The smell of furs; a familiar scent, sweet and safe, was awaiting Miso’no as she stirred in what she assumed to be the middle of the night. It was hard to tell with the ever-present light afflicting this world. Y’shtola lay sleeping, peaceful in her arms. The Warrior of Light (or Darkness, whichever) took several long moments to appreciate the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept. And then gently, carefully, slowly disentangling limbs and tails to slip out of the bedroll with a barely audible sigh, Miso threw a robe of furs over her shoulders and wandered out of the tent into the blinding wilds kissed by everlasting light. 

Miso felt a shiver as she stepped on the soft, mossy ground with bare feet. A tingling chased over her skin that reminded her of being cleansed by the water blessed by darkness when she had first arrived in Slitherbough. Squinting into the brilliance above the canopy, she had two thoughts: the first was that she would always struggle to sleep without the comfort of darkness. The second was

“I know you're there… Ascian,” she grumbled, the last word spoken like a curse.

“Oh come on now,” a voice drawled from the shadows of the thick, ancient trees. She could hear the mock-petulant pout in his voice, “surely my actions thus far have earned me a little more respect than that. Have I not yet earned a first name basis, hero?”

Miso rolled her eyes; the theatrics were getting boring. 

“I know you're here to observe,” she snapped, wrapping the furs tighter about her with crossed arms. Suddenly mindful of Y’shtola still sleeping not far away, Miso hissed in a lower voice, “but really? Here? While we sleep?”

He stepped out of the shadows, but only by half… a gloved hand splayed over one temple as if he were plagued by the beginning of a terrible headache. The pervasive light struck one yellow eye as he moved partially into view; the other, much like the Ascian’s intentions, remained cloaked in shadow. He gazed at her momentarily with an expression she did not comprehend, a look piercing her to her very soul. 

The look was fleeting, swept away by his usual blasé mien.

“Very well, Warrior of Darkness,” dropping his arm with a dramatic sigh, he stepped out of the shadows with a swaggering step. He brought his hand up to his chest in a fluid motion, palm pressed over his heart (do Ascians have hearts?) and pretended to be deeply wounded, “if we are truly not on a first name basis…” 

In full view, Emet-Selch spread his arms, as if in surrender, a small sardonic grin quirking his lips. Caught. 

But for all of the melodrama, he did not offer an explanation nor answer. And so, content to let the silence drag, all Miso’no could think was: please don’t monolgue, please don’t monologue, please don’t monologue…

But as the silence between them dragged on, as ice in spring, the grin soon melted away (good, she thought) and Emet-Selch once again looked thoroughly annoyed.

Miso could not fathom how her lack of reaction to his humourous little display merited the same level of annoyed as he had seemed when explaining how much defeating the lightwardens had set back his plans for the rejoining. But it would seem the Ascian had one level of annoyed and it was thoroughly regardless of the level of the offense. 

He drew breath to speak (do Ascians need to breathe?) but Miso was quicker: “So is that it? You got a peak of ‘Shtola earlier and you wanted to watch?”

She hadn’t realized it but Miso had closed the distance between them, an accusing finger prodding him right in the chest. He at least had the decency to look genuinely taken aback.

And then…  he laughed. A lot.

In fact, he laughed so hard Miso’s cheeks flushed a deep purplish. He stumbled away from her accusatory finger-pointing with his hand still on his chest, this time as if to stablize himself. He took a long moment to compose himself and… was he wiping away tears? Of mirth?

“Ahaha.. hahhh… I suppose I should thank you, Warrior of Light, I have not laughed like that in a long… long time,” said the Ascian, straightening – insofar as he was capable of – and then turned to tower over her small, Au’ra frame. His lips twitched as if threatening to burst into laughter again, “To think I would be interested in observing something as dull as coitus. I have lived thousands of years, I can assure you… I’ve seen it all.”

Miso’no found herself trying not to squirm under the long, knowing look burning in the Ascian’s yellow eyes. While her cheeks burning betrayed her, she gave him no sign otherwise that she was bothered, falling into characteristic silence. This time, having turned the tables, it was Emet who was content to let the silence draw out.

“Then what…” said Miso, finally breaking the quiet and was relieved her voice did not break with it. She was not exactly certain what she was asking at this point so she didn’t finish the question and let her eyes drift back towards the tent.

“My dear, I am not sure why you’re so embarrassed when no such base acts even happened for me to peep on in the first place,” muttered Emet, dusting off the sleeve of his coat. His brows shot up, feigning surprise, as Miso’s mouth fell open. “What? Just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean I’m not apprised of the situation.”

Beneath the furs draped over her shoulders, Miso’no’s hands fell to their sides, forming tense little fists. Her pale eyes fell to the ground as if she found the bits of grass and sand infinitely more interesting than the conversation they were about to have. She fought the urge to look up as a deep shadow fell across the ground at her feet, the Ascian’s lanky form oppressively close. 

“She’s looking at you differently now… isn’t she?” Emet muttered in a low voice with an inflection she hoped desperately was not pity. 

The shock of his words – to hear it said out loud – felt like falling in the most frigid of waters. Miso’s scaly fists balled tighter and she turned her back on the Ascian abruptly, the bottom of the furs brush against him as they swirled around her with the motion. Meanwhile the Ascian rambled: “Well not looking in the strictest sense of the word I suppose. She doesn’t see the way most do. You did know that, at least, didn’t you? Dear me… I do hope there isn’t anything else she’s keeping from you. Or anyone else for that matter… I always find it so tedious how you mortals refuse to simply talk to one another… Why if she cared about you at all, you would think she–”

“Shut UP!”

Miso’no’s voice surprised even her. She froze momentarily, waiting and listening to see if her outburst disturbed Shtola’s sleep. In her chest her heart hammered against her ribs and in her ears, every noise feeling entirely too loud. When the coast seemed to be clear, her blueish-grey shoulders relaxed only a little beneath the robe. She would have given a lot in that moment to see the look on Emet-Selch’s stupid face (well Solus Von Galvus’ stupid face) but she dared not turn to face him because she would give much, much more to hide the feelings that were naked on hers.

But, for a mercy, he did shut up. 

Briefly.

“Forgive me, I… overstepped,” he said. An apology sounded so strange out of the Ascian’s mouth, but there it was. He cleared his throat as if it did not come easily either and had almost gotten stuck.

There they stood for another long moment; a silence no one was happy to draw out this time.

“I should… get back,” she choked out, more emotions slipping out than she intended. It only hurt because he was right. Shtola wasn’t the only one keeping things from her and she couldn’t shake the question she’d overheard her ask Urianger before they’d been interrupted by the Eulmorans approach. Is it true? 

His hesitance to answer had said much more than actually hearing his admission. She feared the truth of it more than the reason for the lie.

Before she could take a step, Emet-Selch turned to leave first, pausing to say: “For what it’s worth, hero,” he put emphasis on using the word instead of her name, “Though you may not believe me… I do respect basic privacy, I assure you.”

It was as much a concession as she could hope for given the circumstances.

“And what about the complicated forms of privacy… Emet?” Miso retorted, half in jest, in hopes of diffusing the situation she admittedly caused. She turned her head slightly towards him as she spoke but did not look to watch him go.

The Ascian did not answer, but she swore she could almost hear his smile as shadows wrapped around his stolen form.

And then he was gone.

Without a sound, the Warrior of Light walked with heavy footsteps back to her beloved Y’shtola’s side. She wrapped her arms around the woman’s lithe frame – who sighed in contented sleep – and closed her eyes but did not sleep for the rest of the night.

Miso never really got to rest much anyways.