs with the arm furthest from Emet-Selch. "My fur grows back astonishingly quick."
Every single full moon, he's bound to grow some of it back. It would be no time at all before he recovered fur, of all things. The Puca labors to lay on his side, to face Emet-Selch, careless about the impression of a knife or anything of that ilk. If Elidibus has a knife, he trusts him to use it kindly. He smiles Emet-Selch before letting his dark-painted lids flutter shut, making himself comfortable while he's further cleaned and rid of matting and blood. Elidibus is free to work, and even freer to find unease in their deaths, pertaining to their woefully mortal condition.
Facing Emet-Selch as he is, his smile softens, a bit sorrowful. It was an overall pity that nobody knew of his condition... and that they were neither the types to rely on anybody outside of themselves. Could their deaths have been prevented? Emet-Selch had already tried to coerce Mettaton into being seen for the Cwyld, he knew, but the Puca was a stubborn sort. Mind controlled as he was, he saw even less reason to be cured of the Cwyld, and nothing Emet-Selch could argue would make him feel any more inclined to deal with it. He doubted very much that anybody could have swayed him. He'd have to be taken there by force, and that was a very difficult feat to perform for the flighty, feisty Puca. He'd make a right show of his staunch denial.
Elidibus prompts Mettaton more directly, and he's dragged from his own thoughts. His eye doesn't open.
"The latter," Mettaton comments simply, unembellished. Maybe even a bit tired, though his voice is smooth and pleasant. He even wears a smile by default. "I'd been attending meetings for weeks. They revered my condition."
And that was enough for him.
Elidibus touches Mettaton's ear. For the first time, the Puca flinches, every joint in his body stiffening as the muscle in his thighs tense. His eye flies open in wide shock at the sensation, and a memory slips in, the memory of gaining this wound at all. It... doesn't disturb as much as it ought to, perhaps. Maybe it was because he never saw it or registered it all that much in the moment. But he remains still and compliant as Elidibus heals and treats the wound, reminding himself that this would help to repair what could be... though he had yet to see what his ear looked like at all. It was a pulsing pain enough to make him wince if he thought about it too hard, but he knows it's there because he and Emet-Selch were starving.
He only realizes seconds delayed that Elidibus wants him to move, and Mettaton reflexively growls low, curling closer to Emet-Selch. His ears would move, but they can't. But his rationale occurs to him second. To finish with Emet-Selch, then to make their bed... The thought of having a clean, niceer bed was appealing. Mettaton gazes gently upon Emet-Selch, loosening up his posture and inquiring without words how his fiancé feels about them splitting for any duration of time or length of space.
All Mettaton says at Elidibus' request is: "Hmm..."
"Mm, I've not come across anything like him, no." Slightly dryly spoken, even if he is mostly referring to Mettaton's physical composition. "The world spared no effort in adapting him to a monster's life, even though it would have been far easier just to render him a witch and be done with it."
Inconveniences of monsterhood aside, Emet-Selch was glad that his companion was a monster- as he doubted they would've ever Bonded otherwise, the puca having been looking for a witch of particular requirements.
Elidibus' look of questioning towards him, as though inquiring whether this was typical Mettaton behavior- is met with a faint shrug against the bed, and a fainter quirk of lips. None of it seemed to strike him as at all unusual, and if the puca had taken it upon himself to view the other Ascian favorably, Emet-Selch wasn't about to dissuade him of it. His life in general would be much easier if his compatriots and his Bonded could all get on with one another, though he'd settle for anything greater than active animosity.
(If only they were all the Amaurotines they had once been. Then there would have been no question of them all getting along at least reasonably well. Amaurotine disapproval or dislike had never carried with it the risk of violence, at least.)
Leaving the pair of them to decide on the shearing of what was left of Mettaton's fur to facilitate cleaning, the Emissary's response to the culprit of their fatalities arrived. The stillness on Elidibus' part was telling, and while Emet-Selch doesn't tense at it, he watches closely at this version of his compatriot's anger. So controlled, so... unexpressed, but there. That there was an emotion at all to be felt- he supposed it could be taken as a good sign, though it had been a long time since he'd found any measure of hope in those flickers of sentiment. But that a version of fury was one of those things that yet survived in its way, rather than anything positive or kind... it didn't surprise him, but it did depress him that touch more.
Not that there's any sign of this, just an idle staring as he looks between his fiancé and his fellow unsundered. Calmed anger aside, Emet-Selch didn't think Elidibus would deliberately harm the puca, especially not right in front of him. That would require too much passion, and not enough rationality; it wasn't as though Mettaton had intended to kill him, and any attempt at vengeance would accomplish less than nothing.
Letting Mettaton explain that the complication had been mind control on the puca's part, rather than captivity, he sighs at the reminder of the experience of infection. Even though they'd both died technically of something other than that (hence the ability to have been revived), it wasn't as though the cwyld hadn't played its part. Been responsible, in its way, for this specific pattern of injury.
"You could say that, I was... well infected by the end of it. It felt pointless to have it cured before seeing my Bonded cured with me."
He would've just been reinfected. By the time it had progressed enough to warrant seeing it fixed anyway, Mettaton had been housebound, and the Ascian refused to leave him. And then Elidibus touches Mettaton's bitten ear, causing a sharp, clearly pained reaction, a flinch that has Emet-Selch tensing with the puca, as though to defend him somehow from it. Expression turning slightly drawn, he maintains a focus on his fiancé's face, even though he'd rather look aside. He didn't... entirely remember biting him. Not that hard, not enough to have actually removed a piece from his ear.
It's a dwelling interrupted by the sound of growling, Emet-Selch also only belatedly realizing that Elidibus had suggested that they part (briefly), for the sake of a cleaner bed, and his own response is to nudge closer, protectively, defensively. Considering the effort it had taken to get the two of them placed together and concurrently alive, it was reflex to want to see that maintained. But the rationale arrives some seconds later, along with the imagining of being able to rest on a clean bed, having also been cleaned off... it did appeal. They both valued that sort of thing, and it would probably help with feeling like things were getting back to some sort of normal, which didn't involve lying in a nest of old blood.
"...You could still reach me, couldn't you?" he asks Mettaton first, tone quiet. If he could keep his hand, perhaps... he would tolerate it.
"For a world so desperate for salvation, it seems to have an overabundance of energy," Elidibus offers very dryly. But there is no evidence of surprise. After all, Hydaelyn's own behavior had been similar. Constantly broadcast, throw out Her energy and slowly waning. The problem lay in what similar behavior might mean for those stuck on this world.
Much follows. Conversation, anger, careful grooming, tending of the bitten ear, and mending of the dented metal. A silent exchange of curiosity and bemusement over the puca's mannerisms. But at least this all kept the Emissary from pursuing 'Lidi-darling' overly long. Mettaton will have plenty of chances to try to get him to give up on correcting the nickname in the future.
But while the Emissary finishes removing the mats, Emet-Selch offers insight into those terrible final moments between himself and Mettaton. The puca will feel Elidibus's actions slow, though not stop. The Ascian is giving his fellow Unsundered a look that seems utterly unfathomable in its intent to absorb every nuance that accompanies what was just heard. There was nothing if not madness in the recitation of events or so it seemed. But now was not the time to raise outburst anymore than it would be time to give in to his anger over the demise experienced by his fellow Convocation member.
Elidibus has recovered enough of his usual manner by the time Mettaton growls at the suggestion of being removed from the bed and hardly misses how Emet-Selch echos, in his own way, the sentiment against being parted. And while it is not as though he had suggested that they move to separate rooms, the Emissary does content himself to a certain resigned sigh at this behavior and steps away while the two Bonded discuss the matter.
Not to leave the room but to rearrange the small amount of furnishings in the room. Specifically where a side table by the bed on Emet-Selch's side can be moved away and the chair he intended to set Mettaton- a sturdy, functional seat- is very pointedly placed with one side flush against the bed and backrest against the wall. There would be a means for the puca to reach his fiance and a way for Elidibus to work on bathing and changing bandages.
A little extra time is given as he leaves the room to fetch a second chair. This one, on return, is placed next to the first. Because Emet-Selch will need a place to go when the bedding is cleaned. And Elidibus is going to be drawing the line at catering to their reluctance to part so far as to nest one on top of the other.
"I could reach you anywhere in this room, darling. Haha."
A cocky smirk. That's just how it is, being a robot.
On a more practical level, the Puca watches Elidibus get to work on arranging the room; for that, silence washes over him. In the meanwhile, he sinks closer against Emet-Selch's shoulder, protective and nearly guarding his Witch—from what, he wouldn't be able to say. It's instinctive, really.
Following the Emissary as he wanders about the room, Mettaton takes takes stock of his own body even as he's curled close to his Bonded. A body formerly coated in dried blood and matted fur, Mettaton's ears... barely twitch at the sight, a direction toward improvement finally attained. He smiles, too busy staring at himself to notice the second chair.
"That close, I could hold you." Mettaton giggles, leaning into peck Emet-Selch's cheek. To Elidibus: "How sweet of you, darling."
With a chair at Emet-Selch's side, Mettaton determinedly takes his lover's hand as though for stability. But Elidibus arrives to whisk him off for his assigned seat, and Mettaton's not about to deny the assistance to his feet. It's only with a small noise of complaint in his throat that he's made to loosen his grip on Emet-Selch's hand, though Mettaton finally rises, guided by Elidibus' help.
Given that Elidibus is fully capable of supporting the heavy robot, Mettaton sighs, batting his eye at him. "Oooh, so you can hold small hares and voluptuous robots... Most people can't handle this body."
A grin. Mettaton will cooperate, either guided or lifted to his bedside chair—where he'll settle and immediately take Emet-Selch's hand with an affected sigh of relief.
It's a response on Elidibus' part that receives an exhalation that contains a whisper of amusement. "A familiar use of resources, isn't it?" Whatever will this star had, whatever hand was guiding it- if indeed, there was any- certainly put their efforts in a strange, even wasteful direction. The energy bringing them here, denying them their true powers, changing them- it had to come from somewhere, it couldn't be free. Nothing was limitless, not even a god (and they would know, having created one). And yet, they were all made to 'fit in', for whatever purpose, to whatever end.
Not that it mattered, except as an abstract consideration. There was nothing they could do for it but live with it, made to adapt.
Grooming continues, as does the Emissary's form of disapproval at hearing anything there was to say about this recent demise. That there had been madness involved in how their deaths had unfolded... Emet-Selch would have a hard time denying it. But he offers no more in the way of either explanation or defense, only gazing quietly, tiredly back.
But finally there came a time of movement, something practical to think on rather than everything that had led to this particular situation. And so long as he remained in contact with his Bonded, his needs were- if not satisfied, indulged enough that there was little quarrel that Emet-Selch could make. It was perhaps a weakness to show this requirement at all, but- it was met and overmatched by the Ascian's lack of self-consciousness, and a perhaps overly developed amount of confidence; if Emet-Selch wanted to remain in contact with his fiancé, then he was not going to be shy about demonstrating it.
Apart from keeping an eye on proceedings, there's no protest on his part when Mettaton is collected off his side of the bed, and led to his duly-assigned seating. There's not quite a robot-shaped outline of flecks of blood and loose hairs where he had just been... but it's obvious that something unclean had been resting in that spot. Not that the Ascian's spot is likely to be much better, considering how closely they'd been resting.
Hand retaken, Emet-Selch squeezes it, if not terribly hard. "If only you were able to shift to your hare form, all this tiresome maneuvering would've been avoidable." A rabbit could've tucked himself into any number of places around him or on him, and just by virtue of being smaller, any mess he left behind would've been automatically less. But the magic for any of that had hardly had a chance to return; even their physical bodies could barely move as it was.
Emet-Selch couldn't say he looked forward to being shuffled off the bed himself- but then, he didn't particularly look forward to much of anything. Clean selves and clean sheets though... he supposed there was that. He would hold onto that most modest of hopes for the future.
Disapproval is such a harsh word for it. Call it for what it is. An alarm that shifts his ever-growing pile of data to conclude that this is of pressing concern and may need to take priority in finding out more. Whether it was the Bond or the Cwyld infection or a mix of both coupled with the machinations of the Evergreen Circle's brainwashing spellwork may remain unclear for now. Mostly because getting the two clean, bandages changed, bedding refreshed remains marginally more important.
"If you will indulge me for a moment between the trading of wit with Emet-Selch." Utterly. Deadpan. "Are you capable of self-diagnostics, Mettaton? I would be interested in any information you may be able to provide now of your rate of recovery." To be honest, Elidibus is a little interested personally given the hybrid combination of machine and mammal, but he's probably asking primarily for the practical aspects such an answer might resolve.
As a note yes, Elidibus would encourage any effort to walk whether supported or not. But he will for the sake of expediency bodily lift Mettaton in a princess carry if he had pretended any overcomplicated struggle. So perhaps the best of both worlds there, being both supported and carried by a dashing, heroic figure. Pity the Emissary's face shows how plainly disinterested he is in the puca inclusive of largely ignoring the weighted words about how well he handles the robot's body. But it should, perhaps, amuse the bedridden ascian.
Or more like distract. The next bit of time would probably be awkward for both Unsundered. It was one thing when Emet-Selch was unconscious and Mettaton sleeping but quite another matter all told when sensibilities are conscious for both to see and one to bear witness. What will be needed is prepared from the supplies. Fresh water, plenty of towels, bandages, and dressings. It will certainly be a process both in bathing and supporting Emet-Selch when held upright. And of course the whole matter of doing this while stripped of sheets and any fabric that may have been used to clothe the injured form before Mettaton had awakened and effectively shut down the healthcare.
Elidibus has steeled himself. This is just a host body to his mental bias. Mostly. He has firmly shut off the portion of the mind that wonders whether this is more due to the facts brought to light. He presses on because he must. But he's mostly silent and laser-focused on the task.
One might wonder where any change of bedding is come to think. Or how he plans to do that final step. Patience though, that's forthcoming after this awkward moment.
Of course he's going to want to be carried! Only if Elidibus showed some sign of dropping him would Mettaton have demonstrated his ability to amble along, or at least help. It's much more glamorous to be princess carried. He'd say he looks gorgeous in a dress.
"I hadn't even thought about shapeshifting," admits the Puca, gazing ceilingward. And though the thought of becoming a compact hare is now there for the consideration, he dismisses it just as easily. "Oh well. Elidibus here is perfectly capable of carrying me! There are no problems!"
He even princess carried him. Mettaton is pleased. He squeezes Emet-Selch's fingers, smiling smugly as though they didn't just spend the last few days dying and whatnot. Mettaton has a knack for glossing over the worst of issues in this way.
Mettaton stares at Elidibus wide-eyed as soon as the other Witch makes his request. Self-diagnostics... For some reason, he hadn't thought such words would escape Elidibus' mouth. It's always hard to gauge how technologically savvy someone is, and the phrasing suggests that he needs to play his role more carefully. It's perhaps a boon to the Puca that his ears are so damaged that they can't emote, for they might have risen in shock then folded back in unease if they could. But they do nothing, and his face is only wide and blank.
A canvas which he uses, morphing surprise into utter emptiness. Incredulity. Then, Mettaton puts forth his best robot impression, gaze vacant and voice tinny and monotonous.
"3... 2... 1... Self-diagnostics: complete." His brow knits, drawing his expression into one of ire that he points at Elidibus. Monotonous quality is lost as he continues, though it's still spoken through a synthesized, robotic filter. "My analysis suggests that your eyes are functioning just fine, sweetheart!! You can see my damage clear as day! Use them!!!"
He clutches onto Emet-Selch's hand with both of his own now, giving Elidibus a smile sharp as knives. His voice returns to normal: abnormally silky and very emphatic as ever, riding the waves of inflection to draw attention to his every word. And though he speaks sweetly, the challenging darkness of his expression doesn't depart, as though affronted that he'd ask him to perform (gasp) a robotic function.
"Or you can ask me how I'm doing. To which I'll reply: splendidly, now that I'm finally clean! Though I have a few repairs to endure, from both my creator and Emmy... I'll be bouncing back before you can count the letters of my name." Which, as anyone true fan would know, is as long as he would like for it to be. "Thank you for the concern, Lidi-darling."
The host Elidibus took was rather strong, the Ascian had to admit to himself. As would be expected from both an adventurer and a former/current Warrior of Light. Emet-Selch knew he would have had a much harder time picking up the heavy robot at all, especially in the ever-dashing princess-carry position (he was normally the one being princess-carried).
The request for the robot to demonstrate a basic robot function- Emet-Selch could feel a bit of the puca's startle and unease through their recovering Bond, but he can't help but permit himself a brief, amused smile at how the ostensible machine chooses to respond. The offense at being asked to do something robotic... yes, this is about what he might have expected from him. He knew perfectly well Mettaton could do nothing of the sort. Even his battery life seemed to be something he only had a general sense of.
And technically, it did count as some sort of diagnostics check, only filtered through Mettaton's particular personality. Content with the solid grip on his hand, Emet-Selch glances back to Elidibus. "I told you he was alive. 'Tis more straightforward to treat with him as such."
Rather than treating the robot as a... robot.
Diversion as it all was, it only briefly distracted from the inevitability of more Washing. There was a bit of steeling to be done between them, he knew. Emet-Selch wasn't shy, nor modest, but he was ultimately more of a private sort, and what was more personal than one's body? Except, of course, this was just a host, no different than a bit of clothing, something fleshy to wrap around the soul. Any body would be viewed that way after so many years without, an object that was his but not him. So in that regard, why did it matter? Even if this was a bit of fabric that could no longer be readily removed and replaced with a fresher piece.
It was both more and less awkward for Elidibus to be the one performing the task. It wasn't as though Emet-Selch weren't already fully aware as to how many others had seen his body. It felt like half the hospital had been involved in his necromancy and healing, and subsequent efforts to both reach Mettaton and ensure that he was likewise resurrected. And why would that bother him, or even so much as register? Any thoughts those people might have (especially considering the amount of older, non-fatality-related markings his body possessed) never occurred to him, because he still didn't see the average mortal as much of a person. If pressed, he might hesitantly agree that they were alive, but it would also be clear that he didn't think of them that way.
Elidibus, though, was one of the very few of the city that he definitely considered as completely alive, a whole entire person (no matter the state of his memories) and someone who he knew besides. That part especially just made it awkward.
But his look, when gazing back upon the other Ascian, is something resolute (and with a touch- only a touch, as it was about all he could scrape up- of performative exasperation, as though this were all just a dreadful hassle, but one which he would stoically be made to endure). He was ready to be washed, handled, observed, and otherwise banded around in a too-small room while his fiancé also observed.
It's also obvious that Elidibus has taken good care of the host body. Good diet, plenty of exercise, and practice at combat. The hyur frame definitely has muscle. Mettaton's frame was not any real trouble especially with such a short distance involved and a willing individual.
And Emet-Selch. Did it occur that your turn to be princess carried by Elidibus will be coming soon?
But first, the distress which a simple query created. Elidibus would need to be blind not to discern the unease despite the lack of real body language in the form of the puca's ears. The Emissary looks between both Mettaton and Emet-Selch. He's listening to the explanation and ire, as well as the defense his fellow Ascian raises for his Bonded's sake.
In response, Elidibus closes his eyes momentarily and his expression is very, very close to an exasperated equivalent of 'Zodiark give me strength.'
He will continue taking care of Emet-Selch because there is a lot to do between washing, cleaning wounds, and rebandaging. But very patiently he offers an explanation. "Yes, I am aware you are a creature with a soul. I trust Emet-Selch's judgment in this and, as it has been pointed out you would hardly be capable of Bonding were it not true. Regardless I apologize for any perceived insult." A glance is given Mettaton's way. Sincerity could be construed if only by the fact the apology is being honestly offered.
"My intention was not to treat you as an object but to determine whether you are capable of accurately calculating the amount of time it will take you to recover from your weakened state and any remaining injury. Given you have both recently returned from the dead and given Emet-Selch's own condition, I would not leave you both in the sole care of one another."
Briefly, he pauses his ministrations of the bedridden Ascian's form and turns to focus fully upon the puca with narrowed eyes. "And before you growl at me again, I would remind you that your desire to protect Emet-Selch and the collective capacity of judgment from both of you while one or the other are compromised has led you to the current state I found you in upon arrival." He glances back at Emet-Selch to include him in this statement. Then he turns around fully to go back to the washing task.
"I have no particular desire to interrupt your lifestyle but given these developments, I will be at least stopping by from time to time in the near future. How little or much that is will depend on how much thought you put into the words I have just spoken. I would like to think this latest incident has been a learning experience for the two of you."
There is a lot to take from Elidibus's small lecture. For one, pieces of it were directed at one, the other, or both depending on what he was addressing. And another, he was sincere when he mentioned he does not consider Mettaton an.... inanimate thing. But like Emet-Selch, how much of a soul the puca has is up for debate. The important part to take from this is as he did trust his brethren when it came to the claim that Mettaton was... well 'alive'.
Another matter suspect is how Elidibus is upset. Not the briefly frustrated moment of asking for patience from his God but honest distress and concern. For all his lecture had a great deal of sense involved it was also made in earnest. In the frame of mind both seem to have recently experienced and- to some extent- are still in, they seem to be their own worst enemies. And he's balking at the idea of leaving them both to their own devices until they're both fully healed.
This probably isn't doing much for the awkwardness of Ascian intimacy but at least both seem capable of communicating a certain level of resolute determination to the other. The Emissary's bedside manner has improved greatly ever since the last time he treated an injury on Emet-Selch but he seems to be going the extra mile to be gentle. So perhaps this too is a way to determine just how concerned Elidibus truly is under that calm mask.
After all, there was only a touch of magic used on Mettaton. Probably one of the largest pieces Elidibus has reserved for Emet-Selch, though eminently practical, is a flat barrier between the Ascian and the bed. It serves a dual purpose of keeping the body separated from gore-soaked sheets but with minor manipulation can aid in supporting the injured during upright moments. For Emet-Selch there's no suggestion to cut mats out of the tangled hair. Muttered words see it untangled and clean with a burst of magic. Certain bandaged cuts are left uncovered- the ones that are scratches and smaller bites - if these are there - but all of those will be given a blanket spell much as applied to Mettaton's ear. Some might heal completely others only slightly and those will have their gauze replaced. The most serious are treated with a strict regimen of both water and anti-septic and are certainly beyond the Witch's current abilities. But he does what he can. At least he's already aware of what caused the harm.
Once all is said and done on caring for Emet-Selch's body, there is a brief look of inquiry as if to give the Ascian a chance to determine how he'll be carried to the chair while Elidibus takes care of the bed. Or maybe it's an indirect apology since the Emissary will likely insist on doing so.
Why he had not simply used magic for everything involving the cleaning of bedding and person- because as he is about to prove he somewhere gained spellwork and expertise in such daily lifestyle magic- will become clear soon enough. His hand gesture is familiar enough. A hand and fingers outstretched. Though he still requires words; ones which spill out of his mouth in an energy-infused description of the task at hand. It could be likened a little to a program of sorts but to listen to it is to develop an accurate picture of the task performed. For his magic now is as though it sought to establish understanding between a perfect mental picture and the desire for the bedding to be cleansed of the contaminants down to the very bedframe.
It is a pity this world twists all spoken languages to sound like its common native tongue. In Elidibus's heart and mind, he uses the ancient language. Though effective as the gore disappears as though it were never there, there is still something lost in the recital.
And for magic, it seems to be nearing his limits. It is the latter half of the month and the new moon is long past. It's not as if he had expected to do this much today and his technique? Well, it's hardly the most efficient of things after a bare three months of learning. But it is done and at least he hasn't collapsed from the effort. Also, the room is clean, sans the pile of stained towels used to clean both Mettaton and Emet-Selch.
With any luck, they'll have saved their critique- both for his spellcasting and his lecture- until he had reached the end. But he can probably handle it even if neither do.
"Hmm. Even a non-machine would know that my recovery time is entirely dependent on how cared for I am."
At this, he flutters his lashes. He must be Cared For to recover. Just, lovingly and constantly tended to and served... Mettaton smiles sweetly.
Mettaton was never deeply insulted. If anything, he was only behaving snappishly because he had something to hide. There was no duration of time it'd require to recover entirely. As for his battery... He'd been sleeping well enough so as to reduce the possibility of unpredictable power-offs. Because it's true: Mettaton has absolutely no way of handling diagnostics. He could tap into some features of his body, sure, but he was no better than a person piloting around a machine, blindly groping around for dysfunctional parts and using his best guesses to diagnose his issues.
But Elidibus continues, and Mettaton grows momentarily bashful, glancing away. He doesn't mean to growl... He even knows that Elidibus and doctors alike are often tending to Emet-Selch's well-being, not hurting him. But the very moment a shock of pain makes its way through Emet-Selch, the Puca's on the defense, and it's nothing short of an instantaneous reaction that requires higher thought to soothe. It's a quality he's gained as a Monster, he's sure. There was no other explanation.
There's more to digest, though Mettaton's brow begins to knit. This wouldn't be the first time during his stay where he is advised that there's something questionable about his... lifestyle. Or that he and Emet-Selch had a lesson to learn from all of this, but the Puca has a hard time figuring out what that lesson's supposed to be. To express his frustration with this notion, he unconsciously stomps the ground with a furry rabbit foot. It's not as strong as a full kick would be, so its not anything worth terrible concern.
Yet he considers what he's said, trying to find meaning. Elidibus works on helping Emet-Selch, and Mettaton watches patiently. And despite the advice to do anything other than growl... Any time, if at all, Emet-Selch experienced pain, even incidentally—the Puca's upper lip would stiffen, and he would tilt back his chin, stifling his defensiveness. Even though their Bond was weaker than before, it was returning to its full strength with speed. He could see it in his Bondmate's stiffened posture besides, and this was disturbing to him at his core.
But rationally speaking, he knows it's all required. There would be no clean recovery without a bit of pain and discomfort for everyone, including Emet-Selch, no matter how much he wished to protect him from it.
The next time Mettaton's given even a moment where Emet-Selch's not experiencing any shocks of pain, he heaves a sigh. And on his cheery voice, past a mellow smile, he glances away.
"I'm afraid I don't know where you think we've erred," Mettaton responds simply. "I was mind controlled. We were sick. We tried to recover... And unfortunately, oh my! My condition took a turn for the worst! The rest is... history."
There was a personal issue in there. The fears of being in love in a place that encourage ephemeral visitors, made manifest. But Mettaton thought this something they could work on between each other. While he speaks, Mettaton watches as Elidibus cleanses the bed in something that resembles transmutative magic... but there were many disciplines that could achieve such a result. Perhaps this was even considered a general pursuit. He'd smile and clap at it, but he's busy reflecting over their deaths, gazing off into the air with his head tilted vaguely down, focusing on nothing. He revisits the memories he could barely remember of their deaths, anyway. It was all so dark, and he felt the only thing he could recall with any clarity was the excruciating sense of loneliness, and the sight of Emet-Selch staring at him, unseeing. It would still his heart, if he had one.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Not a Text. Ominous.
Date: 18 Feb 2021 01:03 (UTC)This would, of course, lead to exhaustion rising to claim its toll. Perhaps even fast enough to not be truly worried that an immediate response was not forthcoming.
Perhaps.
Recent events with the machinations of the Evergreen Circle have utterly taxed the caregivers, witches, and aides of the Coven. So when Elidibus, looking every bit the altruistic type of person who would volunteer and also has more than two brain cells to rub together, is not devastated by brainwashing, grief, guilt, remorse, or all of the above, he doesn't even have to try to convince someone to let him help. They practically fling a smock and a volunteer armband at him.
He does, however, have to do a little work to find out the location of his fellow Ascian and current bed partner and after that, it's just a matter of stopping another volunteer, readily convincing her that he can handle this particular room since the occupants are friends and he'd like a chance to check on them. She looks at him like he's her savior, which is something of a surprise until she explains what the cause for her relief is.
Ah. Yes, that puts matters into perspective. Nevertheless, he grins and chuckles and nods his understanding, accepts the tools she'd been carrying to the room, and lets her escape. Elidibus steps into the room and closes the door firmly and silently behind him before letting the act of emotions drain away from his features.
Mostly. There is something there. The uninitiated might have called the furrowed brow a mannerism brought on by 'disappointment'. But those who have dealt with the Emissary over countless millennia may be able to read deeper than that superficial assumption. Distant as it may appear to be, this is what concern might look like, were concern a creature newly born into the world and not yet sure of its purpose.
Never fear. It will be hiding deep in the recesses of Elidibus's psyche by the time Emet-Selch awakens and risks bringing it to the Emissary's attention, thus ending its short life.
Elidibus takes a moment to look over the patients which have been left in his care. One is his primary concern of course, but given they are likely to be tangled around each other by this point- it's what Bonded do, or so he learned- he'll have to deal with that matter.
What had sent the other volunteer scurrying was a concern over the Puca which, perhaps understandably so, was very protective of Emet-Selch currently. Doctors and aides had already gotten a few broken bones trying to get too close after Mettaton had gained some stamina back. While the volunteer had protection and been sent because she could be gentle and convincing and was going to back out of the room again if things went south quickly, she had definitely been glad it was Elidibus taking the risk, not her.
But it appears even machines run out of energy. Or... whatever the Puca is currently anyway. The entry did not stir Mettaton and drawing closer to Emet-Selch's side of the bed brought no ire. Hmm. Elidibus draws the smallest denomination of cune from his belt ouch and sends it into a nearby wall. He watches for any signs of motion, any twitch of a long ear.
Nothing. Excellent.
Carefully, since he really doesn't intend to awaken either one at first, Elidibus draws back the blankets to expose Emet-Selch's upper torso. Bandages are immediately noticed, as they cover a great deal of flesh. But so too is the smear of blood and gunk everywhere, thanks to Mettaton's presence; it seems the doctors were confused about whether they could use water around the machine? Or maybe the Puca had woken up about that point and made it a moot issue with his bad behavior. Elidibus sighs.
Which brings the matter around to the items he brought in. A basin, a pitcher of steaming water. Plenty of clean cloth. It's true, the Emissary wasn't sure at first if he was going to go so far as to use the tools he'd been given. He'd hoped to talk to his fellow Unsundered about the contents of the message. But if more sleep was needed to recover, then Elidibus wouldn't sit idle. He could begin with an examination of the condition Emet-Selch's host is in.
And to do that, he was going to have to wash away the grime. Maybe change those bandages. Untangle Mettaton. Wash... Mettaton? Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Pulling over the room's only seat- a stool at a good height to examine (or bathe) patients- Elidibus leans over Emet-Selch. Though the warm, damp towel drops to rest on a patch of flesh around the neck and left shoulder area, the Emissary does take the time to try and carefully pry open the eyelid of what was, at least reckoning, the non-functioning eye. Still nonfunctioning? The right arm is... well, let's save that for later, as he would need to contend with moving Mettaton to get a better look at that.
The check is over quickly enough. Which leaves us with an opening that goes something like this.
When Emet-Selch wakes up, he finds Elidibus- one hopes it's Elidibus and not suddenly the real Ardbert- giving him a sponge bath.
no subject
Date: 18 Feb 2021 03:21 (UTC)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?
Just look at that bedside manner expression.
Date: 18 Feb 2021 07:11 (UTC)Make no mistake. This initial cleaning is not his intended result. Elidibus is giving Emet-Selch's host body a critical examination. If even a fraction of what was said in the message is true and that it might be imperative to take care of their current hosts, then he wants to know what condition his fellow Unsundered are in. Particularly the Architect, who had already had notable degradation.
And if this resurrection did not restore lost limbs or that eye, what else will cease to function after this recent incident? One could suspect he started before Emet-Selch woke up because there would be protests otherwise. They would only be partially correct.
There are many factors involved. Keeping up the act of what he's ostentatiously here to do, yes. The practicality behind cleaning away the extra grime before removing the bandages before thinking of tending to the injuries underneath. Of course. Planning on how to extract Emet-Selch's frame from an overly protective Puca, sure. And naturally, that full-body examination, which is clinical to the point of terrible from someone who claims to be a 'brother'. By the time awakening is a factor, the Emissary has no doubt managed to thoroughly check over as much of the body as he thus far has access to.
There is a slight pause in action when Emet-Selch first shows signs of stirring. But he continues, letting his contemporary wake up- or rather, decide whether or not he's awake or still dreaming something utterly ridiculous. By this point, it's pretty reasonable to assume he's got a basin of dirty water. But thanks to magic, it's just a matter of touching the basin in a certain spot to empty it, then refill from a pitcher that seems to have plenty more water than it seems capable of holding. It's during one such change that the bed-ridden Ascian speaks.
Elidibus turns his head to look down on Emet-Selch. Then to the door which is still firmly closed and then back once again. A decision is made, whether to speak like 'Ardbert' in a public place and hint toward preferring his identity not be placed at further risk. Or, simply answer as he was addressed. Slowly turning back and wringing out the cloth once again, he reaches out to continue his work. He also chooses the latter of the two options, though he speaks quietly enough that the noise and bustle outside will not let his voice carry beyond the confines of the small room.
"I see your tongue has suffered little from your aborted demise, Emet-Selch," the Emissary offers calmly. "Though no doubt had you your full wits, it might occur to you that rather than change careers, I am simply adapting to our current needs." Elidibus won't wipe anywhere that will impede the other Ascian's ability to speak. In fact, he's largely done what he can without a few further matters taken care of. Namely, Mettaton. And bandages.
But first, "In the absence of anyone more suited and since it is oft ill-advised to allow the patient to treat himself, I have stepped into that capacity. It allows me a chance to comprehend the damage done and what this... Resurrection magic can accomplish." Disturbingly little other than the retrieval of the soul itself, it seems. And if such is the case, he is no doubt struggling with the instinct to reject any mortal care administered to such a precious commodity as an Ascian's sole host body. Even if there's only so much he can do. For a brief moment, the fledgling feeling of concern might flit through the Emissary's gaze.
Then gone again. Because cleanup, an examination of the shell, and changing bandages? These are things he can do. Blandly, Elidibus concludes, "Now that you are awake, I would like to continue my task. So if you would kindly unravel yourself from your puca's clutches, I will endeavor to do so."
And once that's done, there's no doubt going to be a talk over what that message said and the events that led to it being sent. But first things first, as unusual as it might be for an Ascian to consider a 'disposable body' as a priority over information.
impeccable work
Date: 18 Feb 2021 11:35 (UTC)Well, there's nothing threatening. But there's something.
At feeling Emet-Selch stir at all, even if it's by being manipulated like a lifeless doll, Mettaton grips onto him tighter like his favorite teddy bear. In dreamland, being reminded of his Bondmate's movement and even the stir of his soul (though their robust Bond has been temporarily damaged by their death, the worst part of dying) is a warmth, a security. Mettaton nuzzles his cheek against the top of Emet-Selch's head in the process of trying to cuddle closer.
It's a nice reminder, recalling that Emet-Selch is alive and near. But it'd be selfish of him to request Emet-Selch remain awake just for this consolation. No, they could meet in their dreams instead... Except for that there's the voice of an interloper afoot.
At the first evidence of Elidibus' voice, Mettaton stirs anew. His tone is measured and calm enough that it doesn't rouse him immediately, what with this being the first hint of deep sleep Hotland's idol has managed in... weeks, it felt like. But with enough talking, Mettaton buries his face in dark locks of hair; he burrows, he rouses, his leg twitches and tightens in its entanglement with his bedridden Ascian.
Mettaton doesn't comprehend what Elidibus is saying, just that there's an intruder, and Emet-Selch is under his protection. The robot has a habit of thinking like this, especially when he's disoriented or slipping into a feral, primal mindset. In a beat, Mettaton comes to with a start: in a hasty burst of energy, his hand reaches across Emet-Selch's body and slams down against the mattress in agitated protectiveness. He pushes himself up the best he can, leaning low over Emet-Selch's torso as his upper lip peels back and he stares, glares with a single luminous, golden eye, right at (or through?) Elidibus, the unexpected company.
—And just as quickly as that moment came to be, Mettaton blinks. His lips part, and his eye widens as he stares stupid at Elidibus. Then, at Emet-Selch. Then back to Elidibus.
Then, back to Emet-Selch again, who he pouts at and sinks toward. Mettaton is not the former "glory" he was back when he first met the Emissary, with glinting, silvery fur and an overall glow to his demeanor. His ears are ratty and hang like a lop's, his hair a tangly mess—though it'd be a surprise to anyone that this isn't the worst it had been. It remains caked with blood and dirt, but the bangs are desperately smoothed down, even if they remain unkempt. Where Emet-Selch's body is riddled in bandages and the evidence of wounds, Mettaton's entire chassis is flecked with dried, old blood, with every patch of fur having been plucked and torn away at until he was left with more bald spots than patches of blood-caked fur. His arms, and even his hips once they were revealed, would bear this same self-destructive pattern. In short: Mettaton is a horrid mess of still caked blood, black fur, and dirt, and nobody in this fine establishment has sought to change this fate of his. Much to his vanity-fueled dismay.
The Puca sighs, an expression of relief, realizing that Emet-Selch is fairly calm, and that this is a face he recognizes, and his attention's directed again to Emet-Selch's compatriot. His voice is smooth and melodious as ever, unaffected by his own recent resurrection and poor condition.
"Elidibus, darling! What a surprise... Did you leave Emmy a message, that you were stopping by?"
If so, he should've liked to hear about it! Mettaton dislikes being viewed while in such a state of disarray, and he would've made more of an effort to stay awake! But moments more spent staring at him has him piecing together some more... impressions.
Such as the linens. The cloth in hand, drenched in water. Emet-Selch's arm left arm being pulled toward Elidibus. That's the arm he'd most recently injured, he considers: the bicep is wrapped in dirty bandages, his ring finger bejeweled in a reddish-gold band. Only the roots of his ears seem to twitch at all, the rest of him unwilling to cooperate.
no subject
Date: 18 Feb 2021 15:24 (UTC)That he had called him Elidibus rather than Ardbert: a deliberate choice, if one taken in an instant, without checking particularly hard for whether there was anyone else in the room besides the three of them. But Emet-Selch was recently dead and currently tired; keeping up too many pretenses didn't appeal whatsoever. That, and he can well guess as to why the Emissary was here, and it wasn't out of an urge to strip him down and wash him alone. Their conversation would be suspicious enough for anyone expecting the Ardbert persona anyway.
Lacking the energy to waste on waving off Elidibus' claim of simply adapting to the situation he'd found himself in, he's struck next by the realization that the Emissary seemed... entirely intent on continuing, now that he was awake. But that there was a hint of some manner of emotion there- it's that alone that keeps Emet-Selch from immediately arguing against this course of action. Well, that and the utter surreality of it all drained him, kept him languid against the bed, barely accepting that this was all happening to him in the first place. But at the request for him to somehow detangle himself from Mettaton- that only has his frown deepen. He would do no such thing, especially not to satisfy curiosity. If Elidibus was determined to keep cleaning him, he could feel around whatever part of the puca he was currently pressed to.
But before he can reply, there's a greater stirring, through Bond and body of his companion, something more than that welcomed burrowing and clutching (all things that Emet-Selch relaxes sleepily into, as though long-accustomed to all of this contact). Alarm, aggression- flashes of instinct that are clear even through their badly damaged Bond stir his pulse, but he didn't need their souls tied to recognize what Mettaton was doing. Guarding him against a possible threat.
With surprising speed considering the weakness he knew Mettaton shared with him, Emet-Selch finds himself hunched over, the interloper warned against further contact. Throughout, it's a reaction he remains entirely calm for, apart from an initial startle at Mettaton having so quickly roused. With a small sigh, he reaches up to pet gently at the monster's side with his better hand (not that his arm liked being lifted like this at all), a reassurance that he was fine (well, that he wasn't being threatened). That he was in no need of defense.
But it's soon that Mettaton comes to that realization himself, that this was someone that he knew (or at least, had met before), and certainly someone that his Bonded knew. The pout in his direction gets a brief half-smile, very faintly amused, as Mettaton settles in his relief, moving himself back where he had been on the bed, greeting Elidibus in a far more normal way.
What's clearest of all, perhaps, is that Emet-Selch sees nothing problematic or unusual in the puca's possessive and protective instincts; why wouldn't he favor a monstrous defense of his welfare? But the puca hadn't actually attacked Elidibus, and had recognized him quickly enough and backed down- so it was all fine, as far as he was concerned.
"He did not," Emet-Selch sighs, shifting back against Mettaton's body, before belatedly remembering that he didn't actually know that for certain, having not checked his watch in... however long it had been since he'd sent those messages out. Maybe the other Ascian had sent plenty of warnings. "Well, I didn't invite him, anyway." That much he could say for certain.
But when did Ascians ever wait for invitations to turn up anywhere?
"While I won't deny the value of a hands-on experience," he looks back to Elidibus then, a mild reproach evident in his tone, as much for show as for anything, "I would've thought a verbal accounting would have sufficed. Are you truly so eager to tend to my wounds...?"
After another thought, another realization (another point of utter strangeness), he reluctantly adds: "Though you've improved your technique. Perhaps 'tis a job not unsuited to you after all."
no subject
Date: 19 Feb 2021 08:01 (UTC)Emet-Selch may have some knowledge of the Emissary's intentions of observing the Evergreen Circle. Probably had brief questions asked. You know, just enough to guess a bit at what Elidibus had been up to. And if he had somehow missed Emet-Selch's capture and subsequent death at the hands of this cult...
Elidibus did not know. But he wanted to ascertain the truth and there are some things one simply does not do through text messages.
Mettaton awakens. And while Elidibus briefly stopped his work, he does not flinch. The feral, protective expression on the Puca's face is met with unflinching calm as the Emissary waits for the next move. Just one of those small, unassuming moments in which the Ascian shows he is not the hyur he appears to be. Though who's to say Ardbert didn't once stare down a growling threat once or twice in his life? There was probably a lot more tension involved on his part, however.
But there is a sigh. Not because Elidibus is relieved. Oh, no. Because Mettaton has, by pulling back somewhat, revealed that he'd replaced some of the grime, fur, and blood that had been patiently wiped away with more of its ilk. And there is Emet-Selch, looking at him like he'd just been asked to... well, that it had been just suggested to not take a well-earned centuries-long nap.
Also a sigh because of 'Emmy'. Really, the puca is incorrigible. But at least he said the Emissary's title correctly. Elidibus studies the two. Puts Emet-Selch's arm down (sorry, Mettaton, people wear rings all the time where he comes from. He's not going to pick up on the significance of engagement bands), and finally patiently expands on his instructions.
"Your bandages are filthy and in dire need of changing. If what you said in your message continues to hold true, then the care for your body is now paramount." What advantage it affords his 'personal curiosity' is clearly low in the order of such importance.
It's hard to tell whether Elidibus is convinced this is not something that can be overcome. But he's certainly willing to consider the idea that the prison this star has sealed them in absolutely can keep them from searching for another body once their current one is spent.
"You, Emet-Selch, are in no condition to see to the matter yourself," Elidibus states, pointing out the obvious. "Because of your Bonded's overzealous guard, which is to be given its due credit," the Ascian gives a brief nod to the ever-watching Mettaton, "there is a dearth of volunteers, chirurgeon or otherwise, who wish to attend the task. If this cannot be rectified, I will stand in their place."
This is... a small stretch of the truth but based on it. Sure people were reluctant but they were willing to try. If Elidibus hadn't shown up at the right time, they would have at least left water and towels to be used and have tried to ask Mettaton what he needed to clean himself. Something along those lines.
What might come as a shock- and perhaps outright suspicion to his fellow Ascian- Elidibus then turns to address the puca directly. "It should be no surprise that I would come the moment I read what Emet-Selch sent, whether or not it was with an explicit entreaty to attend him." Yes, Emet-Selch, you should be getting suspicious. Even if he's indirectly answering the question about why he showed up. Or sit back and watch as Elidibus seeks to use words to coax Mettaton into a cooperative state.
The Emissary doesn't change his tone or manner. That would certainly have given the game away entirely, wouldn't it? With the same calm way he addressed his points to a respected peer, Elidibus offers to the puca, "It seems they have been remiss in your care, having little experience with your unique combination of machine and living creature." Momentarily, the Ascian lets his attention stray to the load of clean cloth still waiting to be used. There really is a lot. Maybe more than could be credited as 'for Emet-Selch's use alone'. It will certainly back up the words which follow.
"I would be remiss were I not to give due consideration for one Emet-Selch favors so ardently. Given your condition, I would believe it prudent to examine you, as well as do something regarding the filth they have left upon your body. And with clear instruction, I should be capable of seeing to any injury or repair you might have sustained. I will need you to lay beside him so that I may attend you both."**
Elidibus. The Emissary. Just offered to give Mettaton. A sponge bath.
And a physical. Well, he does have deft hands.
The Ascian returns his gaze to Emet-Selch as he brings up the matter of his improvements. "I have been given ample opportunity to study and practice since last I tended your injuries." It's said in a dismissive matter, as if the details aren't really important. Still one might wonder what circumstance Elidibus found himself in to pick up a better technique.
**[Disclaimer: What he said can interchangeable with the following. 'Since I know I cannot convince Emet-Selch to send you away and you are also covered in filth, I will wash you so you don't undo all my hard work. Also let him go so I can properly do my task. AND stop attacking the doctors so they can do their job or I will show up every single day and cut into your alone-time.']
no subject
Date: 19 Feb 2021 09:29 (UTC)"It's not my fault they keep putting themselves right in the way of my beautiful, shapely legs. Who can blame them?" he mutters, managing a smirk at the thought (read: convincing himself) that they must enjoy his legs, no matter how sore-ridden. Who wouldn't? "I've only hurt one person!"
(He hurt two. One of them was immediately upon his resurrection; he doesn't remember this.)
But this problem of having been yet caked in grime... it extends much further than Elidibus realizes. Even when he attempts to ask, the doctors are dubious: is this automaton broken? They have a magitech iron, and they know good and well that putting water on it would spell its ruination, as well as a shock hazard. This makes it incredibly difficult to tend to Emet-Selch, since the two are inseparable, as evidenced right now: Emet-Selch will not untangle himself for the sake of a wash, and nobody offers to wash Mettaton.
(Maybe the two of them understand that Emet-Selch's just bound to keep getting gross until someone gives in and gives Mettaton the bath he craves. It was useless to wash Emet-Selch if they wouldn't pay the same dignity to Mettaton.)
He's over the unexpected arrival quickly enough, as it makes sense that one of the Ascians would check in on his own like this, he supposes, and Mettaton acknowledges his rationale with a short nod. Yes, he also understands the alarm of death in this world, of the fact that their souls are bound to their hosts as they are... That death was occurring strangely to Emet-Selch, too, is a grim reality he's aware of. Mettaton glances down at Emet-Selch's skin where the blankets begin, wondering if Elidibus is here to check in on this new state of being bound to his host. He smiles softly, wondering if maybe he's even here out of care. (Why does Elidibus strike him as someone he's known for a time? He'd never noticed that before, when he first met him... Is Mettaton fond of Elidibus already? That makes sense. He's often fond of a lot of people. Monsters grow fond quickly in general. Nothing seems out of place when he thinks about it like that.)
The Emissary's desire to care for Emet-Selch also makes sense, and Mettaton does settle—though he's just as content as Emet-Selch to disobey and remain tangled up in Emet-Selch. But when Elidibus redirects his focus and strikes an offer with Mettaton, why...
"Correction: I'm all living creature, despite being a machine," he begins, already beginning to shift excitedly. But he smiles bright, regarding Elidibus warmly, eagerly. "Would you really do that for me, beautiful? Thank GOD, you're an angel! Everybody here's afraid to let me near a glass of water, lest I," he gestures with a weak arm, and it flops over, comically snake-like; "explode."
The flatness to his expression suggests that he finds this to be absurd. That flatness rounds back out again, and MTT brightens.
"Really, I don't care what your reason is. I'd kill to be clean. It's disgusting. The hospitality rating of this infirmary's easily a one, only because it can't be zero. They have a lot to learn about basic amenities." Here, the excitable Puca turns to Emet-Selch for the Ascian's take. "Well? What do you think, Hades?"
(He accidentally calls Emet-Selch Hades. Where Mettaton's normally decent at minding the names (but not perfect), he's just... not working at his best, exhausted and weak. He doesn't even catch that he's erred.)
Given Emet-Selch's approval first, Mettaton will gladly... attempt to untangle himself. But his limbs are weak, just as his fianceé's are. Mettaton's body is heavy metal, and his weakened soul is having a hard time flexing his fingers or working his limbs.
no subject
Date: 19 Feb 2021 12:25 (UTC)And yet he'd died anyway, for reasons related if not directly so. He hadn't been kidnapped by the cult, after all.
That there was information to provide that would be better spared the potential insecurity of texting- sure. He could accept that. A meeting in person was something Emet-Selch suspected would be inevitable, unavoidable. But for Elidibus to have turned up with such immediacy... he couldn't decide entirely what to make of it. Were it someone else, he might have readily assumed concern, but- well, maybe it was, in its own way. Along with, of course, the practical. The pragmatic.
Perhaps he should have waited a few more days before sending out that message. Or waited until he was out of the hospital entirely.
Then again, he was getting something of a wash (Something that had already been partially undone by a few renewed smears of blood, thanks to Mettaton's aborted aggressive stance, though this too is something that Emet-Selch just accepts. He's had to; the puca was filthy, they cuddled anyway, therefore he became filthy.). Unfathomably strange as it was, it wasn't unpleasant, the promise of being slightly cleaner, and it was technically better than some stranger having such access to him.
So in the end he sighs; his shoulders twitch in something likely intended as a shrug (it's followed by a small wince; neither arm wanted to move much). "I suppose you'll have to do, now that you're already here," even accepting, Emet-Selch could still grumble about it, "having worked your way past my guard's defenses."
It still wouldn't have necessarily been enough to get him to shift very much- but then Elidibus makes his offer to Mettaton. To wash him. An offer the robot, naturally, reacts to with delight (not that he could blame him; it had been a frustration, to have had to live with their current state of grime, lacking the strength to do anything about it themselves). The Ascian, however, is skeptical at this sudden magnanimous offer, no matter how practically stated (Part of him is just caught on the idea of watching Elidibus, of all people, bathing Mettaton. The only person more absurd in that role would be Lahabrea.).
But it was something that needed done, and that they would both appreciate. Questionable motives aside, it would be a hard thing to turn down. Just about to verbalize his allowance, his tolerance, he's struck short as Mettaton turns back to him, asks for his opinion directly.
--The use of his name. It's enough to have him still, if just for a moment, giving Mettaton a somewhat blank stare, before his gaze unwillingly darts sideways back to Elidibus. Of course Mettaton knew his name and used it, and in a circumstance like this, it wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be at his most careful. And as people went, the other Ascians were the ones Emet-Selch minded the least to have hear it (apart from Irhya, of course, but then he knew the two of them used it between each other if they spoke of him). After all, they knew his name. They- should know his name, for all that personal designations hadn't been used amongst them for thousands upon thousands of years. With Elidibus in particular....
Well. Like it or not, he supposed he'd find out if the other man recognized it at all. Sighing more softly, he only nods at first, in acquiescence of Mettaton's beginning struggles to untangle himself from him. "If you'd care to take advantage of Elidibus'... thoughtfulness, I've no objection. I doubt we'll receive a better offer."
It's easier accepted than done. Legs clumsily unlock from one another, arms wriggle free from where they'd been wrapped. The bed was still small, so they were still in contact, of course (and Emet-Selch was still disinclined to not at least have his side or hip pressed to Mettaton anyway), and altogether it's a rather awkward, pitiful struggle to achieve even partial separation. Mettaton had a heavier body to move, and Emet-Selch had been partially eaten; it is an incredibly sad display of dexterity and dignity.
When possible, Emet-Selch slumps back fully against the bed, annoyingly out of breathe for such meager work. Dying had never been so much of a hassle.
no subject
Date: 21 Feb 2021 02:30 (UTC)But really, at the end of the day, the healers of this place left Emet-Selch's host body (and possibly the only one he gets) in the company of someone covered in filth which would be no kindness for the injuries he's obviously taken. Much less a pleasant experience. It is unacceptable. At least both seem willing to consider
"I see. Then you need no further consideration for your machine body when I begin?" Elidibus seems to accept Mettaton does know what he's talking about. Keen eyes notice some of the struggle involved in the beginning efforts of disentanglement are not just the innate weakness. "...Other than weigh...t."
The word goes from standard tone to at least an octave lower as Mettaton utters Emet-Selch's true name. Elidibus, who had been moving to the Puca's side of the bed with the intent of offering physical aid in alleviating the issue of the robot's physical weight, halts in his tracks. His jaw tenses.
There is something there in his reaction which suggests he felt something and perhaps it can be asked after another time. But the Emissary is frighteningly quick to relax and continue his journey. His response, if you can call it that, is only one of bland commentary. "It would be best to consider this a public place, Mettaton." Was that a usage of a name, of all things? "Though were are alone in this room, I would not regard this as a place which should be privy to any other form of address than Emet-Selch's proper title."
Even Emmy might be preferable. Whatever Elidibus's opinion though, his words and tone seem to indicate he's merely instructing the Puca on proper Amaurotine etiquette.
"Allow me to aid you." With that phrase, the Emissary goes about with his intent to help sort out the two bodies so both might properly take advantage of his offer. He is pointedly gentle.
no subject
Date: 22 Feb 2021 10:12 (UTC)In other words, no: they hadn't ascribed much respect to the robot. Even being told that he had a soul didn't seem to convince him that he could speak to them about his needs. But before he can continue very far, Elidibus stalls, then gives him quite the pointed look. The use of his own name is expected, and after a time, he'd get quite irritated if Elidibus avoided using it for very long: he deserves respect, after all. But when he realizes the mistake he's made...
He tries again to cover his mouth in more drama, but this is more reflex than acting. His arm fails him again. Not even his ears can stand, but his face is screwed up, lips tight and eye wide. He glances to Emet-Selch with a sheepish smile.
"Oh," he breathes, but it's... reassuring that the door's closed. Already, Mettaton's aware that he's slipped a few times in not using Emet-Selch's title... Being freshly revived would obviously scramble his head and make him behave uncontrollably. To Emet-Selch alone, "Sorry, my dearest. That was careless of me..."
Hades is just his name. Mettaton recognizes that Emet-Selch is an important title, but he views his fiancé as Hades, the man behind the mask in all respects. ...He is also decidedly not Amaurotine, and fails to truly grasp this society's inclination toward upholding titles and conforming to proper reservation. But his apology is made, and it's directed entirely at Emet-Selch, not at all at Elidibus. He'd told Emet-Selch that he'd use his title in the presence of others, after all, and he'd erred.
As soon as Elidibus is on the move, Mettaton nods with as much exuberance as his tired body can manage, practically squirming with excitement. "Please do," he beckons, still sidling comfortably against Emet-Selch's hip. But he wouldn't dare go any further from him than this, no matter how much assistance he received. "Anyway, what was I saying...? Oh, yes. This body can tolerate anything short of submersion, darling. So you can do your worst! I'm sick and tired of smelling like old blood, and it's not doing Selchy any favors."
This really would be the best, and only, offer he'd receive. Comfort wasn't a priority for a robot, not by the Coven's staff. Mettaton presents himself to Elidibus' attention—and for Elidibus' intervention and interest, Mettaton's body is caked in old, flecked blood, mostly from his hips, up. Dirt remains caked in nails and mixed with blood; gnarls of thick, dark fur sticks to him in places still, but not nearly as much as when he'd woken up. It looks like he had a little tussle in a fur-lined subterranean burrow or something, and absolutely reamed his opponent and bled them dry.
But he wears for Elidibus and Emet-Selch a bright, eager smile, glancing between them.
"Finally! I've wanted this simple pleasure for too long. You're making dreams come true, Elidibus-darling. —....."
...That name. Those syllables. Mettaton has the sort of heavy deliberation after saying it that Emet-Selch alone might recognize: he is dissatisfied with affixing -darling to so many syllables, and seeks to remedy this. Terrible. Mettaton has finally had it with Elidibus-darling.
no subject
Date: 23 Feb 2021 11:51 (UTC)But Mettaton's recognition of the mistake and his apology gets a faint shrug as he rests back; he'd wave it off if he could, but while the robot's arms are noodly and limp, his are formerly-eaten (if reconstituted) and limp. Had the door been open, had there been other non-Elidibus people around, he would've been more exasperated (that Mettaton had already used his name before, in front of doctors, he doesn't entirely remember; he'd not been in the best frame of mind either), but as it went, it was an error of minimal harm. And with Elidibus' reminder, Mettaton knew better now.
The Emissary's use of Mettaton's name gets a brief, if mildly surprised look, though it settles into one of equally as mild approval. At least Elidibus wasn't as resistant to the idea of using the names of others, unlike Lahabrea.
And with a bit of added help, the two are duly extricated from one another as much as they can be. Though contact remains, it's not of the sort to get too much in the way. And even were there space on the bed, there was only so much extrication either of them would tolerate.
Mettaton's continued anticipation towards a cleaning remained expected, if faintly endearing. He knew how much care his Bonded took towards his appearance, and the days spent without a wash had been- less than comfortable for either of them. The Ascian hadn't quite inured himself to the smell of old blood, and it would be a relief to not keep experiencing it. That Elidibus had decided on this task for himself... it would be worth some gratitude, perhaps, even if he hadn't arrived here with the purpose of washing either of them.
But that heaviness at the end of the puca's words.... Emet-Selch did indeed recognize the threat of that pause. He'd heard it only once before, and he hadn't immediately known what it portended. Emet-Selch-darling had been a spoken atrocity that had only occurred a single time, followed by that same realization that no, this would not do. It was only on their next meeting that the fruits of Mettaton's creativity had solved the issue: Emmy-darling. He'd been no more amused by it than Elidibus had been, but of course the puca had completely ignored his demands not to do that to his poor title. By now he was used to it and Selchy (which was debatably worse), and since he heard them so rarely anyway these days, only in circumstances like this, when they were in another's company- he'd just kind of accepted it.
(Had the awareness of the preferability of Hades-darling over the butchering of his title influenced his decision to give Mettaton his true name? No. ...Not entirely, anyway. It was a bonus, though.)
Regardless: he knows that pause and what it means now, but apart from briefly closing his eyes, steeling himself against Inevitability, he says nothing on it.
"But there you have it, Elidibus. With the lack of a readily available bathtub, there's little harm you can do."
For now, Emet-Selch settles on his half of the bed that now seems even smaller now that he and his robotic Bonded are less compressed upon it, wondering if it was worth casting about for a blanket to re-cover his chest now that it wasn't being currently attended to. It was damp and he was cold, but after a dissatisfied huff he remains sulking back into his pillow, eyes opening again, as though the impending vision of the Emissary cleaning his puca was something too absurd to miss.
Sorry this has been such a long time coming! ;o;/
Date: 2 Mar 2021 05:00 (UTC)Let us hope there is no fallout.
The Ascian doesn't mind that the apology is not directed toward him. Emet-Selch is the one wronged, so it stands to reason that the Puca rightly should think to turn to his beloved in this manner. Not having to resolve the discussion with further participation lets the Emissary get about his business of untangling bodies and deciding how he's going to go about the matter of cleaning.
It might occur to Elidibus to cover Emet-Selch again should it be pointed out. But the sheets are filthy and there are parts of bedside manner which remain elusive. Right now, he's considering the steps needed to make his task the most efficient. Because yes, he does have a plan on how he's going to wash two bodies which are laying in filthy bedding.
"Yes, it should be a simple matter, then." And it will begin with dry cloths being used to wipe away the largest chunks of gore and fur and the like. Never fear, Mettaton, proper warm and moist towels will follow later, but dry is the best for the initial pass. And like with his fellow Unsundered, Elidibus is dutifully mindful that bodies should not be scrubbed like they were weapons or leather armor. Even the metal bits!
It will be evident early on that the Emissary has ulterior motives for this task besides Emet-Selch's well-being. He would not, even were he not under his fellow Ascian's watchful eyes, do anything construed as horrible to Mettaton during this inspection. But inspection it is underneath the body care; not just for hidden injuries but the puca as a whole. "Fascinating," he muses almost in rhetoric, though a glance at both Emet-Selch and Mettaton actually indicates that he might be making a remark that welcomes response. "The metal seems to have become genuine flesh." After the towel brushes clean most of the gore, the Ascian's fingers draw a line from metal to flesh and fur along one of the puca's forearms. A pity it's so clinical, right? "And this is how this star has affected you?"
Keen eyes are also noting other matters. The way the fur is patchy. Some with the wholly explainable existence of sores where the cwyld infection had been manifest but others... well bare, as if the fur had been torn out. Or fallen out? Hm. Elidibus's expression could be considered interesting to watch as it does show some signs of shifting. Little frowns. Tiny, quizzical moments. Not emotion per se, but a sign that he's focused on his observations.
For Emet-Selch, it might be an echo of memories long past. A younger Elidibus in his study, wholly absorbed into the study of some book or report or another to the point where he's lost track of time. A very very faint echo. There was so much more passion back then.
At some point, Elidibus will reach a place where there might be damage to metal components of the robot turned puca. Here he pauses, carefully studying it after wiping away the gunk and asking, "Do you feel pain from this damage?" But he looks for signs that there has been a breach which might cause the soon-to-come pass of proper water-soaked cloth to be detrimental. "...Will this need a spell of mending or healing, I wonder?"
But all of this has been build-up for the main event. Once the blankets have been pulled away from Mettaton's body. Once the full dry wipe has been completed and finally Emet-Selch has gotten his sheet back (if not by request, then by the way it was folded back by Elidibus when it was removed from Mettaton's body), the Emissary cleans his hands, soaks the first of many warm towels, and begins the process of proper bathing.
But the question that had been long left unasked is suddenly brought forth. "Tell me what circumstances led to your demise, Emet-Selch?"
♥
Date: 4 Mar 2021 05:07 (UTC)Mettaton truly fits being a rabbit. He likes to be touched, but only when he wants it.
So he hums, leaning back, permitting Elidibus the full of his body, even though he refuses to lose touch with Emet-Selch at his side. And he watches Elidibus with a piercing, golden stare, observant and interested, trying to fit his own curiosity together piece by piece. While he gives Elidibus a slow tilt of his head, Elidibus is clearly ogling his body for reasons not sensual, but of clinical interest. Oh well. Mettaton doesn't care either way: as far as he cares, interest is interest. He hums, slightly jutting out his hip salaciously in offering.
"Yes," is his simple reply. "Real flesh, that grows fur and bleeds. Before coming here, I looked quite different. Emet-Selch can testify to that."
Idly, Mettaton stretches his legs. Wiggles his toes. Stares at his entire legs, which are just... very, very different. Thicker, more muscular (?!??!?) thighs. Long, furry rabbit feet have even replaced the pink heels he once wore. Elidibus pauses around his waist, where Mettaton's sustained damage that has yet to be repaired—after all, the Coven's already written him off in the realm of care. It's not in their wheelhouse, machines. Mettaton gazes down at his injury, remembering all too well where it must have come from, but not how it came about.
And so he smiles softly, sadly, and remains quiet for a spell. But he follows up with a nod. "I do feel pain. I am c— alive, you know." Mettaton huffs as a cover-up. And seamlessly, he moves his hand to rub at the area metal's been rent, a steel blade against a steel body. He considers it fortunate that his body gave in first.
"Healing doesn't repair metal. That's for mechanics! Or... transmutation spells. Do you know any, Lidi-darling?"
And Mettaton smiles at Elidibus with a bright fondness, eagerness. But he wouldn't be disappointed one way or another. Emet-Selch's gotten good at transmutation: once he heals up, he knows his Bonded would be glad to help him. As for the name of endearment... Mettaton doesn't flinch at having used that, either. Elidibus is giving Mettaton a sponge bath. Mettaton has a lingering, misplaced memory where the Emissary's a consideration. This warrants a shortening of his name.
But as soon as the question is posed to Emet-Selch, Mettaton volunteers an answer with immediacy, his expression falling, eye wide, forthright and earnest.
"I attacked him." Attacked is a kind word. Mettaton swallows, only barely able to keep his expression from falling with restraint, keeping his face stiff. "I killed him."
no subject
Date: 4 Mar 2021 16:31 (UTC)Of course, he says nothing on it; in addition to investigating, Elidibus was cleaning up his Bonded, which was the desired result. And he leaves Mettaton to comment on the transformation his body had undergone, on arriving to this star. While every monster had their form altered, were made to grow fur, feathers, scales- or some combination thereof- on top of skin, it was perhaps a change most apparently on someone who hadn't had skin to begin with. But the star had made do, the star had adapted, provided a network of something to feed the growth of fur, of living tissue.
The inevitable shortening of Elidibus' title- it gets a flicker of something like amusement. While he certainly didn't like his own title being turned into less of a mouthful, it was fine when it happened to someone else. He could tell Mettaton meant it affectionately, anyway (Even if he wondered a bit as to why; it wasn't as though the puca knew the other Ascian very well at all, he thought. But Mettaton was quick to take to people... he assumed it was something like that. Neither of them had yet worked out what memories had been displaced, what memories had been added.).
But that amusement dies at Elidibus' question- one that Emet-Selch had known would be coming, but which he was no more eager to address than he'd been to start. It distracts from the chill, or from anything other than this.
Mettaton's response to it- honest and direct as it was- has Emet-Selch sigh, low and soft. Well, there wasn't any other way to put it, really, and it was perhaps better to be blunt (not that Emet-Selch truly considered it an attack... to him, that implied something more aggressive than what had occurred, a deliberation towards harm, rather than hunger and instinct). That the pair of them remained together, with no discomfort apparent save for that of the physical persuasion- that they were, indeed, reluctant to part from one another at all- at least seemed to indicate that whatever had occurred wasn't something that had damaged their attachment to one another.
"We were both infected with the cwyld," is what he chooses to add, evenly, glancing from Elidibus' face to his hands upon the robot's body. To the body itself, and the damage to it. "With Mettaton also influenced by that cult. And in his madness, this was the result."
no subject
Date: 19 Mar 2021 21:04 (UTC)For now.
"Of course. Yet it does not simply overlay the metal." Keen eyes wander over the patchy fur and tender skin. "It seems to be no fusion either. I would liken it to a transmutation akin to alchemical. Have you ever witnessed its like, Emet-Selch?" Indeed even while the Puca refers to his bed-ridden fiancee as a reference to how much the transformation has impacted the robot, Elidibus's gaze shifts to regard his contemporary. The physical regard is brief since there is work to be continued. But the Emissary is obviously interested in what Emet-Selch might have to say on the matter.
'I am c-- alive...' The subtle hesitation warrants a speculative look. Huffing will not help cover that slip of the tongue from a man who deals frequently with words. He might have considered asking later and yet... Lidi-darling happens. Elidibus narrows his eyes slightly. "My title is Elidibus. I have familiarized myself with mending spellwork. So if this is merely cosmetic and specifically will not cause you pain you cannot endure, I can deal with it this day." The area is given a more detailed examination to see if it is truly cosmetic or if there would be a more complex problem with... well, wiring or such underneath. "What were you about to say, aside from 'alive'?" he adds in an offhand way. As for Metatton's sudden sense of finding the Ascian endearing, it is met with a curious look of inquiry toward Emet-Selch again, as if to say 'is this normal for the puca?'.
Ah yes, and should the metal fatigue be solely aesthetics, spellwork will be wrought with surprisingly random expertise to bring it back to its original shape. [No small thanks to Tataru Taru's teachings and the regular cloth-burning machinations of a certain cherry Bomb.]
Now, there might not be any sensuality involved, but Elidibus does appear to be showing signs of being capable of handling the matter of grooming. His tools are limited to towels, water, and fingers right now and the patient's fur isn't in the best condition, but there is a sense of technique behind the way he checks for what's ready to fall out or is careful about matting. There may be little fur to detangle in the front, but upon the puca's backside, where he could not so easily reach in his madness?
Elidibus is wise. When he seeks to turn Mettaton on his side, it is so the robot faces Emet-Selch. "It seems it would be best to cut these away and allow the fur to regrow." No doubt for all the care the Emissary does show, there's at least a slight tugging sensation at the matting for the puca to feel and know what's being talked about. Now it is ascertained this is indeed flesh and blood and real growing fur that need not be replaced by artificial means, the Ascian feels confident in saying that. "If you will permit me." He has a very sharp knife somewhere on his person for utility and other matters. It will surely do the trick and be brought out and set to the task if permission is given.
Which, given this occurs not long before his question is posed regarding what occurred to put them in this state and Mettaton's subsequent answer, may add an interesting element to the distinct stillness which falls upon the mortal shell. An observer unfamiliar with Elidibus might suspect an odd lack of shock or emotional reaction, given the tight rein of control the Emissary has over his emotional state. But his contemporary will know the signs. And there is a shocking amount of what could only be termed anger being slowly brought under control (a tightening grip, incited emotion lingering in the Ascian's gaze) before Elidibus turns to reasoned thought and calms himself. And returns to the task, just as gently as before.
It would not have mattered before, what happened to Emet-Selch's mortal shell. The body dies, find another body. But he is armed with the knowledge of his contemporary's message. And... knowing what it is like to truly lose both of his fellow Unsundered. It is no wonder he was for a moment truly outraged.
"A pity I was unaware of the Circle's grasp upon your companion, Emet-Selch." He seems somewhat... vexed. In truth, it does irritate him to discover his limited ability toward investigating the cult had resulted in missing a matter of such key importance as Mettaton's infection and the subsequent attack upon his Bonded. Elidibus shifts his attention between the two subjects of interest. "Were you a victim of their kidnappers and experiments, or one of those who were ensorcelled to believe their righteous cause?"
Yes, the Emissary is quite familiar with the details of what happened. People listening might expect that since this is the aftermath, it is only a given the details are out. That is far from the case, though it would suit Elidibus if they continue to presume that.
Inspection, cleaning- both dry and wet- and structural repairs where applicable are finished upon the puca. He had not missed the damage to Mettaton's right ear either. A fully clean cloth and water had been used to gently soak the crusted scab away to reveal the wound underneath. A very minor form of healing spell murmured; something which would stop the bleeding and attend to infection though not completely close it. That is why further antiseptic and bandages are applied. And far be it that Elidibus would simply let him lie in the dirty sheets again. "I will need to move you to a seat until I finish with Emet-Selch and tend to the bedding." Do not worry. Seats in the room are facing and close to the bed. But it will require separation if only by a few inches. And no doubt, it will require being carried by Elidibus. Whose expression is... unreadable, if someone were trying to discern whether this is a practical matter or some form of petty vengeance. Probably the former.
"And this is what you refer to by experiencing Cwyld infection first-hand, I presume?" It is clear, for now at least, the Ascian is going to skirt around the core of the matter. The real issue which probably brought him here. The matter of the depth of their ties to their mortal body in this world. Well, it's not a matter you discuss amongst outsiders, no matter what the possibility is that Mettaton knows the laissez-faire attitude Ascians tend to have toward their mortal host.
no subject
Date: 20 Mar 2021 05:53 (UTC)Being cleaned of dried blood will be a vast improvement, no doubt.
At all of Elidibus' observations of his body, he can only hum. Alchemical? Mettaton doesn't quite understand what that means, and he watches his body wherever Elidibus looks, stretching his legs and leaning this way and that to show himself off. Mettaton smiles.
"My condition is a thing of magic, isn't it? Yes. You're not alone in thinking so, darling."
This is an unhelpful comment of self-preening. He also nods along: yes, his title is Elidibus, he knows this well. But Elidibus is just too many syllables. His gaze is challenging, daring the Ascian to make him change his already-settled course. If he wants to hyphenate a -darling onto his name, Lidi it is. But then... he asks for clarification on his stumble in words. C- alive. Mettaton glances to the far side of the room. Silence falls between the three, even though Mettaton smiles.
"Hmm... Who knows? Some synonym, maybe! Ha-ha." It's decidedly unimportant. Moving along. Mettaton's lips are pursed tight.
Good thing Elidibus suggests he turn, and Mettaton has no qualms with this, nor the suggestion of trimming down his fur. He smiles, sultry and inviting as he caresses his hip and tilts to the best of his ability. (Weak as he is, he might need a bit of help turning the rest of the way.)
"Oh my." He bats his lashes. "You're so charmingly forward. You're so lucky, given this chance to touch my supple... skin! Yes, do what you must." Mettaton shrugs with the arm furthest from Emet-Selch. "My fur grows back astonishingly quick."
Every single full moon, he's bound to grow some of it back. It would be no time at all before he recovered fur, of all things. The Puca labors to lay on his side, to face Emet-Selch, careless about the impression of a knife or anything of that ilk. If Elidibus has a knife, he trusts him to use it kindly. He smiles Emet-Selch before letting his dark-painted lids flutter shut, making himself comfortable while he's further cleaned and rid of matting and blood. Elidibus is free to work, and even freer to find unease in their deaths, pertaining to their woefully mortal condition.
Facing Emet-Selch as he is, his smile softens, a bit sorrowful. It was an overall pity that nobody knew of his condition... and that they were neither the types to rely on anybody outside of themselves. Could their deaths have been prevented? Emet-Selch had already tried to coerce Mettaton into being seen for the Cwyld, he knew, but the Puca was a stubborn sort. Mind controlled as he was, he saw even less reason to be cured of the Cwyld, and nothing Emet-Selch could argue would make him feel any more inclined to deal with it. He doubted very much that anybody could have swayed him. He'd have to be taken there by force, and that was a very difficult feat to perform for the flighty, feisty Puca. He'd make a right show of his staunch denial.
Elidibus prompts Mettaton more directly, and he's dragged from his own thoughts. His eye doesn't open.
"The latter," Mettaton comments simply, unembellished. Maybe even a bit tired, though his voice is smooth and pleasant. He even wears a smile by default. "I'd been attending meetings for weeks. They revered my condition."
And that was enough for him.
Elidibus touches Mettaton's ear. For the first time, the Puca flinches, every joint in his body stiffening as the muscle in his thighs tense. His eye flies open in wide shock at the sensation, and a memory slips in, the memory of gaining this wound at all. It... doesn't disturb as much as it ought to, perhaps. Maybe it was because he never saw it or registered it all that much in the moment. But he remains still and compliant as Elidibus heals and treats the wound, reminding himself that this would help to repair what could be... though he had yet to see what his ear looked like at all. It was a pulsing pain enough to make him wince if he thought about it too hard, but he knows it's there because he and Emet-Selch were starving.
He only realizes seconds delayed that Elidibus wants him to move, and Mettaton reflexively growls low, curling closer to Emet-Selch. His ears would move, but they can't. But his rationale occurs to him second. To finish with Emet-Selch, then to make their bed... The thought of having a clean, niceer bed was appealing. Mettaton gazes gently upon Emet-Selch, loosening up his posture and inquiring without words how his fiancé feels about them splitting for any duration of time or length of space.
All Mettaton says at Elidibus' request is: "Hmm..."
no subject
Date: 27 Mar 2021 16:15 (UTC)Inconveniences of monsterhood aside, Emet-Selch was glad that his companion was a monster- as he doubted they would've ever Bonded otherwise, the puca having been looking for a witch of particular requirements.
Elidibus' look of questioning towards him, as though inquiring whether this was typical Mettaton behavior- is met with a faint shrug against the bed, and a fainter quirk of lips. None of it seemed to strike him as at all unusual, and if the puca had taken it upon himself to view the other Ascian favorably, Emet-Selch wasn't about to dissuade him of it. His life in general would be much easier if his compatriots and his Bonded could all get on with one another, though he'd settle for anything greater than active animosity.
(If only they were all the Amaurotines they had once been. Then there would have been no question of them all getting along at least reasonably well. Amaurotine disapproval or dislike had never carried with it the risk of violence, at least.)
Leaving the pair of them to decide on the shearing of what was left of Mettaton's fur to facilitate cleaning, the Emissary's response to the culprit of their fatalities arrived. The stillness on Elidibus' part was telling, and while Emet-Selch doesn't tense at it, he watches closely at this version of his compatriot's anger. So controlled, so... unexpressed, but there. That there was an emotion at all to be felt- he supposed it could be taken as a good sign, though it had been a long time since he'd found any measure of hope in those flickers of sentiment. But that a version of fury was one of those things that yet survived in its way, rather than anything positive or kind... it didn't surprise him, but it did depress him that touch more.
Not that there's any sign of this, just an idle staring as he looks between his fiancé and his fellow unsundered. Calmed anger aside, Emet-Selch didn't think Elidibus would deliberately harm the puca, especially not right in front of him. That would require too much passion, and not enough rationality; it wasn't as though Mettaton had intended to kill him, and any attempt at vengeance would accomplish less than nothing.
Letting Mettaton explain that the complication had been mind control on the puca's part, rather than captivity, he sighs at the reminder of the experience of infection. Even though they'd both died technically of something other than that (hence the ability to have been revived), it wasn't as though the cwyld hadn't played its part. Been responsible, in its way, for this specific pattern of injury.
"You could say that, I was... well infected by the end of it. It felt pointless to have it cured before seeing my Bonded cured with me."
He would've just been reinfected. By the time it had progressed enough to warrant seeing it fixed anyway, Mettaton had been housebound, and the Ascian refused to leave him. And then Elidibus touches Mettaton's bitten ear, causing a sharp, clearly pained reaction, a flinch that has Emet-Selch tensing with the puca, as though to defend him somehow from it. Expression turning slightly drawn, he maintains a focus on his fiancé's face, even though he'd rather look aside. He didn't... entirely remember biting him. Not that hard, not enough to have actually removed a piece from his ear.
It's a dwelling interrupted by the sound of growling, Emet-Selch also only belatedly realizing that Elidibus had suggested that they part (briefly), for the sake of a cleaner bed, and his own response is to nudge closer, protectively, defensively. Considering the effort it had taken to get the two of them placed together and concurrently alive, it was reflex to want to see that maintained. But the rationale arrives some seconds later, along with the imagining of being able to rest on a clean bed, having also been cleaned off... it did appeal. They both valued that sort of thing, and it would probably help with feeling like things were getting back to some sort of normal, which didn't involve lying in a nest of old blood.
"...You could still reach me, couldn't you?" he asks Mettaton first, tone quiet. If he could keep his hand, perhaps... he would tolerate it.
no subject
Date: 30 Mar 2021 05:11 (UTC)Much follows. Conversation, anger, careful grooming, tending of the bitten ear, and mending of the dented metal. A silent exchange of curiosity and bemusement over the puca's mannerisms. But at least this all kept the Emissary from pursuing 'Lidi-darling' overly long. Mettaton will have plenty of chances to try to get him to give up on correcting the nickname in the future.
But while the Emissary finishes removing the mats, Emet-Selch offers insight into those terrible final moments between himself and Mettaton. The puca will feel Elidibus's actions slow, though not stop. The Ascian is giving his fellow Unsundered a look that seems utterly unfathomable in its intent to absorb every nuance that accompanies what was just heard. There was nothing if not madness in the recitation of events or so it seemed. But now was not the time to raise outburst anymore than it would be time to give in to his anger over the demise experienced by his fellow Convocation member.
Elidibus has recovered enough of his usual manner by the time Mettaton growls at the suggestion of being removed from the bed and hardly misses how Emet-Selch echos, in his own way, the sentiment against being parted. And while it is not as though he had suggested that they move to separate rooms, the Emissary does content himself to a certain resigned sigh at this behavior and steps away while the two Bonded discuss the matter.
Not to leave the room but to rearrange the small amount of furnishings in the room. Specifically where a side table by the bed on Emet-Selch's side can be moved away and the chair he intended to set Mettaton- a sturdy, functional seat- is very pointedly placed with one side flush against the bed and backrest against the wall. There would be a means for the puca to reach his fiance and a way for Elidibus to work on bathing and changing bandages.
A little extra time is given as he leaves the room to fetch a second chair. This one, on return, is placed next to the first. Because Emet-Selch will need a place to go when the bedding is cleaned. And Elidibus is going to be drawing the line at catering to their reluctance to part so far as to nest one on top of the other.
no subject
Date: 30 Mar 2021 06:57 (UTC)A cocky smirk. That's just how it is, being a robot.
On a more practical level, the Puca watches Elidibus get to work on arranging the room; for that, silence washes over him. In the meanwhile, he sinks closer against Emet-Selch's shoulder, protective and nearly guarding his Witch—from what, he wouldn't be able to say. It's instinctive, really.
Following the Emissary as he wanders about the room, Mettaton takes takes stock of his own body even as he's curled close to his Bonded. A body formerly coated in dried blood and matted fur, Mettaton's ears... barely twitch at the sight, a direction toward improvement finally attained. He smiles, too busy staring at himself to notice the second chair.
"That close, I could hold you." Mettaton giggles, leaning into peck Emet-Selch's cheek. To Elidibus: "How sweet of you, darling."
With a chair at Emet-Selch's side, Mettaton determinedly takes his lover's hand as though for stability. But Elidibus arrives to whisk him off for his assigned seat, and Mettaton's not about to deny the assistance to his feet. It's only with a small noise of complaint in his throat that he's made to loosen his grip on Emet-Selch's hand, though Mettaton finally rises, guided by Elidibus' help.
Given that Elidibus is fully capable of supporting the heavy robot, Mettaton sighs, batting his eye at him. "Oooh, so you can hold small hares and voluptuous robots... Most people can't handle this body."
A grin. Mettaton will cooperate, either guided or lifted to his bedside chair—where he'll settle and immediately take Emet-Selch's hand with an affected sigh of relief.
no subject
Date: 6 Apr 2021 04:50 (UTC)Not that it mattered, except as an abstract consideration. There was nothing they could do for it but live with it, made to adapt.
Grooming continues, as does the Emissary's form of disapproval at hearing anything there was to say about this recent demise. That there had been madness involved in how their deaths had unfolded... Emet-Selch would have a hard time denying it. But he offers no more in the way of either explanation or defense, only gazing quietly, tiredly back.
But finally there came a time of movement, something practical to think on rather than everything that had led to this particular situation. And so long as he remained in contact with his Bonded, his needs were- if not satisfied, indulged enough that there was little quarrel that Emet-Selch could make. It was perhaps a weakness to show this requirement at all, but- it was met and overmatched by the Ascian's lack of self-consciousness, and a perhaps overly developed amount of confidence; if Emet-Selch wanted to remain in contact with his fiancé, then he was not going to be shy about demonstrating it.
Apart from keeping an eye on proceedings, there's no protest on his part when Mettaton is collected off his side of the bed, and led to his duly-assigned seating. There's not quite a robot-shaped outline of flecks of blood and loose hairs where he had just been... but it's obvious that something unclean had been resting in that spot. Not that the Ascian's spot is likely to be much better, considering how closely they'd been resting.
Hand retaken, Emet-Selch squeezes it, if not terribly hard. "If only you were able to shift to your hare form, all this tiresome maneuvering would've been avoidable." A rabbit could've tucked himself into any number of places around him or on him, and just by virtue of being smaller, any mess he left behind would've been automatically less. But the magic for any of that had hardly had a chance to return; even their physical bodies could barely move as it was.
Emet-Selch couldn't say he looked forward to being shuffled off the bed himself- but then, he didn't particularly look forward to much of anything. Clean selves and clean sheets though... he supposed there was that. He would hold onto that most modest of hopes for the future.
no subject
Date: 8 Apr 2021 19:53 (UTC)"If you will indulge me for a moment between the trading of wit with Emet-Selch." Utterly. Deadpan. "Are you capable of self-diagnostics, Mettaton? I would be interested in any information you may be able to provide now of your rate of recovery." To be honest, Elidibus is a little interested personally given the hybrid combination of machine and mammal, but he's probably asking primarily for the practical aspects such an answer might resolve.
As a note yes, Elidibus would encourage any effort to walk whether supported or not. But he will for the sake of expediency bodily lift Mettaton in a princess carry if he had pretended any overcomplicated struggle. So perhaps the best of both worlds there, being both supported and carried by a dashing, heroic figure. Pity the Emissary's face shows how plainly disinterested he is in the puca inclusive of largely ignoring the weighted words about how well he handles the robot's body. But it should, perhaps, amuse the bedridden ascian.
Or more like distract. The next bit of time would probably be awkward for both Unsundered. It was one thing when Emet-Selch was unconscious and Mettaton sleeping but quite another matter all told when sensibilities are conscious for both to see and one to bear witness. What will be needed is prepared from the supplies. Fresh water, plenty of towels, bandages, and dressings. It will certainly be a process both in bathing and supporting Emet-Selch when held upright. And of course the whole matter of doing this while stripped of sheets and any fabric that may have been used to clothe the injured form before Mettaton had awakened and effectively shut down the healthcare.
Elidibus has steeled himself. This is just a host body to his mental bias. Mostly. He has firmly shut off the portion of the mind that wonders whether this is more due to the facts brought to light. He presses on because he must. But he's mostly silent and laser-focused on the task.
One might wonder where any change of bedding is come to think. Or how he plans to do that final step. Patience though, that's forthcoming after this awkward moment.
no subject
Date: 9 Apr 2021 08:35 (UTC)"I hadn't even thought about shapeshifting," admits the Puca, gazing ceilingward. And though the thought of becoming a compact hare is now there for the consideration, he dismisses it just as easily. "Oh well. Elidibus here is perfectly capable of carrying me! There are no problems!"
He even princess carried him. Mettaton is pleased. He squeezes Emet-Selch's fingers, smiling smugly as though they didn't just spend the last few days dying and whatnot. Mettaton has a knack for glossing over the worst of issues in this way.
Mettaton stares at Elidibus wide-eyed as soon as the other Witch makes his request. Self-diagnostics... For some reason, he hadn't thought such words would escape Elidibus' mouth. It's always hard to gauge how technologically savvy someone is, and the phrasing suggests that he needs to play his role more carefully. It's perhaps a boon to the Puca that his ears are so damaged that they can't emote, for they might have risen in shock then folded back in unease if they could. But they do nothing, and his face is only wide and blank.
A canvas which he uses, morphing surprise into utter emptiness. Incredulity. Then, Mettaton puts forth his best robot impression, gaze vacant and voice tinny and monotonous.
"3... 2... 1... Self-diagnostics: complete." His brow knits, drawing his expression into one of ire that he points at Elidibus. Monotonous quality is lost as he continues, though it's still spoken through a synthesized, robotic filter. "My analysis suggests that your eyes are functioning just fine, sweetheart!! You can see my damage clear as day! Use them!!!"
He clutches onto Emet-Selch's hand with both of his own now, giving Elidibus a smile sharp as knives. His voice returns to normal: abnormally silky and very emphatic as ever, riding the waves of inflection to draw attention to his every word. And though he speaks sweetly, the challenging darkness of his expression doesn't depart, as though affronted that he'd ask him to perform (gasp) a robotic function.
"Or you can ask me how I'm doing. To which I'll reply: splendidly, now that I'm finally clean! Though I have a few repairs to endure, from both my creator and Emmy... I'll be bouncing back before you can count the letters of my name." Which, as anyone true fan would know, is as long as he would like for it to be. "Thank you for the concern, Lidi-darling."
no subject
Date: 10 Apr 2021 11:16 (UTC)The request for the robot to demonstrate a basic robot function- Emet-Selch could feel a bit of the puca's startle and unease through their recovering Bond, but he can't help but permit himself a brief, amused smile at how the ostensible machine chooses to respond. The offense at being asked to do something robotic... yes, this is about what he might have expected from him. He knew perfectly well Mettaton could do nothing of the sort. Even his battery life seemed to be something he only had a general sense of.
And technically, it did count as some sort of diagnostics check, only filtered through Mettaton's particular personality. Content with the solid grip on his hand, Emet-Selch glances back to Elidibus. "I told you he was alive. 'Tis more straightforward to treat with him as such."
Rather than treating the robot as a... robot.
Diversion as it all was, it only briefly distracted from the inevitability of more Washing. There was a bit of steeling to be done between them, he knew. Emet-Selch wasn't shy, nor modest, but he was ultimately more of a private sort, and what was more personal than one's body? Except, of course, this was just a host, no different than a bit of clothing, something fleshy to wrap around the soul. Any body would be viewed that way after so many years without, an object that was his but not him. So in that regard, why did it matter? Even if this was a bit of fabric that could no longer be readily removed and replaced with a fresher piece.
It was both more and less awkward for Elidibus to be the one performing the task. It wasn't as though Emet-Selch weren't already fully aware as to how many others had seen his body. It felt like half the hospital had been involved in his necromancy and healing, and subsequent efforts to both reach Mettaton and ensure that he was likewise resurrected. And why would that bother him, or even so much as register? Any thoughts those people might have (especially considering the amount of older, non-fatality-related markings his body possessed) never occurred to him, because he still didn't see the average mortal as much of a person. If pressed, he might hesitantly agree that they were alive, but it would also be clear that he didn't think of them that way.
Elidibus, though, was one of the very few of the city that he definitely considered as completely alive, a whole entire person (no matter the state of his memories) and someone who he knew besides. That part especially just made it awkward.
But his look, when gazing back upon the other Ascian, is something resolute (and with a touch- only a touch, as it was about all he could scrape up- of performative exasperation, as though this were all just a dreadful hassle, but one which he would stoically be made to endure). He was ready to be washed, handled, observed, and otherwise banded around in a too-small room while his fiancé also observed.
no subject
Date: 11 Apr 2021 04:08 (UTC)And Emet-Selch. Did it occur that your turn to be princess carried by Elidibus will be coming soon?
But first, the distress which a simple query created. Elidibus would need to be blind not to discern the unease despite the lack of real body language in the form of the puca's ears. The Emissary looks between both Mettaton and Emet-Selch. He's listening to the explanation and ire, as well as the defense his fellow Ascian raises for his Bonded's sake.
In response, Elidibus closes his eyes momentarily and his expression is very, very close to an exasperated equivalent of 'Zodiark give me strength.'
He will continue taking care of Emet-Selch because there is a lot to do between washing, cleaning wounds, and rebandaging. But very patiently he offers an explanation. "Yes, I am aware you are a creature with a soul. I trust Emet-Selch's judgment in this and, as it has been pointed out you would hardly be capable of Bonding were it not true. Regardless I apologize for any perceived insult." A glance is given Mettaton's way. Sincerity could be construed if only by the fact the apology is being honestly offered.
"My intention was not to treat you as an object but to determine whether you are capable of accurately calculating the amount of time it will take you to recover from your weakened state and any remaining injury. Given you have both recently returned from the dead and given Emet-Selch's own condition, I would not leave you both in the sole care of one another."
Briefly, he pauses his ministrations of the bedridden Ascian's form and turns to focus fully upon the puca with narrowed eyes. "And before you growl at me again, I would remind you that your desire to protect Emet-Selch and the collective capacity of judgment from both of you while one or the other are compromised has led you to the current state I found you in upon arrival." He glances back at Emet-Selch to include him in this statement. Then he turns around fully to go back to the washing task.
"I have no particular desire to interrupt your lifestyle but given these developments, I will be at least stopping by from time to time in the near future. How little or much that is will depend on how much thought you put into the words I have just spoken. I would like to think this latest incident has been a learning experience for the two of you."
There is a lot to take from Elidibus's small lecture. For one, pieces of it were directed at one, the other, or both depending on what he was addressing. And another, he was sincere when he mentioned he does not consider Mettaton an.... inanimate thing. But like Emet-Selch, how much of a soul the puca has is up for debate. The important part to take from this is as he did trust his brethren when it came to the claim that Mettaton was... well 'alive'.
Another matter suspect is how Elidibus is upset. Not the briefly frustrated moment of asking for patience from his God but honest distress and concern. For all his lecture had a great deal of sense involved it was also made in earnest. In the frame of mind both seem to have recently experienced and- to some extent- are still in, they seem to be their own worst enemies. And he's balking at the idea of leaving them both to their own devices until they're both fully healed.
This probably isn't doing much for the awkwardness of Ascian intimacy but at least both seem capable of communicating a certain level of resolute determination to the other. The Emissary's bedside manner has improved greatly ever since the last time he treated an injury on Emet-Selch but he seems to be going the extra mile to be gentle. So perhaps this too is a way to determine just how concerned Elidibus truly is under that calm mask.
After all, there was only a touch of magic used on Mettaton. Probably one of the largest pieces Elidibus has reserved for Emet-Selch, though eminently practical, is a flat barrier between the Ascian and the bed. It serves a dual purpose of keeping the body separated from gore-soaked sheets but with minor manipulation can aid in supporting the injured during upright moments. For Emet-Selch there's no suggestion to cut mats out of the tangled hair. Muttered words see it untangled and clean with a burst of magic. Certain bandaged cuts are left uncovered- the ones that are scratches and smaller bites - if these are there - but all of those will be given a blanket spell much as applied to Mettaton's ear. Some might heal completely others only slightly and those will have their gauze replaced. The most serious are treated with a strict regimen of both water and anti-septic and are certainly beyond the Witch's current abilities. But he does what he can. At least he's already aware of what caused the harm.
Once all is said and done on caring for Emet-Selch's body, there is a brief look of inquiry as if to give the Ascian a chance to determine how he'll be carried to the chair while Elidibus takes care of the bed. Or maybe it's an indirect apology since the Emissary will likely insist on doing so.
Why he had not simply used magic for everything involving the cleaning of bedding and person- because as he is about to prove he somewhere gained spellwork and expertise in such daily lifestyle magic- will become clear soon enough. His hand gesture is familiar enough. A hand and fingers outstretched. Though he still requires words; ones which spill out of his mouth in an energy-infused description of the task at hand. It could be likened a little to a program of sorts but to listen to it is to develop an accurate picture of the task performed. For his magic now is as though it sought to establish understanding between a perfect mental picture and the desire for the bedding to be cleansed of the contaminants down to the very bedframe.
It is a pity this world twists all spoken languages to sound like its common native tongue. In Elidibus's heart and mind, he uses the ancient language. Though effective as the gore disappears as though it were never there, there is still something lost in the recital.
And for magic, it seems to be nearing his limits. It is the latter half of the month and the new moon is long past. It's not as if he had expected to do this much today and his technique? Well, it's hardly the most efficient of things after a bare three months of learning. But it is done and at least he hasn't collapsed from the effort. Also, the room is clean, sans the pile of stained towels used to clean both Mettaton and Emet-Selch.
With any luck, they'll have saved their critique- both for his spellcasting and his lecture- until he had reached the end. But he can probably handle it even if neither do.
no subject
Date: 14 Apr 2021 03:51 (UTC)At this, he flutters his lashes. He must be Cared For to recover. Just, lovingly and constantly tended to and served... Mettaton smiles sweetly.
Mettaton was never deeply insulted. If anything, he was only behaving snappishly because he had something to hide. There was no duration of time it'd require to recover entirely. As for his battery... He'd been sleeping well enough so as to reduce the possibility of unpredictable power-offs. Because it's true: Mettaton has absolutely no way of handling diagnostics. He could tap into some features of his body, sure, but he was no better than a person piloting around a machine, blindly groping around for dysfunctional parts and using his best guesses to diagnose his issues.
But Elidibus continues, and Mettaton grows momentarily bashful, glancing away. He doesn't mean to growl... He even knows that Elidibus and doctors alike are often tending to Emet-Selch's well-being, not hurting him. But the very moment a shock of pain makes its way through Emet-Selch, the Puca's on the defense, and it's nothing short of an instantaneous reaction that requires higher thought to soothe. It's a quality he's gained as a Monster, he's sure. There was no other explanation.
There's more to digest, though Mettaton's brow begins to knit. This wouldn't be the first time during his stay where he is advised that there's something questionable about his... lifestyle. Or that he and Emet-Selch had a lesson to learn from all of this, but the Puca has a hard time figuring out what that lesson's supposed to be. To express his frustration with this notion, he unconsciously stomps the ground with a furry rabbit foot. It's not as strong as a full kick would be, so its not anything worth terrible concern.
Yet he considers what he's said, trying to find meaning. Elidibus works on helping Emet-Selch, and Mettaton watches patiently. And despite the advice to do anything other than growl... Any time, if at all, Emet-Selch experienced pain, even incidentally—the Puca's upper lip would stiffen, and he would tilt back his chin, stifling his defensiveness. Even though their Bond was weaker than before, it was returning to its full strength with speed. He could see it in his Bondmate's stiffened posture besides, and this was disturbing to him at his core.
But rationally speaking, he knows it's all required. There would be no clean recovery without a bit of pain and discomfort for everyone, including Emet-Selch, no matter how much he wished to protect him from it.
The next time Mettaton's given even a moment where Emet-Selch's not experiencing any shocks of pain, he heaves a sigh. And on his cheery voice, past a mellow smile, he glances away.
"I'm afraid I don't know where you think we've erred," Mettaton responds simply. "I was mind controlled. We were sick. We tried to recover... And unfortunately, oh my! My condition took a turn for the worst! The rest is... history."
There was a personal issue in there. The fears of being in love in a place that encourage ephemeral visitors, made manifest. But Mettaton thought this something they could work on between each other. While he speaks, Mettaton watches as Elidibus cleanses the bed in something that resembles transmutative magic... but there were many disciplines that could achieve such a result. Perhaps this was even considered a general pursuit. He'd smile and clap at it, but he's busy reflecting over their deaths, gazing off into the air with his head tilted vaguely down, focusing on nothing. He revisits the memories he could barely remember of their deaths, anyway. It was all so dark, and he felt the only thing he could recall with any clarity was the excruciating sense of loneliness, and the sight of Emet-Selch staring at him, unseeing. It would still his heart, if he had one.