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“Of course, My- Tor.” Cliopher says, sure as ever even in err.
It’s a mistake he makes often, though I am loathe to admit my dear Lord Chancellor makes any at all, much as I know him to be human and therefore capable of flaw. The very least I can do from my pedestal and throne is grant him that.
I am still his Lord.
I have always been his lord, except before I was anything to him at all. I should not blame him for the slip no matter how much it makes me want to frown. To furrow my flat and unaffected brows and turn away.
But sometimes he pauses just long enough, staring right into my eyes with his own (bright and knowing) or strings them together just quick enough, that I begin to think- no.
Begin to almost hope that he may do it on purpose. My Cliopher is clever. My Kip looks into my eyes, sees my face for what I cannot possibly see in the mirror, and he knows things for it. I could not say what, but his brow softens.
I have called him my own since that very first day he came into my study. My secretary, My Lord Chancellor, aloud. My starshine, my hope, in the secret depths of my quieting kaleidoscope mind. If I dared think them any more consciously, I may come out of a daydream during some council to find ive made my professions rather public. So I call him My own Lord Chancellor. (My own.) And if I feel so daring (and as ever I do) My dear Cliopher. Not a one could argue me nor disagree. Who would dare tell the Great Lord Emperor, sun-on-earth, Lord of Rising Stars, what is or isn't his.
It is so easy to believe I am his. Half of anyone worth knowing in the palace would tell you some story of how he has twisted me around his little finger, strung me as his marionette. How he pulls me, unsuspecting, swaying here and there in some dance. They would not be so wrong. Even now I feel myself leaning towards him.
He blinks once, twice, and I worry that he is about to stumble through that false name again. Maybe worse.
“My dearest Cliopher,” I say, letting the words ache with what I cannot hold him, “Would you join Us for the next bell for a stroll?”
It’s normal enough of a request. (A reason to keep him.)
“Of course my… Tor.”
A pause, rather than a hasty stitch. My clever little Kip. I can hear his mind churning- he’s so absorbed he hasn’t even asked about whether we should have the time. We walk in companionable silence to the gardens.