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He doesn't know why he said it. He hadn't been sure in the moment, either. But one big city is not the same as the next, at least the prophet doesn't think so. Ark, at first, had overwhelmed him, similar to Ostian true enough. Emil can still remember how it was to go there. Waiting, hoping for permission. Not being able to believe when it was given, rushing off before it could be taken back. He hardly noticed the corpses then. It's strange to think of now, rows and rows of bodies, burnt and crucified. But that was what was normal. It's not as if it's absent here. He just hadn't been so inquisitive back then- but that's an excuse. Not knowing something is wrong doesn't erase your part in it.
Through the residential district, up past the square, he spent all day in the market. Picking out supplies and running the errands he had been sent on, usually with a small group since none of them were trusted so much that they would be let out alone. He loved it. Even in the crowds, it was the only time alone he had. He can't stand shopping now. Having to haggle over every pennie exhausts him to the point that he's become rather self reliant instead and spending his time that way rather than drifting from stall to stall. He's always been able to brew a few things, he focuses most of his effort on that, since he's found potions to be sorely needed whenever stepping beyond the gates.
Ostian was where he first met Sirius. On one of those excursions there had been a good deal of coin left. They weren't supposed to, but the three of them decided that it would be prudent to stop for something to eat before walking back through the country. Emil had neither driven the decision nor fought it. In the tavern they broke apart. They had only a severely limited time, and the others were making good on it fast, moving like they knew exactly what to do. It was Emil's first time and to his dismay inexperience arrested him, tying him to the table they had taken. He was approached there by a man under similar circumstances, but he had splintered from his own group and the home he was expected back at. He didn't say that outright, not right away, but immediately Emil was amazed. He promised then and there to help him however he could, and a few months later that's how they wound up together, holed deep into the hull of a pirate ship.
Emil thinks of him now where he's huddled under the arcade of the Nomad. It's not raining, but soon enough it will. It always makes his headaches ease but the ache in his bones more severe, and he can feel the damp dark creeping in with a storm. It feels like every other day it comes down on the capital city. Dead. Gone, he's never to come back except in dreams, nightmares, and now in hallucinations. Hearing the words of those specters forcing their way out of his friend, warping his voice as some part of their game, smelling the salt and rot fill the room. He hadn't imagined it- he's glad they were able to establish that. But he can't move past it as easily as the others had.
He deserves it- to be more haunted than he is for a change. Because reflecting on it, now, he had moved on far too fast and far too easily. Sirius was his first real friend. Maybe the only one he'll have ever had. He's dead now, because of their plan. Because Emil had been greedy and wanted a new life. He had believed all Sirius' talk of taking steps forward and building something for themselves when he really should have known better. It was a comfort to learn the Gods are dead in some ways. At least no one and nothing cosmic nor empyreal can be blamed for taking him away. He's simply destroyed as the result of a shoddy plan as conceived by two hubristic and naïve fools. But it's blasphemous to fault the dead, and there had only been one other person stowed away behind those crates.
His arm burns now, down to his hand. A phantasm, but one that stings sharper than the very real throbbing that's beneath it. He takes his glove off and presses clammy fingers to where it hurts. Exactly where Jespar had grabbed him when he was handing over the pipe. Tracing up, he can feel where he was grabbed when he had then guided him over to the view shortly after. Emil wasn't able to see much more than some blurry, colorful smears, but he hadn't gotten the courage then to tell him, and Jespar seemed so calm and happy. He was never really anything else, not on the surface, but that night had felt different. The conversation had turned then, the mercenary trying once again to ask prodding questions that Emil still felt he had no right to answer. Going on about oneself is an exercise in vanity his father had always said. He much preferred hearing Jespar's stories anyway. In return he told him about the things that had happened within the borders of the country and how things were progressing within the Holy Order, but would struggle with anything further. Emil did the only thing that could have possibly been expected of him at that point. But gently trying to ease them back on track was how their talk swerved again.
Telling about Lysia was obviously uncomfortable for Jespar, Emil could be sensitive to that. From the sounds of it they had been very close, and he would guess that the mercenary admired her a great deal. He's not sure now what had come over him, what signs he had thought he was getting, but whatever it was led to a swift, while still polite, rebuttal. What banter they had before and during that same night was just that- banter. Jespar laid out that he wasn't looking for anything more and Emil understood. His face had been scalding against the night air and he had to look away, feeling ridiculous. Questioning himself, where he had gotten the audacity to even approach something like that. Obviously it had ended the only way it could, and all he could do was be thankful that Jespar was so understanding.
What would Sirius think? About him moving on so quickly, about Jespar as a whole, about the life he has without him. Because of him. Built off his dream that he had shared, that Emil never would have thought possible without him. Now he's here, enjoying what he should have been, scarcely bothering to feel bad about it. 'It's what they would want,' Emil remembers him saying once. 'Your mother and sister, they wouldn't want you to live the rest of your life here, in that house. No one would wish that on anyone they loved.' But how could they know? That's not what his father had decided in their place, and surely he had known them much better than Emil- than their killer.
More deaths that he was responsible for. That hasn't changed here with his new life. Every day, every mistake, it would have rippling effects. More and more as he was pulled deeper into the center, hailed as one of these heralds. He's a murderer, and it's a good thing he already was. Otherwise it might be impossible to cope with.
The rain has started and the burning in his arm has finally faded. Emil puts his glove back on and stands from where he was sat across the flagstone of the porch. Then he steps out, and he doesn't know where he's going, but he can't stay there any longer.
He hates the docks. Hates being so close to the ocean. He used to be scared as he eyesight began to fail when he was younger that he would fall from one of the piers. He had been taught how to swim very young but hardly every practiced, and he believed wholeheartedly that in the shock he would surely drown. Now he's lived it- or something undeniably similar. He's not afraid anymore, not exactly. But the hate is stronger than ever.
//
Standing at the edge he knows he must be looking out over it. He can feel the dull echoes of a current lapping up the stone walks, reaching for him. This is the ocean- a small part of it. The same one where his friend is, lost somewhere. Being picked apart, wholly abandoned. The thought comes to him to jump. To swim out, keep going until he can't come back except to wash up somewhere. Maybe he would find him; probably not. But he wouldn't be here, without him. He can hear it again: 'A nobody... Who let his only friend kick the bucket.' They were right about everything. So how could there be any point left in trying?
But it's there. Somewhere in him, obscured as it might have been for a moment. He still knows, as much as he resents it, that he doesn't really want to do that. He's happy here, and as selfish as it is, he wants to stay. Along that vein there's work to be done.
/
Tealor said he needed time to formulate their next steps despite constantly harping that time is precious, but there was the matter of the notes Emil had found at the lab in Yero's secret cavern outside of the temple to tend to. There wasn't much there to go on, but he's a keeper of the Holy Order now. He has resources and he needs to learn to use them. So why isn't he?
He doesn't know why he had come down here. There's even less of a clear reason for staying. He wanders, going up towards the harbor gates before turning back to the road to Duneville. He has to go slowly, feeling along all the walls since he doesn't know the area, becoming even more dependent on them as the sun begins to set over the bay. Like this he must have taken a wrong turn, he can hear the waves getting closer again, still beating against the stones of the city, licking along the hulls of the few trade ships that are docked, and then he runs headlong into some obstacle that's crept into his path.
“Watch it.” A voice growls above him, low and rough. Stunned, still reeling from his fall, it takes Emil embarrassingly long to realize what's happened.
“Ah, I apologize. I--” He begins as he tries to get up, grasping at the building next to him until he hears a sigh. Then there's hands closing around his arms and in that same instant he's dragged up to his feet. “I did not mean- uh...” He mutters as he's being placed back on the ground and released.
“You merchant types shouldn't be out down here so late. If you head into the city there's a tavern not far. Just follow the road north through the market.”
Emil is left gaping for several seconds before he finally manages to compose himself. “Oh, no. No I- well,” He bites his tongue harder than he means to, trying to think of the right words in Inal. “I live here. I just came... out. For a walk.” He tries his best to explain and makes it through, but still can't shake the feeling he's expressed it badly.
The demeanor of the man still standing in front of him shifts. Something in Emil's words acting as the catalyst as he turns his weight over from one leg to another and leans, blocking Emil's path more solidly. Settling into his spot. “That so, huh?” He drawls. The question is such a shock that Emil again has to pause. “'Just walking', here, in this part of the city.” Suddenly there's a hand on his neck and the prophet jumps, stepping away. But the hand doesn't retract, staying right where it had fallen instead. Tightening its hold- though not choking. Resting more on his trap that over his throat, though if he decided to, this man could easily wring his neck and grab him up with just the one hand. Emil can feel his heart racing. “Bet you're here slumming it. Wanted the full experience.” Before Emil can speak, already opening his mouth to even without having come up with the words, the man continues. “You're sure pretty enough.”
Emil stutters. Struggling to speak clearly in the way he's found he needs to with most of the people here. Slowly enunciating every syllable and emphasizing the vowels if he wants there to be any hope of not having to repeat himself. It's difficult too not to slip, especially when he's been surprised. But Enderal and her inhabitants have a very clear attitude when it comes to outsiders that he has to respect. They don't want to hear anything that isn't their country's language spoken within their borders, it's just difficult sometimes to abide. Jespar doesn't seem to mind. He shakes his head. “I do not understand.”
Emil can hear the man snicker as he slides his hand down to his arm. “Still fresh here, aren't you?”
“Fresh? I... suppose.” He stalls, then again shakes his head to himself. This is one of the friendlier encounters he's had, even after beginning it so badly. The hand where it lay on him is hot, he hadn't realized he was so cold. The bay breeze sticking to his skin and soaking his clothes alongside the weather. Why shouldn't he answer some questions? “Yes, I am new to the city.” He shivers as he leans closer. Far from pushing him away, the man pulls him in. Sliding his hand around to run over his back.
“Thought so. Guess you're just lucky, then.”
“Lucky?” It is lucky, he reasons, that this didn't turn into a fight. The man laughs.
“Come on, I got somewhere we can go.”
“Go?” Emil asks. Staying put as he's already being pulled by the arm, all other hold being released. “Go for why?”
“Why?” The pulling stops. “'cause I don't think what's gonna happen next is real appropriate out here in the open.” Then he steps closer again, closer than he's been since the initial run in. Emil can smell him like this. It's a strong odor of fish guts and salt water that makes him cringe, but the man doesn't seem to notice despite their proximity. “You do want to, don't you?”
Emil is really straining now. He's not completely new, in so that references and innuendos mostly don't fly entirely over his head. On the other hand if he's learned anything this past week it's that his instincts on these things can't be trusted. This man has shown himself to be forgiving so far, but it's impossible to grasp where the limit for that patience might be. Emil thinks. Then thinks some more. Finally, when it's proven evident that he's not going to get anywhere with this on his own, he's left with little alternative but to come out and ask. “Sex?” The man laughs again, but that's as much answer as he gets.
“I- I suppose,” Greedy. “or, I guess, I mean-” Selfish “that, um.” Some friend you are. “I- I see no reason not to.” With that halting agreement, it's done. His arm is being pulled once more, he's being led to some second location where they can be alone, and this time Emil lets himself be guided. Following through the darkening harbor until they reach their room for the night.
He has a beard- the man Emil has guessed must be a sailor. After all, the only buildings here that Emil knows about are the warehouse and some sailor's lodgings. It's longer... than Jespar's? Than Sirius'? He has no right to think of either of them at a time like this, he knows. Just the fleeting imagining is enough that he feels disgusted with himself all over again and he tries harder to wipe his mind clean. He doesn't have an accent like most of the sailors he's met, he thinks instead. Though everything else has been just a cursory brush.
Emil gasps as he's swept off his feet for the second- third, depending on what's counted- time since this began. He's working hard to stay in the moment, but it feels impossible. Swirling, unwanted memories wash over him in waves as he breathes purposefully to force himself to concentrate. In, out.
He's dragged down into a kiss and in response he reaches for the man's shoulders. He hasn't asked his name, he realizes, but then thinks it might not be proper. He's never done anything like this. Never done anything where it was his choice, his decision whether or not to. His head is spinning, busy trying to confuse this with every like situation from the past. But this feels different. “I want this.” He mutters. His breath now ragged as their foreheads press together. “You-- please.” He corrects rather clumsily, but again his partner for the evening proves exceptionally non particular, or maybe non perceptive.
He had chosen this. Once he had understood what was happening and realized he was right about it, the idea even excited him. It's certain that this is not actually what he had come to the docks for no matter what the sailor thinks, but it's a welcome diversion and he finds he's enjoying the closeness. He could also stop this at the drop of the hat. After all, this man has been nothing but cordial with him so far. Even if he were to refuse, to demand or to fight some how, Emil knows he is no longer powerless, and suddenly that's such a rush and an overwhelming excitement that he can't contain himself.
He pushes up, off of the shelf, barrel, whatever he's been placed down on. Grinding into the other man who returns the gesture in kind. “Put me down.” Emil pants after they separate again from another kiss. Then he waits to see if he's obliged. There's some grumbling, but ultimately the sailor concedes. Emil tips his head back. It's so dark where they've found themselves he can't even make out shapes or silhouettes. Again his imagination leaps to fill in the gaps and again he has to put it to a forceful stop which he just barely disguises by pressing his face into the man's chest. He's very touchy. Gentle, too; and it's like nothing Emil has ever had before. His mother used to hold him, sitting together in bed while she would tell him stories until he was ready to settle down, but he can't remember that. Not beyond the vague understanding that it had happened at some point a long, long time ago.
There's a hand in his hair, another combing across his back. Emil nudges into his chest before slowly dropping to his knees. He feels fairly confident that he can pull this off. At least there will be no memories to interrupt like this. He's never been made to do anything this way, but that's exactly why he wants to try it now as opposed to whatever else they might do together here. This is his decision, his choice to make. He closes his eyes again as he shudders, then reaches up to paw at what's now eye level. He tips his head back again, hoping that the man will somehow anticipate what it is he's getting at from there and not leave him to grope around in the dark like he's been dropped in the middle of another damn puzzle.
He was right to hope, and shortly is met with the best possible outcome. “Fuck.” He hears up above him. “You know what you want.”
Emil hums, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hand as the sailor undoes his hose. “Please.” He says, taking a shaky breath. “I want it.”
The man curses again, hurrying, making his movements clumsy. They're at an awkward level. Emil is just a little too short and the man has to crouch slightly to accommodate him, sliding down the wall. Emil can't tell from just listening, there's so much grunting and shifting, that Emil has to guess when it's time for him to start. He's not too far off, catching it at an odd angle again but being able now to adjust. The smell of salt is still there, he can feel the nausea welling in his stomach. He can feel the judgment of the dead, too, with the prickle of his own embarrassment as he's again reminded of days ago on the city's western watch tower. How it might have ended better if things were just a little different. Maybe he had come off as too desperate. Having said the wrong thing at the worst moment. There's no point dwelling on it now. What's done is done, he has to accept that. There are probably better ways to get over rejection. At least that isn't what he had intended to do, or why he had agreed.
He feels something slick and warm smear on his cheek as the head rubs across his face. He sticks his tongue out, catching it as it passes and closing his lips, moaning as soon as he does. Clearly he's gotten something right because again he hears cursing and can feel hips jerk as the sailor thrusts into his mouth. To his surprise he doesn't choke. He had heard that's what happens, especially the first time. In a rush of pride he immediately pushes forward, taking him deeper. He can feel the hand that's come to rest on his head flex an take hold of his hair. When he pulls Emil moans again.
As he continues he does feel his throat tighten. The reflex triggers and for a moment he feels like he's going to gag. But it's only for a moment. Emil pulls back anyway, but finds to his unreasonably immense pleasure, that he's able to get a hold of himself and suppress the urge. There's that encouraging hand in his hair, pressing at the back of his scalp, and immediately he dives back into the rhythm that they were about to build.
He's not thinking of anything as this goes on, it takes him a while to even figure that out. He can feel the hay that's scattered across the ground pressing into his legs, the clammy humid air that makes seaside buildings so claustrophobic, and everything else that's going on that he's occupied himself with, but it's all hazy. Pleasantly distant and at the same time immediate. Real. Reaching up to squeeze at the man's hip he can verify that this is actually happening, and he does so whenever he starts to doubt it. There's a diffuse warmth that flows through him and that he's started to fill with from the bottom up, to where he can feel it now pooling against his gut. It's hard to put his thoughts together enough to remember there's something that's supposed to be done about that. It seems far from a priority right now, but then, he decides, why not? There's really nothing to stop him now. That thought alone makes him feel even more incredible. So, slowly, he takes the chance. Sliding his other hand down his stomach to fiddle with is own pants before giving up and reaching further down to palm through them.
Without warning, though he's not sure what he would have expected, he's grabbed again by the hair and yanked on, hard enough that he leans back. The man pulls himself out with an obscene pop and Emil can feel a string of drool stretch then snap and fall between them and run down his face. He pants now that he's got the opportunity to catch his breath properly but then shoots what he hopes is an accusatory and questioning look up that suitably expresses his thoughts on such a rude interruption.
“Fucking shit.” He can hear on those words that the man is gasping for breath himself. He had been moaning this whole time too. Dispensing the occasional miscellaneous praise. Emil had been too caught up in what he was doing to notice. Staying focused on himself and the moment at hand rather than taking in every detail of the surroundings. But then the surprise of what he hears next is enough to drag him back to some semblance of awareness. “You're a little whore, huh? You get off on this?” There's no missing the jolt that rips through him. Violent and direct enough that he can feel himself twitch through the fabric that's already so dark from the rain that nothing shows through; though Emil hasn't the slightest clue as to what any of that means about him.
He blinks up at the man, leaning his head against his leg, already growing a little impatient. “Am I not supposed to?” There's no tone to his voice as he's asking genuinely. Somewhat unsure of the specifics, only referencing what he's heard told while trying to ignore all his own personal experience, justifying it as not being relevant. He feels some small part resentful that this man might tell him to stop, but then he takes a breathe carefully through his mouth. This is about him too, and if he's been behaving improperly he should really stop.
He jumps when a boot is unceremoniously shoved between his legs, pressing against him where he's low to the ground. The new balance forces the man to take his hand from Emil's hair to steady himself on the wall and consequently pulls Emil further forward. “No, it's good.” He says. “I'm gonna cum if you keep going.”
“Good.” Emil says. No other response comes to mind. He's already slipping back into the soft state of mind he had been enjoying before when they were in the swing of things. Having only barely stepped out of it. “Go, then.”
“You want it in your mouth?” The question confuses Emil for a moment, being unable to figure out why he would think to ask him that instead of deciding on his own. But then, when it's made clear that it wasn't rhetorical, he shakes his head. “Your face?” He's asked again and Emil groans.
“Is that what you want?” The tiniest bit exasperated, though it does nothing at all to touch his overall mood. The boot is still there against him and subconsciously he starts to push down against it, making himself groan once more.
“Fuck yeah.” The man responds and then finally he pulls him back in. Emil does his best to hollow his cheeks and pull back and forth, now occupied with pushing down and forward against the man's leg as he does, feeling himself getting close as well and painfully fast. It's not much longer until he's yanked away again, pushed back with his mouth hung open, and he feels something hot spray across his face. He moans loud enough that it pushes out to the wider part of the room beyond the alcove they had tucked themselves away in and almost immediately after feels himself seize up and fall forward as he's wracked by waves of the same heat and pleasure he had felt building that's now considerably stronger. It feels like forever until he comes back into himself, gasping, leant up against the stranger's leg.
It's longer still until he starts to move. The mess across his face cooled now but just thinking of it sends another twinge through him. He struggles to push back, trying to sit on the floor when he feels a hand on his forearm. He takes the other one that he finds offered out and pulls himself up. He can feel the sigh against the top of his head as much as hear it now that they're stood together again. “Guess I should get you cleaned up then, huh?” Emil touches his cheek with his hand gingerly before bringing his sleeve up to wipe at it.
“No, that is alright. I will do it.” Emil pauses, pursing his lips before he goes to say more. “You have done more than enough for me.”
The man laughs, it's as deep and rough as his voice as Emil has come to appreciate in their short time together. Nothing like either of the men he's had to drive out of his mind again and again the whole day. “Well, you're pretty good, considering how inexperienced you've gotta be.”
“Inexperienced?” Emil turns the word over. Frowning slightly as he continues to clean himself up as well as he can on his shirt sleeve. “I... suppose I am.” It's an improvement over 'fresh'. The man doesn't say anything else right away. Pressing his lips to the top of Emil's head after a moment, then stepping away after another.
“Well, guess I'll see you around if you're ever at the harbor again.”
“... Sure. You will.” Emil replies. Trying to track his movement as he listens to the door open then shut, then relaxing again once he's left alone.
Nothing like this came up for him in Ostian, and really he's better off for it. Ark isn't quite so strange as it was when he first arrived, and the novelty had worn off almost immediately. But he doesn't disdain it, not the city itself. He's not sure how he feels about his home these days. He had been desperate to escape it then when the possibility was finally real, but it's hard to think that anything could be worth what it cost. He slides down to sit on the floor and feels along the ground after the loose grains of hay until he finds a stack of hides. The chances of him making it back into the city proper before it's light out after letting himself be dragged off to some nondescript building are unfavorable, so he might as well try to settle in here for the night. There are plenty of safe spots around if you look, and that's something he appreciates at least. Comparing things doesn't seem to do favors to either, so he stops trying. Tired enough that he can close his eyes here and not have to direct himself so harshly.
His clothes are getting uncomfortable and pulling at his pants to readjust does nothing to help, but he's certainly been in worse condition plenty of times. He has the thought enter the back of his mind that maybe this way he'll be able to get some rest without being woken by a nightmare or another vision. It's a silly thing to hope for, but strangely enough he finds himself actually believing it could be possible. It would be the first time in a long time. The rain is still coming down, drizzling against the thin roof, leaking in some places. Emil shuts his eyes then and doesn't open them until the sun's shining against the harsh lines of the city looming above. Glad, as he can recognize now with the ceremony far enough from mind, that he's in a new city, no matter what else might happen to him here.