(and yet why are you so far away)
In the past, Emizel has fancied many, many thoughts—thoughts of the Netherworld bowing down to him and giving him the respect he now knows to be false and fabricated, thoughts of the strength he only belatedly acknowledges as fantasies spun so intricately yet foolishly by his own naïve mind, thoughts of spells and scythes and fame and glory—all of which he now recalls to mind with a smile, one so wry and self-deprecating that he has made himself a jarring doppelganger of his former self.
It should not surprise anyone, Emizel likes to think, that it has all given him many things-many, many significant things that prod and pull and push and remind him that he has duties to fulfill, and it keeps his mind and hands busy from the notions that constantly attempt to rise and take control.
But maybe, just maybe, it keeps him a little too busy, a little too exhausted, that Emizel foolishly lets his guard down and allows himself to think that it's over, it's over for the night, and he can finally go back home and start reading and brushing up on spells, only to have himself starting at the sight of Overlord Laharl standing not more than five feet away from him.
"What," is the first word out of Emizel's lips, stumbling out in a whisper as he attempts to grasp for a coherent line of thought, but then everything falls apart when he meets the other demon's unbelieving stare, as if it is a crime to be taken aback at the discovery of a presence that has long seemed to be there hours ago, but only realized now. It probably is, he reflects, barely keeping himself from wincing, for it is a mistake to overlook a being simply pulsing with power, certainly for one who desires an ambitious position as the President of a Netherworld.
Emizel breathes in, breathes in deeply, as he tries to assess the situation from what little pieces he can gather and clumsily put together, and still Laharl dismisses it all by narrowing his eyes and twisting his lips into a disapproving frown.
"Are you serious?" There is no real anger in his voice, but it nevertheless manages to sound like a reprimand, one that theoretically should not sound so stern, coming from the mouth of a boy who looks like he can only be thirteen. However, he is a demon, and a king, one who is still paving out his own path, yet has travelled much, much farther.
Emizel licks his lips, trying not to bite them and fidget and drop his scythe. "Well," he starts, forcing himself to meet the other pair of eyes, "how long have you…" His voice trails off into silence as he catches the sight of a cheek twitching once, maybe twice. He knows that it should not bother him, not as much as it now makes his insides twist and turn in dread, and yet it does, because no matter how ridiculous the Overlord before him can be at times, there is no mistaking the fact that Laharl knows a lot more, and maybe that is the reason why he is trying so much not to make more of a fool of himself.
To gain at least the acknowledgement of a fellow ruler may be foolish, but it is one of the many things that Emizel finds himself striving for, and it is not simply for the sake of his Netherworld, which is selfish, he thinks, but then he is a demon, and so there it is.
"I don't know. I don't exactly carry a watch around," Laharl finally answers, the edge to his tone now a little more dull. It makes his stance—the usual one with his arms folded—seem less menacing than before. "But I've been here long enough for you to have noticed." It will not be too far off to consider it an accusation that he has not been acting how he should be, that he has not exceeded expectations.
That is, if there have been expectations in the first place. Emizel doubts it, but he does not wish to completely deny it. Either way, to ask will undoubtedly be a mistake, and so he keeps his mouth shut regarding the matter that he himself has brought to mind.
"I was working," Emizel mutters, and it is almost inaudible if he is to consider Laharl's distance, but the other demon hears anyway, and his eyes narrow once again. It is not an excuse, not entirely, but he is not enthusiastic enough to assume that it does not sound like such. Pursing his lips, he glances at the moon above, as if it will help his case.
For some reason, Laharl follows his gaze. Quietly, almost solemnly, he simply directs his attention at the red, red moon.
The sight makes Emizel rub his arm with his free hand in an effort to do something other than stare, for it is hard not to, the silence reigning over the atmosphere being too foreign and suffocating that it makes him want to blurt out something, anything, just to escape the anxiety he is nearly certain that will choke him.
So he does.
"Do you need something?" It is a perfectly acceptable question, considering that it has been a while since Laharl has finally left Hades to return to his own Netherworld, yet here the Overlord is once more.
"No," Laharl then answers simply, not bothering to look at the one he is speaking with, and it should probably be a cause of anger, perhaps even irritation, but it ends up not being so, for the reply, while not proving to be a surprise, piques Emizel's curiosity, as Laharl does not casually leave his Netherworld without a goal in mind, no matter how small and trivial it may be. Always, there is a purpose, may it be to take his own idea of a breather or to bargain with another to accomplish tasks for the benefit his Netherworld.
A small "then" finds its way out of Emizel's lips. It brings forth frustration, how he is at a loss at times he deems important, or even just plainly necessary.
Laharl shifts. His expression, with his brow furrowed as it is, gives off the impression that he is taking something into consideration. His breathing is calm, quiet, rhythmic, and then, "It's been a while since I've seen Death do this up-close."
Emizel blinks. For the briefest moment, he thinks it unfair that Laharl would simply leave it there, leave so many unspoken questions unanswered, but there is the finality in the Overlord's voice that he has so long ago familiarized himself with, and he thinks, knows, that if he is to someday see this demon addressing him with some level of respect, it is only fitting that he do the same.
He lets it go.
"You'll be leaving soon then?" he tries, cautiously, hesitantly, and a raised eyebrow accompanied by a cocky grin is all he needs to see to conclude that he may have not chosen the best follow-up question.
"Kicking me out of your Netherworld already?"
Emizel sputters words that are meant to protest, but they do not sound like such, not when they come out in the exact order he thinks of them, and that is in a disorganized mess that will only have Laharl staring unimpressed at him again. It is a feat, he considers, when he manages to clamp his mouth shut for a few moments.
He thinks it only natural, that he oft wishes to be able to do things over.
"I didn't mean it like that." No longer does he bother hiding his exhaustion, and perhaps, perhaps he finally resigns himself to whatever reaction Laharl has to offer. It is peculiar, but what he hears is not what he expects.
"You're about to keel over." It is not a question, but an observation, one that Emizel no longer knows how to refute.
Most likely, it is unbecoming, but he can only purse his lips by way of reply, neither nodding nor shaking his head, predictably allowing Laharl to draw his own conclusions while he himself attempts to gather what strength he has left.
"I have things to do," are the whispered words that next come out of his mouth, lips moving absentmindedly to reveal the mantra that he has so long ago carried with him. Simply staying here and having this conversation will do him no good, he decides.
Much louder, in his usual tone, he then asks, "Won't your Netherworld be in trouble if you leave it this much?"
"It won't," Laharl replies, and it should not take Emizel aback, how much confidence he can hear from the Overlord's voice, for this is Laharl, yet it still does, as he cannot think of himself in the same situation. Simply, Laharl continues, adding, "My vassals are strong," as if it should be enough of an explanation, but it is still not, not for Emizel, whose mind drifts to power and usurpation, and it confuses the young demon even more.
"Why the hell do you care about my Netherworld anyway?"
It is a question he has not prepared himself for, a question that robs him of words and leaves him with a painful lump in his throat.
He is silently grateful, when Laharl dismisses it by himself with a shake of his head. "That aside, you'd better get the hell back and sleep before you actually collapse here and catch yourself some stupid disease or something."
There is the strongest temptation to return the question he had previously thrown to Emizel, but common sense urges him not to, not when he can indeed no longer stand so firmly.
And still, he gets an answer.
"If I leave you here," is the mutter that reaches his ears, "she'll never let me hear the end of it." In hindsight, it should not have, but it still takes him a while to figure out whom the Overlord is referring to. There is no helping the small smile that tugs at his lips.
It is strange, so strange, how one can predict another's words and actions, yet still find himself surprised and piqued and pleased that it makes him want to do something, anything more.
"Then, maybe some tea—"
"You know I don't drink tea."
He does. Emizel knows that he does, and it is one of the few things he is actually certain of when it comes to the Overlord. It is not a common occurrence, and Laharl is horribly picky when it comes to it, even more than Emizel himself, but he keeps such thoughts to himself, opening his mouth to call out to the Gatekeeper instead.
(They travel identical roads, but they are not exactly alike, and they are most certainly not the same. He thinks, maybe, maybe that is just fine, because they still have a long way to go.)