by degrees. {wip}

“Last I checked your plan didn’t mention anything about us RUNNING FOR OUR LIVES but maybe I missed something!” Emily cried, snow kicking up around them as they ran, a stray pack of wolf hounds not far behind. “Emily lets go to Tyvia they say! You are the absolute worst!” Still, she took the other’s hand, Reaching out and pulling them both to the deck of the skiff, the howls of wolfhounds fading behind them. Looking over at them laughing, Emily huffed. “Shut up.”

  “We paid for the wine! It just so happens that the vineyard’s owners don’t know it yet.” Fairness, though, Wyman’s plan was ‘hope to find a butcher’s along the way, pay in much the same way for a slab of meat, and chuck it behind them to appease the canine pursuit.’ Still, they got their just desserts, in the end -- maybe that tendril of Void-power had become second nature to Emily, but it took Wyman a second to stop their half-elated, half-groggy laughter. 

  “And if I say yes?” Queer among the noble-folk, Wyman didn’t mind spending an evening at the more rowdy bars. One could only have so much King Street Brandy before the taste of it tickled brackish in the throat, and sometimes, they just wanted the worst booze possible. But now, they’d been recognized – the little courtier with an empress wrapped around their finger. “If I am, indeed, the person you believe I am, and indeed have the Empress at my beck and call, and by extension, the Lord Protector, what makes you think I could possibly be afraid of you?”

@letterfromwyman ❤’d for a thingy !!

        Burying her face in her hands, she sighs and listens as her beloved paces behind her. They are in audible range, she can hear it. Then they probably know about all these letters from the PRIVY COUNCIL or, as they called them : the PIG COUNCIL.

           ❝ It’s always so frustrating every time they won’t listen to me !! Can’t they come up with something better if they keep denying my ideas? ❞

   Actually reading the damned missives without Emily’s permission was almost certainly treasonous, but Wyman had a decent idea of what they contained from previous outbursts. Placing an affirming hand on a shoulder, they gave it a little squeeze.

   Discomfort. Emily had made the mistake of glancing back down, only to meet Wyman’s sad eyes. She had made them upset, something that rarely happened, and she considered shifting away. Yet that would give a different impression, and she was loathe to hurt them any more.Then they spoke and Emily’s heart constricted.

   The idea of confiding in someone else, it pained her. She shouldn’t have to need to, and it wasn’t becoming of an empress to place burden on others when she could carry it herself. Even away from the court, she had to be strong. But she wanted, so much, to let Wyman take her away, if just for a bit. Conflicted, Emily choked out another quiet laugh, dipping her head down to rest on Wyman’s. “You are too kind. But I.. can’t do that.” No more than she could draw a blade to them.

   However, she was reminded of training with Corvo. Most of the time it was a rather expected ordeal, if not different in style than the Watch’s training. But, sometimes Corvo would use the time, and the distraction of working muscles, to divulge less than savory information about his job as Royal Spymaster. Emily’s grip on Wyman’s hand tightened slightly, unconsciously. Corvo had always seemed, as if he’d taken a breath of air he needed afterwards, having had released the poisonous secrets. And Emily hadn’t been worse for wear, considering her mind had to process the information fast, under the assault of Corvo’s blade. Wyman had, mentioned once, that they didn’t know how to sword-fight. Perhaps this was a stupid idea.

   “Wyman.. if I were to offer to express my unspent frustrations, through training you to fight, would that be too unreasonable?” It most likely was too much to ask for, what courtier wanted to know how to swing a blade? But it was the only thing she could think of, and she desperately wanted to mend the gap between themselves. “You can say no, of course.”

   Frustration. If only she could just reach into that pretty head and pull out all the bad things that Emily so desperately wanted to keep insulated from the world. They were not infallible, of course, but they were a creature that believed in society as the thing that separated men from the Void. “Keeping things to yourself doesn’t make you strong, it makes you a fool. Are you seeking to martyr yourself?” It was a queer suggestion, to be sure. 

   “All the better,” they returned, with a sly grin, “throw in the capacity to actually maim me.” Wyman had very specifically artificed the way in which gloves, scarves, and swords had become popular in the fashionable culture of court, yes, but of the three, they preferred accessories number one and two. The blade was small indeed, weighted to be natural to their pianist hands. “If that is what her majesty wishes? Then so be it.“

   Naturally, it was Emily’s fantastic face that had drawn Wyman. She grinned, stifling a rather non regal giggle at the kind words. Ah, she had forgotten how Wyman could make such simple phrases tug at her heart. Sadly, the moment was slightly ruined when Emily noticed Wyman’s well hidden hesitation. She thought about how to put them at ease, before they continued speaking.

   Pretending to be in deep thought, she raised a hand to scratch at an imaginary beard before responding, “I could, but can you imagine the uproar it would cause among the old men? I’d have to listen to them complain for days.” She would have continued, had Wyman’s hand not come to rest upon her own. It clenched slightly in response, before Emily turned it over to cup Wyman’s smaller hand. She returned the squeeze, hoping that her startle hadn’t been too obvious.

   The empress smiled as Wyman recited a bit of poetry. The courtier was prone to doing that, and it was something Emily was fond of. She’d never been all that interested in prose herself, but wouldn’t have said no to a recording of Wyman’s voice reading some poet’s works.    “If the silverware is shaking, perhaps we should get a better table.”

   She chuckled at herself, before suddenly freezing as Wyman shifted into her. Muscles tensing, Emily had to fight down the immediate response to jerk away. Her smile strained, as she tried to force herself to calm. The hum helped, and it only took a few moments before she was able to mostly relax. She felt ashamed, Wyman had to have noticed. Would they think she was uncomfortable with them? It wasn’t that at all, Emily found herself wanting to melt into Wyman’s side just like they always used to. But at the same time, her own body was trying to get away. She pressed herself closer to Wyman, fighting the instinct, and hoping to make up for earlier.

   The courtier’s next words distracted her, but also slightly confused her. Just what was Wyman offering? She shifted, looking down at them, searching their face. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.” Emily glanced away, brow furrowing, wondering just what Wyman thought of her. “If you’re offering to be a punching bag, I don’t think I could take that offer in good conscious. You are, rather small.” She tried to laugh, but felt her heart squeezing. Did her friend really think that Emily needed violence to distract herself? Did she really give off that impression?

   Every Morley-blooded man or woman, prince or pauper, had a poet’s soul. That was the myth, anyway -- and as much as Wyman shirked the other traditions of their homeland, they found the arts difficult to shake off. “Perhaps.”

   Emily’s reaction wasn’t unexpected, but it was disheartening. This was worse than their time in exile -- there, Wyman could keep busy with the foreign court’s affairs, devour the empress’ missives whenever they so sparsely came. To properly thrive in their life, the courtier had long since learned to dismiss their own emotion beneath a knowing smile and an obscene limerick. Here, at the court, it had been different. They didn’t want it to end. There was a deep woe in Wyman’s gaze as they glanced up at the taller woman, shaking their head to dismiss the laugh.

 It was just Wyman. A welcome visitor, one of the few that Emily enjoyed. The grip on her sword hilt relaxed, falling away to her waist. As Wyman made their way over, Emily couldn’t help but notice the exaggerated steps. It was something others did too, moving cautiously around her as if she might snap at them like a wild wolfhound. But she held her tongue, knowing that she did indeed flinch at things she shouldn’t.

 “You’re more than welcome, Wyman.” Emily grinned languidly, scooting aside just a bit to make room. Fingers twitched, ignoring the impulse to draw up her scarf to cover her throat. There was no need for that; she trusted Wyman (as much as she could trust anyone, these days).

  A light scoff at the courtier’s words, they never did get tired of that joke. To be honest, Emily hadn’t touched her hookah since returning. Too busy, and no one to share it with. No, it was only a fond memory. She tensed slightly as Wyman settled next to her, an automatic reaction but one that she felt some shame for nonetheless. Offering a weary smile, Emily questioned them,

“Whatever brings you here? Was it the flowers, or perhaps my stunning looks?” 

   Wyman had always been easy to talk to. They weren’t someone she had to take pains to be polite to, or someone who was a threat. Wyman was just, Wyman. Fun to flirt with sometimes, other times fun to just relax with after a work filled day. It had been too long. Yet, would they be able to fall back into old habits? Emily’s skin tingled at the presence of someone so close to her, after too long spent fighting for her life. It was a hard instinct to push down.

“I do hope you came for a reason other than to discuss illegal substances.” Emily returned the wink, noting how strange it felt on her face. Perhaps the time wearing a mask at court, and the time wearing a scarf in the streets, had scarred her in different ways.

   “It’s predominantly your stunning looks; flowers pale before my Emily.” They could look past the scars without difficulty -- it was the queer weight that sloughed around her shoulders that gave Wyman pause. Still. A change in demeanor would not push them away -- they had not inquired deeply into the events of Emily’s exile. 

   “I realized while we were apart, that you are Empress, and you could just legalize it.” There was no getting around it; dancing around a hobby so well-loved would only make the ravages of Delilah all the more evident. So Wyman’s hand found itself atop Emily’s, offered a gentle squeeze: an acknowledgment, but not a fear. “When the clouds darken overhead and the silverware quakes, I know that not all is right in the world.”