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“An emperor cannot control two things, his time and his heart. His time is dearly occupied indeed, we cannot say he does not work to further the interests of the Empire, but his heart?”
Ardal laughs, his voice slowly fading as he turns the corner.
“How fortuitous for us that our emperor does not have one.”
Emhyr wishes Ardal was right, that he truly did lack a heart. It would be a kindness to feel nothing when he hears Ardal’s footsteps approaching his chambers, it would be a mercy to feel nothing when he feels Ardal’s hands cup his face. When Ardal takes his payment that night, he is gentle, passionate- almost kind.
It feels too close to pity for Emhyr’s taste.
It feels too close to possessiveness for Emhyr’s taste.
Ardal looks at him, and touches him in the way one would a beloved possession, a hard-won prize, a creation laboriously crafted. When Ardal presses kisses to his throat, a mockery of affection, Emhyr’s hand itches for a dagger, to see Ardal's throat cut open and gushing red. It is a crown upon his head, not a collar. Ardal has no claim on him. And yet Ardal’s hands on him feel more damning than any noose, his kisses feel like a punishment for a crime Emhyr has not committed. Emhyr has only rejected Ardal’s advances once. He still bears the scars. The only flowers Emhyr has ever been gifted are those that bloom blue around his wrists, purple bruises that frame his hips and red petals that decorate his neck. These fade with time and even his worst scars grow faint as the years fall by.
All these years and Ardal yet lives. Emhyr is not a wasteful man and whilst Ardal retains his usefulness, why should he remove him?
Emhyr had never meant to lie about his scars to Geralt. The other man has assumed that Emhyr's reign has not gone without near successful assassination attempts and he is not wrong, but the most severe scars belong not to an assassin's blade but to Nilfgaardian nobleman's dagger. Whenever Geralt asks about his scars, regardless of whether it was about a particular scar or not, Emhyr talks about them as a whole.
"Witcher, even the most even-tempered, sweet-natured man would not survive three decades on the Nilfgaardian throne without an assassination attempt or two. And you know well that I am neither."
Emhyr should have known he would not be able to deflect for long. His lover is far too eagle-eyed to allow him respite from Geralt's questions long.
"They're too... clean. Slow and deliberate. These took time, they weren't done in hurried slashes like a surprise attack- Emhyr, someone tortured you."
Torture is overstating what Ardal did to him. The point of the injuries was not to cause pain, merely fear. They were to act as a reminder of what would happen if Emhyr forgot just how much he owed for his survival- and to which man he owed his debt. He doubts Geralt would enjoy quibbling over the wording of what was done to him.
Geralt is not a man who would tolerate lies from Emhyr. Their relationship is already fraught from past deceit, betrayal, bloodshed. Emhyr has never intended to lie about his scars to Geralt- but at the moment, he wants nothing more than to lie to his lover. It is not that Emhyr is ashamed, exactly-
Relationships of the kind he and Ardal had shared were far from rare in Nilfgaard, he has nothing to be ashamed of. In Nilfgaard, young men commonly traded their looks and the heat of their bodies for political guidance from their elders, what he and Ardal had was not unremarkable. Yet... Emhyr hopes that not all those elders were as equally unforgiving when their mentees erred.
What was worse? The idea that what Ardal did to him (what he allowed to happen in his weakness, he deserved it, he deserved it all) was not special nor uncommon, that all had been able to bear the brunt and emerge unyielding, unbroken through it all, except Emhyr?
Or that what Emhyr bore had been unique in its cruelty and no one had thought to intervene? Had his bruises been well hidden and the cracks in his demeanour well-shored up?
They knew. Everyone knew, how could they not? The way you flinch from him, even now his memory evokes fear.
They knew. They just didn’t care. You got what you deserved.
You were weak.
He cannot bring himself to put a name to the man whom he had loved and feared so deeply. He cannot bring himself to beg Geralt not to think differently of him after he is done. Emhyr cannot bring himself to tell the story of Emhyr, who had been so desperate to love and be loved in return that he would enter into a deal with the devil, to exchange control of himself for another man's protection. He hates the young man in that story more than he can say. When he thinks of his weak, pathetic younger self, he feels such utter disgust it makes him sick to his stomach.
Instead, he tells Geralt a story of a young man who had come home to an Empire that wanted a malleable ruler, not an outspoken one. He tells Geralt a story of a young man unsure and unsteady amongst the political elite of Nilfgaard, each path open to him lined with traps, a hundred hungry daggers hiding in the shadows. He tells Geralt a story of a young man rescued from the maw of Nilfgaardian politics by a Lord.
It is with bitterness he talks about Ardal as a hero and not a villain. He cannot find the words to portray Ardal as malicious and he does not know how even he perceives Ardal. Had the man been Emhyr's saviour or his executioner? Would he have survived those first tumultuous years after the Usurper without Ardal's guiding hand?
If he truly hates Ardal- why did Emhyr leave him alive?
Emhyr swallows, throat damnably dry in the face of Geralt's unwavering gaze. He knows how weak this story makes him seem and rushes to fill the gaps before Geralt can assume the worst. Emhyr knew what he was trading himself for. He had not been a child, manipulated and misled into stumbling into a trap. Emhyr had known exactly the pact he had entered into and he had no right to play the victim. He had known, after all, the price he was expected to pay. He had been willing to pay it. What he had not known how much it would hurt to hand himself over. He had not known how hollow it would leave him.
"He would make sure I was safe from all others in the court, that I would learn all that I needed to from him. It is not that he misled me into believing he truly cared for me beyond what use I could be to him. I understood what we were trading. He offered me protection, he offered me guidance and love. "
Ardal was wise with his wording. Safe from all others in the court. Not safe from him.
"Is that what you got?"
Geralt's voice is damning in its tenderness, in its understanding, and it sets Emhyr's skin to itching. The last thing he wants from his lover, the last thing he wants from anyone- is pity.
I was not a child unknowing of the danger of the path I walked. I made my choice. I was unready to pay the toll exacted, and that is no one's fault but my own.
"No." Emhyr laughs at himself, so fucking disgusted with what he used to be that he cannot feel anything else but hysterical disgust at the idea he had ever been that weak creature, buried beneath other forgotten, broken things.
He smiles, viciously wide and knows that despite his expression his smile falters.
"But he was willing to pretend. As long as I was willing to be his perfect trophy, never a toe out of line, never a hair out of place, as long as I was perfect- he would pretend to love me. I couldn’t always meet his expectations and that is no one’s fault but my own, Witcher."
"That isn’t love, Emhyr."
The Witcher’s hand is gentle despite the heavy metal gauntlet it is encased in. Emhyr only allows himself to savour the weight of his lover's touch for a moment before he shrugs it off. Geralt refuses to understand, perhaps he cannot.
"I didn’t care. It didn’t matter that he didn’t see me as a person, it didn’t matter that he didn’t see me for me. You say he didn’t love me- I didn’t want love. Love is useless. Love is for children."
"I wanted devotion, obsession. I wanted someone who would kill, suffer, and die for me. I wanted them to see me and only me. I wanted to stand before them and know that everything else faded away, that I was the only thing that mattered."
"I didn’t want to be loved, Geralt. I wanted to be the only person that mattered in their life. And I knew, I knew damn well it wasn’t true. But fuck, as long as he was willing to play his part and pretend to care about me-"
Emhyr exhales a shuddering breath.
"As long as he was willing to pretend. I was too."
"I’m not pretending. Emhyr… I’m yours. No price, and no stipulations. I’m yours. Nothing would change that."
Nothing?
He remembers the way Geralt had frozen beneath him when Emhyr had kissed him for the first time- all of sudden tense and still where he was once passionate and eager. Emhyr remembers well the observation he had made in the peace and quiet of his own mind. That this Witcher had been so bereft of touches free of violence all his life- so much so that he mistakes a lustful touch for a kind one. That this Witcher would allow Emhyr anything- as long as Emhyr kept touching him with the tenderness of a lover.
Perhaps in this way- they are equally broken.
Emhyr swallows back unforgivingly soft and pathetic declarations of understanding that exposes far more than is acceptable and chooses bitter angry words instead, for they do not leave him so woefully vulnerable to attack. Better to expect and deflect angry words than invite injury to the softest, damnably romantic parts of himself that still believe that one day, he might find someone that values him beyond what he can give them in power and riches.
"Witcher. Don’t ever tell me such a clumsy lie again."
The day Emhyr’s actions once again disgust Geralt, the day their interests no longer align, the day that Emhyr's morals bring condemnation from his lover- Geralt would leave him again. All love comes with stipulations. No love is unconditional. Emhyr is not a child. He understands that fairy tale love cannot be found in the real world.
"Then tell me why the hell I stay? If who you are disgusts me so much?"
He welcomes his lover's anger. As abrasive as Geralt's temper can be, it is a thousand times better than having his feelings rejected and thrown back in his face. He is not expecting Geralt to master himself so quickly as to tamp down on the anger and ease it to beleaguered understanding.
"Emhyr. I am not the saint you think I am. I am not a good man and neither are you. If I could not accept that, then why would I stay?"
“It has never been easy to love you, Emhyr. On the best of days, you are a difficult man."
Emhyr's face betrays his emotion, unable to hide the unease that comes with his lover's words. Geralt has weighed the negatives and positives of being in a relationship with him. That in itself is not surprising. What is surprising is that- the positive has won out? That Geralt knows the extent to which Emhyr is not a good man and has made the choice to stay regardless? He cannot understand that.
Geralt laughs at Emhyr, shaking his head with a world-weariness that ill-suits him.
“What? Did you imagine that it would be convenient to love you? Emhyr, I- What have I ever asked for? What do I even need? I care not for titles, land, wealth-” Geralt looks at him with a tired fondness that makes Emhyr's heart near-still in his chest. Has he gone too far this time?
“Loving you is anything but easy. And yet here I am, and here I will stay. It's not the kind of unconditional love you wanted, but it is everything I can offer. I am many things, Emhyr, but a liar is not one of them."
Emhyr allows Geralt to draw him into an embrace, but cannot bring himself to relax in his lover's arms. He does not quite believe that truly... when all is said and done, Geralt would choose him? Knowing despite his damnable weaknesses, every misstep, every betrayal, he is still the one Geralt chooses. He knows Geralt is not a practised liar. He knows that Geralt more often than not chooses to use the brutal honest truth rather than any weaker lie.
He knows that...
"You are often honest to a fault, Witcher."
His lover hums beneath his breath, kissing Emhyr with a tenderness that he does not truly deserve. Emhyr allows himself to enjoy it anyway. If he cannot be weak behind closed doors, in the arms of the man he- is so very fond of, then when can he be weak? He knows better than to pretend he is unassailable. He knows all too intimately how easily he can be brought low.
He sighs into their kiss, regretful and grateful all at once.
It is easier, perhaps, for Geralt to accept a man with blood on his hands if his past is broken and bloody too.
"He hurt you."
Geralt’s voice never raises above a whisper, but the words hang in the air as though they were shouted.
"Never again, Emhyr. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again."
He does not wish to insult Geralt, and he does not laugh in his face at the promise. It is laughable to think Geralt can protect him from all the dangers in the world. And yet... Isn’t that all he’d wanted, once upon a time? Someone who would defend him above all else, who would make such stupid, laughable boasts of protection?
Geralt's touches are covetous, his hands skimming over Emhyr’s skin with care as though Emhyr would shatter with a harsher grip.
Geralt murmurs those words against his skin like an oath, like a promise- and against his will, Emhyr believes him. How many times will he trust blindly? How many times will he set himself up for betrayal? Emhyr is tired of being alone. Despite all his efforts- his heart is soft. Geralt will surely betray him one day, but for now, Emhyr leans back against him and permits the other man to bring his hand to their face, to tenderly press a kiss to his knuckles.
He is tired. He is weak.
But he is no longer alone.
When Geralt asks him for a name, Emhyr answers.
Geralt returns to him in the early hours of the morning, in a fresh set of clothes and neatly groomed, his hair still slightly damp. When Emhyr rests his head against his shoulder, the soft scent of sandalwood can obscure, but not erase the iron tang of blood that clings to the other man.