Chapter Text
The warehouse
They lie together in a tangle of blankets, surrounded by books. Emil cannot still his sense of wonder at the weight of Medric cradled against his side, head on his shoulder. He gently strokes Medric’s hair and says softly, “I dreamed of this too.”
“Did you?” Medric’s voice is only a little sleepy, and Emil smiles.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Not quite. Tell me what you dreamed, Emil.”
Emil gazes into the darkness, his hand still resting in his lover’s hair. “I dreamed of you, though I did not know it was you, offering me a box, surrounded by shadows and flickering lamplight. In my dream, I did not know the box contained the Mackapee manuscript - I believed it contained hope, and that hope was worth dying for.”
Medric presses a kiss to his neck and tightens his arms around him. The silence seems to stretch before he asks, “And did you find the hope you looked for?”
Emil returns the embrace. “I did.” He waits, but Medric does not reply, so he asks, “What did you dream, when you dreamed of this place?”
Medric laughs softly. “I’ve dreamed of this place since I was a boy - a cave of books, lit by lamplight. More recently, in the dream, I’ve been waiting there to give the Mackapee manuscript to someone - someone who cares about it as much as I do. But…” He hesitates, then goes on, “When I first dreamed that I was here, I only knew that I was waiting for someone I loved very much, and when they came I would not be alone any more.”
Emil hugs him close. “You are not alone. We are together, and the hope I dreamt of was that of Fellowship.”
The shepherd’s cottage
The first time Medric enters the cottage, he stops and looks around him with a strange smile. Emil glances back from where he is clearing a space for the first trunk of books and raises an eyebrow. “What is it, master seer?”
“Don’t call me that. This cottage reminds me of my mother’s house - and I’ve been here before.”
Emil considers the unlikeliness of Medric having been to this particular remote highland and smiles. “The cottage from your dream? Well, we have a little while until the sleet falls, but I imagine we will still be here. You must tell me when the scene matches what you saw.”
“Yes. It will be strange - not all my dreams are so beautifully ordinary.” He looks slowly around him. “Maybe it isn’t so ordinary. I haven’t lived in a house, rather than a barracks, since - since my mother died.” His voice is abruptly bleak.
Emil stands and goes to him, taking his hand. He leads Medric to a chair and sits down, drawing him into his lap. Medric leans his head against his shoulder. Emil turns to rest his chin on top of his head. “That’s twice you’ve mentioned your mother. I don’t think you’ve told me anything about her before. She must have been a remarkable woman.”
“I suppose she was. At the time, she was just my mother.” Emil feels him draw a long breath. “She was a fire blood. She loved my father beyond all reason, even though loving him meant that she could not take other lovers or live with a family. I did not realise that until much later, when I learnt more about how most Shaftali live. When she was dying, I asked her once why she had not chosen a husband who could stay with her. She said it was worth it for the times when they were together.”
Emil holds him. Dying for desire’s sake, like every fire blood since the dawn of time. His voice is very gentle when he speaks. “She sounds almost as brave and loyal as her son.” For the first time in years, Medric does not cry alone.
The house in the mountains
Emil wakes from a sound sleep when Medric crawls into bed, mostly due to the draught of cold air. He catches his breath and manages not to yelp and wake Garland, as Medric wraps himself around him with a satisfied snuffle. “By Shaftal, your feet are freezing!”
“Sorry,” comes Medric’s muffled reply, followed by: “Mmm, you’re lovely and warm.”
Emil can’t help but smile. “I was warm, anyway. What kept you up so late?” He refrains from saying “again”.
“I was reading about Tadwell G’deon and the House of Lilterwess in his time. I have some questions for you about that period of history, but I think I’m too sleepy to take the answers in now. Maybe in the morning? At breakfast?” His muffled voice from under the blankets is hopeful.
Emil laughs softly. “Anything you ask, master seer - but in the morning.”
“Mmm. Don’t call me that.” Medric’s voice is sleepier, but he sounds sly when he adds, “But, of course, if it’s anything I want, breakfast and history lessons may be a bit delayed…”
“Is that so?” Emil runs a hand down Medric’s flank, enjoying the smoothness of his skin and his slight shiver as he snuggles even closer. “Delaying breakfast in that way would require you to be awake before me, to institute proceedings. Which seems a bit unlikely, given past precedent.”
“I might wake up early!” Muffled and sleepy indignation.
Emil grins, and presses a kiss to the tousled top of Medric’s head, just showing above the blankets. “Indeed, you might. Sweet dreams, my dear. Until the morning.”
He feels Medric’s breathing deepen and his muscles slacken, but Emil cannot get back to sleep. He can hear Garland’s soft breathing on the other side of the attic. The moonlight dapples the far wall. He thinks about all the times waking in the night would mean a crisis - a Sainnite attack, a missing Paladin, a late-arriving messenger. Now he is woken by his insomniac husband coming to bed with questions about the history of Shaftal.
Emil smiles into the darkness. They have some way yet to go, but this is what his life should be about. Love and scholarship.
Travesty
Emil is reading in bed, but a muttered curse in Sainnese makes him glance up. Medric is still at his writing desk, scribbling furiously. His pen stills, then he puts it down and crumples the sheet of paper into a ball. The offending script sails across the room to land in the fireplace, where it briefly flares among the embers before turning to ash. Medric bends to a new sheet of paper, still muttering under his breath.
Emil watches him affectionately, then glances round the room. Travesty is gradually improving, under Karis’s repeated assaults, and he would describe their room tonight as cosy. The only lighting comes from the fire and Medric’s small desk lamp, which both hides the shabbiness of the walls and glints off the titles of the books on their shelves. The only thing missing to complete the picture is his husband in bed with him. “Medric, what are you working on?”
The muttering stops. “My history of Harald G’deon.”
Emil chooses his words carefully. “Is it - essential you finish it tonight?”
Medric’s reply is plaintive. “No - but I’m stuck. And I want to get unstuck or I won’t be able to get to sleep.”
Emil tries not to laugh at his tone of great injustice. “Would it help to talk about it?”
“Well - maybe. I am trying to write about the period just before his death, but there’s so little recorded from then! Maybe people thought they would have more time, then there was the war…”
Emil feels his suppressed laughter fade as he thinks about that time. He remembers how Harald’s death upended his own life, turning him away from his heart’s desire and towards his duty to the land - until he had seen that he could not serve the future without his heart. Which eventually brought him here, to a Shaftal at peace and starting to rebuild. He says slowly, “You could try asking Norina - after all, she was there.”
“Oh, Norina!” Medric’s voice somehow manages to combine great affection and exasperation. “She will remember exactly what happened and nothing about how any of it felt.”
Emil looks down at the book resting on his lap and feels his lips curve up. “Well, no - feelings and passions are not for our Truthken, are they? That’s fire blood’s business - so you should ask a fire blood.”
Medric turns round, his mouth already opening indignantly to ask exactly where he can find a fire blood who remembers the Fall, but Emil holds up a hand to forestall him. “Medric, did I tell you what I am reading this evening?”
There is a brief pause, then Medric narrows his eyes in thought. “Poetry, I think you said, but Emil…”
Emil raises his finger meaningfully and Medric lapses into impatient silence. Emil continues tranquilly, “I am reading poetry.” He waits, teasingly for a moment, as Medric simmers. “By Dinal Paladin.”
Medric’s eyes widen and Emil admires the effect of his revelation. “Dinal Paladin wrote poetry?”
“She did. So, Medric, if you want to know what the House of Lilterwess felt like under Harald G’deon - I suggest you come to bed.”
Medric is already halfway across the room, and shortly afterwards resting against his shoulder. Emil offers him the book, but he shakes his head. “Read it to me. Poetry makes more sense out loud.”
Emil reads. Medric listens hungrily. The fire burns lower. They lay the book aside for each other, and eventually sleep. Outside, the moon rises over a peaceful Shaftal.