Confused indeed. Emet-Selch looks at Byleth as if he doesn't quite believe him - as if this is surely some clever one-liner meant to unbalance him before the flash of a knife at his throat. But no... even that look shifts uncertainly, as if he could possibly believe him, but is hesitant to admit as much. After all, though he cannot explain why that would be save for the visions still tickling the edge of his consciousness - he feels safe with this man. Comfortable - were he not so decidedly uncomfortable due to circumstance. In the end he indignantly reaches up to hold the warm cloth to his own forehead - pride taking over where memory yet struggles to make sense of the loose threads desperately attempting to weave themselves back into their proper places.

"I don't recall saying that I would be the one to do it." Emet-Selch's stare is meant to be reproachful, but more closely resembles an old cat squinting in the sun. "Only that it must needs be done. Obviously I would be little help at the present moment."

Between his own disorientation, the pounding in his skull... he'd only get lost out there if he didn't keel over first. Disgraceful. Not to mention a liability for everyone else - which is something he can be sure he would never allow. No, he will remain as he is, even if the idea of being fussed over by the person he was in his recent not-quite-memories irritates him somehow.