Pathetic, Emet-Selch thinks to himself, as he tries to pry her memory from G’raha Tia’s desperate hands, ever the troublesome shield even when she’s a half-turned obscenity. His hands grip mottled white and red hair, the curr’s teeth clenched and ready for the blow that is to come. “You are what I hate most about your kind’s existence.”

Emet-selch feels the venom leave his mouth and thinks nothing of it, and yet his hands pause for an instant as something deep within his aether recoils. He flings the Miqo’te’s head to the side, their bound body unable to do anything but clang against the ground helplessly, the sound of crystal on marble barely disguising his cry.

“In your stubbornness you refuse to see truth, you worship and deify the ember while remaining oblivious to the flame!” He paces, a habit he gained while whittling away the hours, unable to let his spoken body atrophy lest he be forced to solve yet another problem.

Behind him, the Exarch stirs, his form struggling to upright itself.

His mind drifts to the Warrior’s breathless visage, brought to her knees under an amount of Light that even an Ancient child would have found trivial. It was evidence and punishment all at once, an ignoble death for one who had made it their sole goal to deny him and his brethren their birthright. To flaunt their scrap of Azem’s brilliance as well had been the ultimate insult, as if their existence amounted to anything more than a thief in king’s raiment. He had tested her, in his boundless mercy, and had found the results no different than the hundred thousand of her he had tested before — wanting.

And still, he had stretched out his hand, at the very end. When it all becomes too much to bear, he had said, and he had meant it.

Hythlodaeus would laugh had he seen it, ever weak to our Azem, aren’t you. That wretched, brilliant woman— he would have to make her thank him, when they meet again.

“There is no flame, Emet-Selch.” The wretch speaks, and he couldn’t have stopped his eyes from rolling even had he wanted to. “You speak of a time long passed, these “embers” are all that remain!”

It is easy, to bring a boot to his shoulder, to press the heel against the bullet wound after the half-golem bastard fell on his back. It is easy to ignore the stifled screams of the aetherial sea at the sight, the flashes of humanity only helping him remember why he did it in the first place. Beneath him was every sundered blight upon this star, every ill-fated rat who had tried to run off with a piece of Amaurot’s, his people's, bounty. Their precious, brilliant aether, scattered and hoarded and left to be forgotten— He would not suffer the injustice. He dug his heel in, and found little flesh remaining, hardened Allagan crystal stealing yet another opportunity from him, the creature’s eyes burning blood red.

“Since you are so eager to speak on things you know nothing about—” He pushes down one final time, eliciting a wheeze, before he walks away once more, waving his hand as if to change the subject, a teacher calling for their students’ attention. “Allow me to elucidate.”

There is silence, and Emet-selch continues.

“Take your warrior, for example. You are driven to her as if a moth to an oil lamp. The moth bashes against the glass, until its tattered wings can carry it no more.” Emet-selch speaks as he manages to find himself something to drink nearby, his aging throat quick to dry when lecturing. “The moth falls to the ground, its back to the earth, its eyes able to witness the heavens one final time.”

Emet-selch pours the liquid into a glass and drinks, the water tasting of nothing but bitter longing. “In the sky is the moon, brilliant and blinding. How stupid must the moth feel in that moment, realizing it could not even sense it, realizing that even had it known, it would have never reached its height.”

“Now, imagine, you hold the moon in your hands, and she is brilliant— All the moth saw and more, filled with vibrant life unlike any upon the star she shines upon.” In his hands there is a glass, in his hands there is a crystal, golden and vibrant, awaiting.

“And then, she is gone, shattered into infinitesimal specks, each hoarded and exploited without a care.” In front of him is simulacra no longer, but reality, Hythlodeus laughing, and he— “Who do you think is worth saving— A pathetic, ignorant insect, or the moon?”

G’raha Tia smiles, all canines and teeth, and Emet-Selch knows he will hate whatever drudgery comes out of his bloodied lips. “Well, ‘tis not as if us Eorzeans have not suffered the loss of one of our moons—”

Emet-selch pours himself another glass, his lips dry and cracking under the strain of his snarl. He makes sure to place his most easy-going smile upon his face, when he turns to face the crumpled heap that was the Exarch.

“Perhaps the metaphor is lost on you.” He crouches before G’raha Tia, the glass held precariously in his hand. “As I said, you are the insect here. Drawn to her light, which, I should add, is by now surely wreaking havoc upon your shriveling shard.”

G’raha Tia snarls, and Emet-selch feels his smile become true.

“I have seen the moon, held it close, and I fear that should you cast your eyes upon even a fraction of its true form, you would fare much worse than a dying moth.” He feels his pitch lower, the rumble of his words becoming almost— wistful. “Your warrior upon the surface is the speck, and mine was—”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he has made a mistake.

He sees the child’s eyes widen, before the tell-tale furrow of his brow confirms to Emet-Selch that he has said too much, has given him a piece to a puzzle the scheming whelp had been putting together all this time.

He can tell that G’raha Tia spoke slowly, his voice quiet and furtive. “—Yours?”

Emet-Selch’s hands were on his throat before he could speak any further, his grip tight and unflinching, the shatter of glass coming a moment later.

“Now look at what you’ve done.” Emet-Selch can no longer smile, his eyes wide with a fury he had stoked for eons, across lifetimes inconceivable to mortals. ”You give an ilm and they take a yalm.”

“‘Tis your turn to enlighten me, Exarch.”