#emhyralt

Isn’t he right? If someone were to walk in—Mererid, for instance, though the guy hasn’t shown up unannounced in Emhyr’s bedroom for months—they’d be treated to a strange spectacle. The room itself is a spectacle in its own right: velvet drapes embroidered with gold thread on the walls, ornate tables stacked with books. A massive four-poster bed takes center stage, the finest craftsmanship with a distinctly elven touch. His bedchamber stands in stark contrast to Emhyr’s otherwise cool, seemingly unyielding character. His outward appearance, a far cry from the side of himself he prefers not to show.

So if someone were to walk in now, they would see the Emperor of Nilfgaard sitting on the bed, next to the witcher Geralt, who has been a surprisingly frequent guest at court for about a year. The witcher himself sits on a hastily discarded garment, so as not to soil the imperial sheets. A closer look would reveal that it is Emhyr’s dressing gown. And as if all that weren’t enough, the Emperor is cleaning a deep, gaping scratch on the witcher’s upper arm with a cloth that was once snow-white. 

Which, of course, means the witcher is sitting there bare-chested. Which might be scandalous. On the other hand, after this astonishing year full of surprisingly frequent visits, it might not be such a big surprise anymore.

Emhyr mutters something in Nilfgaardian and reaches for the bandages, which— another oddity—he’s been keeping for several months in the small washroom next to his bedchamber. Geralt almost regrets that he still doesn’t know the language well enough to understand. Maybe it was a choice curse, who knows? He looks at the wound on his arm; it’s worth a curse. 

"It may not be my duty," Emhyr finally says, "but the quack in my service certainly knows nothing of the physiology of a Vatt’ghern."

"That quack is the Imperial Court Physician," Geralt replies, amused. 

And while his physiology may differ from that of ordinary humans, he bleeds like a human, he feels pain like a human, and the man can surely handle a simple wound dressing. But Emhyr just shakes his head. 

"Hm. It would, of course, be embarrassing if your court physician had to treat a witcher’s wound."

Emhyr pauses in his work, raising his eyebrows. "My dear Geralt," he says, and Geralt has to force himself not to roll his eyes. Here comes one of Emhyr’s infamous lectures. 

"If I instruct the man to take care of you, then he is not to question why he must do so. Embarrassment is entirely irrelevant in this context."

Geralt studies him closely. His hair is slightly tousled, still slightly curled from sleep, which Geralt’s sudden appearance has just pulled him from. But this sight is hardly unfamiliar at court, and mere appearances never deter Emhyr from his plans. Geralt knows that much by now. So it must be something else. The cautious way he touches him. The look in his eyes–

"You don’t want anyone to see you like this," he observes.

Emhyr looks down at himself, irritated. "You think no one but Mererid has ever seen me in my nightgown? Well, you’re mistaken."

"You don’t want anyone to notice how worried you were," says Geralt, studying Emhyr’s gaze.

He blinks. The man has his face under control like a handler controls his dogs, but when he blinks—

"That," Emhyr finally says hoarsely, "may well be true."

Then he leans forward, placing a gentle kiss on Geralt’s forehead—almost casually, a kind of promise. 

"Stay still. I’m not done yet," he says. 

Either way, there was no point lingering in the sitting room. Geralt let himself into the bedchamber, and his heart did something painful and fond at the sight of Emhyr sleeping. He tried to ignore it, willed it away, even as he was walking over. He was at the side of the bed when he remembered: he loved Emhyr, and he knew that, and Eskel knew that, and Emhyr probably knew that, and as yet that hadn't brought about any more than the usual amount of destruction.  

He could just... feel it. He could look at Emhyr sleeping, with his head on one pillow and another tucked under his arm like he'd lost the knack of sleeping without another body to lean against, and feel like he belonged there. In Emhyr's bed, in his arms, in his life, because that was a role he could fill, a job he could do. He could be the Emperor's Witcher and like it.  

Emhyr didn't move--didn't give himself away, if the lurker in his bedchamber had been anyone less astute--but Geralt knew the moment he woke.  

"Not an assassin," Geralt said softly. "Just--" 

Emhyr pushed himself up to sit, a wash of delight turning his craggy features almost young, in the little light that reached Geralt's eyes. Mindful that Emhyr could see even less than he could in this dark, he stepped forward, holding his hands out, saving Emhyr the trouble of disentangling himself from the bedcovers.  

"My dear witcher," Emhyr murmured, catching his hands and tugging him closer still, then catching his mouth in a kiss. "Where is your partner?" 

Geralt laughed a little against Emhyr's mouth. "Not so quickly won over as that, dear majesty. But he did come back with me, safe and sound. He's in his own room, probably already asleep." 

"Excellent," Emhyr said, and he genuinely did sound pleased. And he'd asked about Eskel first thing, when he might have ignored the whole matter of him until morning, and that, too, made Geralt's heart squeeze.  

"And yourself?" Emhyr went on, his hands releasing Geralt's and sliding up his arms. "You smell clean enough, but you know I am not as keen as one of you. Any injuries? Any trouble?" 

"Not as such," Geralt said, climbing onto the edge of the bed so Emhyr could reach more of him, and taking Emhyr's hand to guide it up to the base of his skull. "Lost some hair." 

"A pity," Emhyr murmured, running warm fingers over the shorn part of Geralt's scalp before he settled his hand on the nape of Geralt's neck and tugged him into a deeper kiss.  

Geralt leaned into Emhyr's firm grip, his whole body easing, muscles relaxing that had been faintly tensed for days on end. That human-strong hold on him and Emhyr's mint-clean mouth coaxing his open meant that he was home safe, done with the job, and it was finally time to let his guard down. He let himself sway into Emhyr, trusting his weight to the solid warmth of Emhyr's body. 

Emhyr let out a little grunt, though his body betrayed no great evidence of straining under the pressure. He closed his other arm around Geralt and eased them both down, not bothering to sort out the covers or get Geralt naked--as though all that mattered was both of them here, at their ease. As though he needed nothing more than that.