( when one's life is no longer dictated by the tides of time, yes, it does rather seem that information one would prefer keep hidden eventually finding its way to light is a "when" rather than an "if." give it enough time and enough variables with which to affect, and murphy's law will force its way into effect at some point. but of course the Archivist would be so predisposed towards thinking about terrible knowledge and grimly-kept secrets — these are the things that find their way to him on their own, whether he likes it or not. learning how to best act as caretaker to all of the wayward knowledge that he came to contain is something he's still in the process of doing. but he supposes it does help that there are none here he is so close or familiar to than those he had surrounded himself with back home; it reduced the opportunity for accidental and hurtful mistakes (though it certainly didn't eliminate it completely).
he is a little less surprised this second time the emperor raises his skeletons, and this time he also does what he can to carefully pay attention to how he does it — or, at least, what he can see under flickering halogen lights. no, they don't spring out of thin air; he watches john retrieve some tiny fragments of bone, which he drops to then form the fully-structured constructs, standing at the ready with an uncanny sort of awareness despite the unseeing sensation of their red pinprick eyes. as unsettling as they remain to be, john remains close to them, knowing the clattering protectors are his best bet for safety while zhongli and the emperor face whatever is behind their mysterious door.
which they seem prepared to breach. ...he doesn't like this. he never has. it's one thing to feel completely helpless on one's own, but to feel like he couldn't contribute when others were risking life and limb? it's a rotten sort of feeling, but there's not much he can do — it's not his place, as the Archivist, to fight.
so he breathes out a short sigh and says, with low earnestness, ) Best of luck.
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he is a little less surprised this second time the emperor raises his skeletons, and this time he also does what he can to carefully pay attention to how he does it — or, at least, what he can see under flickering halogen lights. no, they don't spring out of thin air; he watches john retrieve some tiny fragments of bone, which he drops to then form the fully-structured constructs, standing at the ready with an uncanny sort of awareness despite the unseeing sensation of their red pinprick eyes. as unsettling as they remain to be, john remains close to them, knowing the clattering protectors are his best bet for safety while zhongli and the emperor face whatever is behind their mysterious door.
which they seem prepared to breach. ...he doesn't like this. he never has. it's one thing to feel completely helpless on one's own, but to feel like he couldn't contribute when others were risking life and limb? it's a rotten sort of feeling, but there's not much he can do — it's not his place, as the Archivist, to fight.
so he breathes out a short sigh and says, with low earnestness, ) Best of luck.