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Elidibus does not hear from Emet-Selch after waking him. It's not an uncommon thing - the years had made him more and more tempermental and flamboyant. Not that he would know, of course, but that's what Lahabrea would have said, were he still here.
The absence weighs heavy upon him.
Still, he does not bend, merely filing the emptiness away next to all the rest. A repository of nothing, notable only by its presence.
He knows who he is, well enough, and what he must do. The Emissary has much to see to, as he always does.
Emet-Selch slips out of sight and mind. Crisis blooms across the First, his brethren's miscalculations nearly wreaking havoc to mirror the Thirteenth. Prepared, this time for such an eventuality, he averts it - strikes a decisive blow to the heroes upon the Source, even.
So he must do, so he always does.
Now, though - he could use their Architect. With two more of their number lost, and Elidibus himself needed on the Source, Emet-Selch is the natural choice for monitoring the now rudderless shard. As much as he wishes it, Elidibus cannot be in two places at once.
The hunt for the other unsundered is both incredibly simple, yet unfathomably frustrating. He is not in the Rift when Elidibus comes calling, nor in any usual haunts where he has found the man before.
Eventually he finds him in plain sight. Elidibus feels almost foolish for not looking there in the first place.
"Emet-Selch," he says, dryly, to the ascian drowning in the cellars of Garlemald's Imperial Palace. Gold rimmed in red stares back, boring holes in Elidibus's mask.
"Out with it," Emet-Selch slurs. It's obvious from the bottles he's been at it a while. The fact his vessel still lives is practically a miracle. "Though spare me your lecture."
"The First requires your guiding hand."
Spindly fingers run through bedraggled hair before moving to top up his glass. "Mitron and Loghrif are dead, then."
"A miscalculation, on their part. But it has been handled, for now, and I am now needed again on the Source."
"Can't do anything without me, it seems." Emet-Selch clicks his tongue and throws back his wine. "...I will take care of it. You may go."
"Very well." Elidibus turns to leave, but stops. Weighs Emet-Selch's initial request over what is best for the man as he stands, deathly still.
"There are more productive ways to honor Lahabrea's memory," he finally says.
From the corner of his eye Elidibus can see Emet-Selch's head loll, face twisting with a grief achingly familiar, though he cannot recall where. So too is there a familiarity with how he staggers to his feet, pulling a fresh bottle from the racks and uncorking it with nary a thought.
"I admit, it's a mortal fancy," Emet-Selch says, quietly. "A tradition in which the recently departed are remembered in drink and good cheer."
Elidibus doesn't bother to mention that there's not been much to cheer for in a long time. It's a waste of breath at best, and an outright insult to Emet-Selch at worst.
He takes the glass offered to him.
"To Lahabrea," Emet-Selch says. "Foolish, unbearable old man that he was. None burned brighter. None worked harder. May the ashes he left behind nurture a world made whole in his memory. In the memory of all."
They must make quite a sorry sight, Elidibus thinks. Just the two of them, now, to lead the rest of their number and while Emet-Selch can lead mortals he is ill-suited to overseeing anyone else.
They will be sorely tested going forward without their Speaker.
"To Lahabrea," he echoes, all politeness and placation for the last other unsundered. Humor him until he can work once more.
"Good." Emet-Selch laugh-sobs as he clinks his glass against Elidibus's. "Please, at least taste. That's the last bottle of Bacchus in the cellar. My good for nothing grandson drank all the rest." He shakes his head. "Absolute barbarian."
Elidibus gives the wine a tentative swirl. He's never put much stock into mortal dalliances like food or drink, unnecessary as they are. Still, it would not hurt to indulge Emet-Selch, just this once.
He takes a sip.
Breath and sense leave him as it sits, heavy in his mouth.
It's like drinking the midday sun. All light and heat and the scent of summer as the floral notes linger long after he swallows.
Another sip and it's like he's home. Elidibus doesn't know why or how he knows it, only that he is. There's a bright chuckle off to his side, long arms encircling him in a comforting embrace.
A third. There's tears in his eyes behind the mask. His chest is uncomfortably tight. Tendrils of memory brush his consciousness only to pull away at the last moment.
Promise me something.
Of course. Anything.
He places the glass down. He fears what he might find if he continues. So he does not.
"The last rejoining wiped out these vines." Emet-Selch looks at the bottle. Physically, he's here, but his mind is malms away. "And so this, too, passes from memory, my friend."
Elidibus doesn't comment - he knows full well this dialogue is not meant for him, but for some other thing also lost to time.
Emet-Selch's face is fully wet when he hands Elidibus the bottle, still half full. He does not comment on that, either.
"Take it," Emet-Selch says. Swaying, he backs up until he bumps the cellar wall, sliding back down to sit once more.
"You'll have me for the First." Dismissive, with a lazy wave. The man is clearly so out of it now that Elidibus doubts he'll remember any of this. It's just as well - it would only cause pain. "After my nap."
"Very well," Elidibus says, and in a swirl of black and violet, he's gone.
---
When Elidibus finally visits Amaurot, stretching across the sea bed, its maker is no more.
It's a terrible shame, for when the Emissary uncorks the Bacchus again, he swears he sees the city gleam in noonday sun.
He drinks, remembers, and forgets.
"To Emet-Selch."