He cleared his throat once, then another time, running his singular unloved hand through his sweat-damp locks. The Clergy halls, though much quieter than years prior, had begun to shift. To begin the mourning that had inspired the flashback of his own dethroning. Of his time spent in limbo, his heart and soul detached from one another. How could one feel pain while being detached from any nerves?
He couldn't tell you how he had awoken this time; it simply wouldn't come back to him. Questions left unanswered haunted him. He couldn't tell you how much time had passed. He felt as though he was processing things through a haze, a thick fog.
His Church, his home. Flash images of memories that seemed indisputably real cycled through his head, an overwhelming load of new information without time to process. Like the uncanny valley, he recognized much, though in equal measure recognized precious little. It was nauseating.
His eye burned, suddenly. The white iris's pain, his connection to his brothers chained to a fate such as his own, was an omen. He doubled over with a sharp hiss, as much as his desk would allow, and clutched his ungloved hand over the offending spot, nails digging into the flesh.
Intracate golden trim. A beautiful blue. A shining mitre.
The reincarnation, the usurper of his once-held position was nearing the end. His fate was already sealed. There was nothing that could be done, because it wasn't in his hands. There was no time; he was a walking corpse, blissfully unaware that his body had begun to decay.
Emeritus III released his eye, the spasm fading back into nothingness that left him frustrated. The very least he could do was stand again, and roam. To where, he was undecided. But he was lucid again, finally.
