Chapter Text
The setting sun painted the Emperor's desk with a broad stripe of warm orange light that caught on his jewelled surcoat and lined his hard profile in gold. There was little chance he'd make a request of Mererid before his evening meal, engrossed as he was in the letters he was writing, but Mererid stood unobtrusively in a corner of the office all the same. One could never know.
Sunshine crept slowly across the room. Mererid watched a few dust motes dancing in the air and made a mental note to have the office cleaned overnight.
The Emperor's quill stopped its scratching, and Mererid looked over. He had paused and set the quill down, sitting perfectly straight in his chair as he looked over the letter. There was something tense in the set of his shoulders, though, and he flexed his hand once.
Mererid crossed the room and stood at his shoulder, reaching for the offending hand. "Please allow me, Your Majesty," he said, though it was only a formality—he was already rubbing circles between the Emperor's thumb and forefinger, massaging the cramping muscles there. He'd done this before. He had been terrified the first time, his sense of propriety warring with the sudden, foolish urge to put his hands on the Emperor and take the pain away himself instead of calling for a physician. The Emperor had said nothing, though, and Mererid's head was still attached to the rest of him. So the hand massages had continued.
He had learned a long time ago not to think closely about what he was doing and who he was touching, lest his treacherous body give him away by reddening his face or quickening his breaths. He handled the Emperor's hand as if it were someone else's, his mind a careful blank as he rubbed his thumb up each of the finger bones, then turned it over to massage the palm.
The Emperor's breathing had slowed pleasingly, his ministrations having the intended effect. Mererid leaned into his task. He chanced a glance upwards and saw that the Emperor's shoulders had relaxed, too, his expression pensive as he stared ahead.
After another minute, the Emperor turned his head; Mererid could feel his breath on his ear. Goosebumps prickled the back of his neck, and then the Emperor spoke. "A myriad pearl divers along the shores of fair Etolia," he murmured in the Elder Speech, "yet fortune smiles brightest upon an urcheon in its burrow."
He noticed the perfect meter and rhyme of the short verse first. Then the meaning hit him, and his breath caught in his throat. He was still holding the Emperor's hand—too tightly, now—and he let go as if he'd been burned, his face hot with shame. Wishful thinking, he told himself, turning the words this way and that in his mind in frantic search of another explanation.
The dimming sun fell across the Emperor as he watched him, casting part of his face into deep shadow but setting his amber eyes alight. "Have I mistaken you?" he asked, his expression inscrutable.
So Mererid had been correct. A man of stronger mettle would have been able to compose a witty verse in response, perhaps. Emhyr—he allowed himself the small thrill of thinking of him as Emhyr, even though it made his face grow hotter—had sent his heart racing just by speaking his name with such gentle warmth, and language itself was escaping him. "I, I—" he stammered, then smoothed his trembling hands down the front of his doublet, trying to stand straighter. "No, Your Majesty."
Emhyr gave a short nod. His eyes fell to the letter on his desk, finally sparing Mererid from his steady gaze, and he picked up his quill again. Mererid dared to look at his downturned profile and saw that he was smiling. He stood there, struck dumb, until Emhyr turned his free hand over, his open palm a silent invitation.
He stepped to Emhyr's other side, grateful for the return to their routine and the opportunity to gather himself. "Please allow me, Your Majesty," he said needlessly, the familiar words tumbling from his mouth as if of their own accord. He took a steadying breath, then Emhyr's hand, and started rubbing small circles into the thick muscle of his thumb.
The only response was the scratch of quill against parchment.