"Is that what you call it?" That time-reversing ability of Byleth's that allows him to seemingly alter fate, to snatch those close to him back from the brink of death. It makes sense, now. What Byleth had said to him when they first met: 'Oh, well. I guess you could say I've gotten quite good at cheating death.'

But that is, perhaps, a discussion for another time. One in which they are both far less on edge. Emet-Selch casts the other man a mildly challenging look, but for a mercy, he doesn't seem any more annoyed than is typical. He also doesn't cease his efforts to rise - though he takes it slowly, in increments.

"I am perfectly capable of determining what I can and cannot do, Byleth. Your concern is...precious, really, but entirely unnecessary. Need I remind you that I am not one of your students?"

However... there is one problem, one which has made itself glaringly obvious in the fit and stretch of the bedclothes he's currently wearing. They, like this room, are unfamiliar to him. And, further, they were decidedly made for someone of reduced stature compared to himself.

Well.

Without preamble, the Ancient draws the hem of the sheet around himself like a shroud, his gaze turning slightly more accusatory.

"Now. My robes and mask, if you please."

Look. You cannot expect him to go about wearing clothing that is much too small for him. While, yes, he could simply adjust his borrowed trappings to suit his needs, it's a matter of propriety. He is not going to budge until the mark of his seat is returned to him.