#Emhyr/Impera

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

As for your prompts... either Endearments or Outdoor Sex for Emhyr and Lux please!

Center of the Universe

Emhyr/Impera, 3118 words, Explicit

A myriad of stars shone brightly above them, but Lux only had eyes for their reflection in the amber glow directly in front of him. It was hard enough to have the emperor to himself for even a single hour, even harder to persuade him to dispense with his other guards (So you think you're superior to all your men, Lux? We'll have a chance to find out). However, what Lux had achieved tonight seemed almost impossible. Emhyr had settled down next to him in the dust-dry grass, at the far end of the extensive gardens of his summer palace, near a pavilion. The statues that supported its roof had the beauty common to all ancient elven architecture; tonight, however, they seemed nothing to him next to Emhyr's own marble-like beauty. He was careful not to say anything of the sort. This was not an occasion to counter Emhyr's sometimes sharp tongue, at least not with words – and he had little hope for the rest, even if his occasional (forbidden, Lux, be honest) lover seemed quite at easy tonight.

“Where are your thoughts headed?”

Lux blinked. He had obviously been lost in thought for too long; a typical consequence of staring at the figurative sun for too long. Lux's gaze followed Emhyr's elegant neck down to his collarbones, apparent beneath his thin, yet ornate robe.

"The usual," he claimed, "matters of Your Majesty's safety.“

"My safety from what, exactly?“

Emhyr's tone was light, almost amused. Loc Grim was hardly less secure than any other place he set foot in, its location strategically chosen by those who had once built it. He wasn't expecting an attack here, just a little distraction from the summer heat that had Nilfgaard in its grip. Lux sat in silence for a moment, content to simply look at the object of his unseemly and rarely reciprocated desire. Most of his subjects were not even granted so much as a simple glance.

Everything else, even a friendly word, was in Emhyr's power alone. He was usually sparing with the display of his satisfaction, although Lux had come to realize that it was less often shown through a word of praise than through a subtle action. Tonight, however... perhaps it was the strangely peaceful atmosphere that lingered over the evening. The stars, the mild breeze, the gentle chirping of crickets... It was as if they were in a place removed from time and the rest of the world. At least for a single hour.

“I believe,” Emhyr continued as he wiped a cheeky strand of hair from his forehead that humidity had loosened, “it’s not my safety you’re concerned about, it’s rather your own. You don't want to be caught by my guards - your own men.”

“Caught doing what?” asked Lux, who was usually rarely so obtuse, but he could tell by the flash in Emhyr's eyes that he liked it. He always liked it when he saw his effect reflected in Lux's reactions.

"This," Emhyr said, reaching for Lux's shoulders.

They were only sitting so close to each other because there was actually little danger of them being surprised. It could never be close enough for Lux, he always felt like a moth attracted by a flame that would inevitably burn him. Now, however, Emhyr's firm grip ensured they were even closer; and while he searched his eyes for reassurance he didn't even need, he pressed his lips to Lux's.

In the deepest corner of his soul, Lux was not only a heretic, as Emhyr claimed, but also a romantic. A man who believed in soul mates and true love, and yet he was convinced that neither was available to him. Not only was there no place for his kind in the classical concept of love, he had also given his heart to a person he was not allowed to desire, at least not in this manner. That's why a kiss from Emhyr was always bittersweet: a pleasure and yet a reminder that this affection could only ever remain a physical passion. Every single time, he gave in to temptation, and every single time he lost another piece of his heart. Perhaps one day there would be nothing left of it, and Lux himself would have preferred an agonizing death in the arena; hopefully that day was still a long way off.

Emhyr tasted of wine, the rosé from Nazair. An exotic blend of fruits and, strangely enough, the famous Nazairian basil. Lux had never tasted this wine, but he knew the description, and Emhyr's lips confirmed it. He returned the kiss and lost himself in it, and for a while they just sat there and tasted each other.

“Would you like to touch me?”

What a question from those slightly swollen lips, which had now finally parted from his. How could he not want that? It was a privilege, a distinction; something that was granted to very few people. Even the women who bathed Emhyr only touched him with sponges and the velvety towels they had warmed over coals for him.

In the summer, during the long weeks in Loc Grim, Emhyr's complexion took on the tone of ripe olives. He never dispensed with black robes, but their fabric became thinner and lay loosely on his muscular thighs and shoulders.

“I would," Lux returned raspily, and that was the truth; he wanted nothing more than to let his fingers wander under the hem of that gold-embroidered tunic. What you want is to touch the sun, even if it burns you. But that was fine. Many things hurt until you got to their core.

He held out his hands, and to his surprise, Emhyr took them, placed a fleeting kiss on their knuckles, and then breathed, “Wait.”

Perhaps he had overindulged in wine that evening. Not so much because he liked it, but because his retreat to the summer palace in no way meant that the everyday petitioners and emissaries did not haunt him here. In addition, the weather got to him. Although he was Nilfgaardian, and thoroughly proud of his heritage, he did not tolerate the heat well, and on busy days his mood could be worsened by headaches.

Whatever it was, Lux decided not to question it, but to accept the gift as Emhyr now relieved them both of their clothing. First he removed his tunic, then he tugged impatiently at the straps of Lux's light armor, needing his help to fulfill this task. His impatience had as much to do with knowing that his soldiers would be looking for him after a reasonable amount of time - Lux knew both the orders and his men - as well as the fact that he had built up cravings over the last few weeks.

Emhyr scourged himself in the name of his own cult and position, using a complex web of guilt and duty instead of leather whips. As he was still not remarried, against the advice of his counselors, he seemed to assume that chastity was expected of him. Lux found this idea peculiar; he was sure that there was an astonishing tolerance at court for love affairs and even concubines, including men. Yet it was impossible to imagine Emhyr var Emreis, whose occasional outbursts of rage in the middle of a trial were as legendary as the harshness with which he passed many a judgment, as someone who indulged in meaningless affairs.

Instead, he kept approaching Lux, often out of the blue. The captain of his own personal guards was not a suitable candidate for a paramour, not only because he was a heretic whose views contradicted his own in many respects. And yet, the emperor’s eyes were now on his bare skin, while his skillful fingers combed through his hair for the ribbon to untie it. He buried his nose in the flaxen mane, as he often did, inhaling its scent.

“I want to forget,” he murmured into Lux's hair, almost sighing. “Help me forget.”

This was an almost alarming display of vulnerability. If they were both in a different position, if they were both someone else, it would have been easy to share the worries, whatever they were. Instead, Lux knew his words would hardly be met with honesty when he raised a hand to gently Emhyr's caress cheek and asked, “Forget what?”

Emhyr's amber eyes were soft as he looked at him now, and of course he didn't go into it. Instead, he said, “I asked you a question earlier.”

“And I answered truthfully.”

“Then consider the consequences if you keep me waiting too long.”

There was a hint of a smile on Emhyr's face, for once free of any irony.

“I'm here to serve,” Lux murmured.

Now his hands followed his eyes, which had already seen more of Emhyr's body than he was entitled to, stroking hardened muscles that desperately needed loosening. Moon and stars cast a soft, silvery glow on Emhyr's tanned skin. He was a man more suited to gold, but in this somehow unreal light, he was perhaps even a touch more desirable. Lux made a bold advance, placed his lips on Emhyr's and repeated his previous kiss. It was reciprocated with a passion driven by impatience that made Lux overconfident. Gently but firmly, he pushed his ruler into the grass. There was no resistance, on the contrary. Emhyr's hands clung to Lux's hips, and he returned his kiss as if to suck in his breath.

Touching him was always liberating, a carnal reminder that Emhyr was human, not a statue or even the shining light that many of his subjects seemed to think he was. Lying on top of him, skin to skin, was a difficult test of self-control. Still caught in the kiss, Lux's hands gently brushed Emhyr’s body, restless and indefinite, for there was so much to discover and so little time. Now that he was granted to touch Emhyr, he didn't know where to start. Emhyr's impatience came into play again. He grabbed Lux's neck with one hand, slipped his tongue between his lips and dominated the previously tender, if passionate, kiss. He used his other hand to direct Lux's own. Intertwining their fingers, they both ran down Emhyr's hips into the waistband of his light, by his standards almost casual breeches. Then, purposefully, their hands slid together through his curly pubic hair.

It was only here that Emhyr loosened his grip, released his lips and looked Lux straight in the eye. Now there were no more questions. Lux tugged at the strings and pulled Emhyr's pants down his knees. His arousal had already been tangible, now it was fully apparent. He cupped the expectantly erected cock before him; this was the motion Emhyr had waited on, revealed by an involuntary muscle twitch.

As Lux leaned down, playfully sliding his tongue around the tip – its taste even more interesting than Emhyr's lips – he realized that it was not so much Emhyr's cock that he craved, but his desire. A desire that lay dormant beneath a façade of toughness and aloofness. It was a rare privilege to experience it and an even greater one to ignite it.

His tongue play became bolder when he succeeded in eliciting the first rough sound from his emperor. The latter’s hand wandered into Lux's hair, but this time not just to feel it or to dig in it with the joy of a gardener reaching into fresh soil. This time it was the demanding grip of a lover who knew what he wanted and, above all, how to get it. 

A clap of thunder could be heard, still far away, but the dull rumble seemed like an impetus to Lux. He gripped Emhyr's shaft, intensifying his efforts to coax more of those delicious sounds from him, while he deeply inhaled the tangy scent of his crotch.

"Stop it," Emhyr finally breathed, "I want all of you before the rain hits us – or my soldiers."

This time he smiled, giving his otherwise stern face a flawless softness. Lux pulled back, brushing his hair from his heated forehead. He returned the smile because it was attractive and infectious, and said, “Whatever you wish.”

It was much easier to regard this as Emhyr's wish, which he – quite willingly – complied with, than to admit that he himself harbored such wishes. He had lain awake many a night, caressing his own hardness, imagining Emhyr’s hands on it. Yes, he often wanted to feel him, even in impossible situations. Armor was not made to capture men’s lust, and Lux had often stood aching beside the throne for many hours, consumed by his own desires.

He quickly stripped off the rest of his clothes. Crouching down, he turned around; his hair brushed the ground as the first drops of rain fell on the two men. Emhyr, however, grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him again, only to push him gently into the still completely dry grass.

“You're rarely so obedient,” he said, his mouth hungrily searching for places on Lux's body whose mere touch made him shudder.

“Do you want me to resist?”

Emhyr arched a brow, his gaze back to a hint of his usual seriousness, “What I want is for you to want me, that's all,” he returned. “Of your own free will, not because your emperor called you.”

“Of my own free will,” Lux confirmed softly, ”and only for the man you are at this moment, Emhyr.”

They exchanged a smile. Fleetingly, Emhyr let his hands roam across Lux’s body. Many a night he had praised his beauty, in words so unbridled that they had gotten Lux through many other night when he had stood alone on the battlements, completing another of his not so rare punishment duties. Emhyr covered him with his body as the raindrops became heavier; Lux hardly noticed, for now skillful hands teased his member with an echo of his own touches from earlier. Arching his neck, he looked up into the sky with a veiled gaze as Emhyr's thumb moved agonizingly slowly over his glans.

Emhyr's passion always fluctuated between solicitude and roughness, something that often drove Lux to despair. Not because he didn't enjoy it, on the contrary, but because all the tenderness reminded him far too much of what he couldn't have. There had been times when he had let himself be taken by dispassionate thugs in some dark alley, just to get rid of some tension. Such encounters were quickly forgotten, they were cold and calculated and only served the purpose of satisfaction. And of course he was grateful that Emhyr granted him a completely different passion, but it awakened emotions in him that were confusing, desperate and forbidden. 

Emhyr's hands slid down his thighs, gently pushing them apart. With a firm gaze into his eyes, he brushed two fingers over Lux’s lips, and he sucked them in willingly. The rain grew heavier as Emhyr pushed his fingers into him, and as he steadied his breathing and arched his back against the gentle pressure, a light breeze ruffled Emhyr's hair, revealing his dark locks. Lux would have loved to reach up and run his fingers through them, but the captain of the emperor’s merciless guards suddenly lacked the strength to do so.

The rain was warm, just like Emhyr when he finally entered him. Catching his breath, Lux searched for Emhyrs eyes. He was a large man in every respect, taking him in was never easy, but this was a sweet pain. Emhyr above him smiled, brushed a strand of wet hair from Lux’s forehead and began his first gentle thrusts as the thunder above them became more threatening. 

Every now and then, a flash of lightning flashed across the sky, where there were now no stars to be seen. Lux tried to count the distance between lightning and thunder, but Emhyr had begun to suck on his neck, right above his carotid artery, and he whimpered and forgot his concerns about Emhyr’s safety.

“I like you like this,” Emhyr whispered in his ear. “You never allow yourself to be weak, not even when you are being punished. But here-” he thrust harder, and Lux clasped his hands on his hips, ”this is your weakness.”

How true this is. You are my weakness.

Lux did not answer. He pulled Emhyr closer for a bold kiss, and the man responded by thrusting him deeper into the now damp grass, until all thoughts disappeared and their mutual panting became almost louder than the thunder.

Emhyr released into him with a sighing sound as the sky became almost as bright as day with a flash of lightning. For a few seconds, his body trembled on Lux with his final, erratic movements; then he reached for Lux's painfully hard cock, and he came just from the mere touch. Emhyr laughed. It was a choppy, rare sound, but a liberated one nonetheless. He kissed him again, and Lux could feel the fulfillment on his lips.

The rain was still warm, but it had also become quite heavy, and when Emhyr slipped out of him and rose to his feet, he said, “We should probably get dressed quickly. Your men will be beside themselves if they don't find me.”

“Oh, they'll find you,” Lux replied as he reached for his shirt and breastplate, “though they will look in the usual places first. But once they realize you might be outside – in this weather – they'll hurry.”

They were on their way back, already approaching the back entrance that led to the gardens, when Lux's prediction came true. Two Impera came running through the rain, he recognized them; they were the fresh recruits who had only recently joined the guard, the sons of nobles who had yet to earn their spurs. Lux kept the fact in mind that his second-in-command had decided to send these two, for a few words of warning later.

“Your Majesty,” one of them called out, then became aware of Lux's presence. “Captain?”

He saluted briefly, which Lux found almost amusing.

“You have found His Majesty. We were worried about the thunderstorm.”

“You'd better try harder to find me next time,” Emhyr replied with an ironic undertone. His gaze rested on Lux, and something in it warmed his heart. “At any rate, your captain has once again proved himself to my complete satisfaction tonight.”

He pushed past his guards into the palace, and Lux followed him, as he always did. Emhyr’s words, however, echoed in him, and probably would for a long time.

[AO3 version]

[queenofyumcha]

The Witcher Netflix's Emhyr Shrine

(RANT INCOMING, NSFW)

Recently finished watching season 3 of the TWN and I took about twenty psychic damage upon seeing what looked like a statue of Emhyr. (S3E8)

one. He looks like a random philosopher. (kinda feels like the statue is mid-shrug saying 'yeah i just invaded the northern realms. what are you going to do about it?')

two. If his men/Impera Brigade have a fan club/gossip sessions, this is the club hangout

three. Uh. my brain immediately went 'hey what if his men fucked him kneeling in front of his own statue? wouldn't that be fun?'

the thought of Emhyr being fucked (desecrated because it’s a SHRINE??) at the base of his own statue is… 🤭 a desperate mess at the foot of the idealised version of him…

And so, like any fanfic writer, I fired up the episode to scour for, ah, details and -

WHAT ARE THESE TABLES, NETFLIX? ARE WE AT A CAR BOOT SALE? THIS IS WHERE THE BUDGET RAN OUT?

(it really irks me that this room looks so low budget because if you were going to imply that the white flame thing is a cult, which fine, I can get behind that for smut reasons, why would they treat their shrine this poorly? surely, it would be richly decorated? this is giving community hall with trestle tables hastily set up for a bake sale!)

no wonder this was the only shot of the whole room!!! it looks so bad!!! it really ruins the immersion!!!

they can't fuck their emperor on that, one thrust and the entire thing collapses!!! think of the health and safety regulations!

(yes, the amount of candles is also an issue but reduce the number of candles and they can have some fun with wax play. what? you're telling me the white flame is afraid of a little hot wax? surely not?

And now I can’t stop thinking about Emhyr having ritual sex in front of his shrine. His men fucking him before they depart to battle like a good luck ritual, Emhyr over sensitised, fucked nearly senseless at the base of his statue, his men kneeling to worship him 🥰🫶

maybe they’re only allowed to fuck their emperor when they win.

maybe Emhyr’s not allowed to get himself off outside of marital sex to create an heir or being fucked senseless on his own altar. (insert flimsy religious reasoning here- orgasms allowed for duty only?)

OH and the flags here look like an afterthought, nilfs, get your shit together and iron those flags!!! during pride month of all things??? why are they propped up on the walls like that? hang em properly! at least emhyr can use them to help clean up i guess, they're not getting more rumpled.

also, the half-arsed stained glass here pisses me off. you can't even see it because there's a little bit at the top of the window and that's it! but that's just me loving the aesthetics of stained glass.

(also, since stained glass in private residences was a way of showing wealth, it would have been really cool to see a depiction of the sun/emhyr/the var emreis lineage/ the empire in stained glass or as a mural!)

and yes, I was trying to get a clear shot of the guards standing behind Emhyr's throne because I'm fully accepting them as Impera Brigade guards.

I do love that Netflix gave the guards stationed near Emhyr unique fancier armour than the other guards in the palace though!

(BUT WHY DID EMHYR NOT GET OTHER OUTFIT CHANGES? HE'S ROYALTY, WHY IS HE LIVING IN PLATE ARMOUR? ALSO, why is he wearing NORMAL TROUSERS with PLATE ARMOUR?)

I did like the roman columns and architecture here though, that was a nice touch but i felt like it didn't quite fit with the rest of the nilfgaardian theme... It just feels like it doesn't belong in this city:

I just... was not a fan. reminded me of brutalist architecture (i can see why they might have been going for that but just didn't like it for nilfgaard) and of mayan temples?? giving house Harkonnen from dune

OH AND THIS THING. This goddamn carriage...

I RECOGNISE THAT THIS IS SUCH A SILLY GRIPE OKAY, such a silly gripe, but I absolutely HATED the carriage Francesca and Fringilla were in. It looked like it was decorated by an amateur drama production. The metal beads, the shoddy paintwork, it looks so CHEAP.

WHY ARE THERE NO WINDOWS? IF YOU CAN'T AFFORD GLASS, JUST MAKE IT SO THERE ARE NO WINDOWS, which would make sense safety-wise for a carriage transporting the queen of the elves and sorceress???

Mimi looked amazing as ever though. Francesca/Fringilla toxic yuri :))) I loved seeing her pop up through the season and I can't wait to see her in S4.

Anyway. All that said, I do genuinely enjoy watching TWN, I appreciate them for making Emhyr so very fuckable even though he looks nothing like what I expected, (why is he so young. and pretty. I like it but. can we take the beard off. please?) and I will be tuning in for the new season.

I'm quite excited for Liam as Geralt, rooting for him.

[laurikarauchscat]

Ohh please the give me a character ask for: Geralt, Emhyr, Morvran and Ciri ❤️

I just answered Geralt on my previous post, so imma start with...

Emhyr

How I feel about this character

Obsessed. Check out my drawing catalogue. If not for him, I'd not have done a single thing in June.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

otp - Geralt/Emhyr: but I've also enjoyed drawing Emhyr/Letho, and Emhyr/Pavetta.

Non romantic otp

Mererid and Peter, Ciri, Morvran, False Ciri, and the Impera (love fics where they are depicted as loyal and protective - @queenofyumcha 's "wont someone think of the Nilfgaardians" made me think of these fuckers as, ya know, actual people)

Unpopular opinion

This is fandom, so I totally am on board with people ignoring some of his uuuncomfortable actions, I do it myself sometimes... but I prefer engaging with the weight of all his terrible actions present. Makes things more spicy...

Thing that I wish would be canon

Nilfgaard winning the third northern war

Morvran

How I feel about this character

Love him! Even more after I read Eldritcher's fics on Ao3, and drew him pregnant twice ;-)

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Ciri and that baronness (love a man who appreciates milfs, just like me fr)

Non romantic otp

Emhyr, False Ciri and @bomberqueen17 's OC Lulliana (I love the "Fit for Pearls series!)

Unpopular opinion

Only way this man will ever make a kid sharing his and Ciri's DNA is if he carries it himself.

Thing that I wish would be canon

A non fucked up father-son relationship between him and Emhyr

Cirilla

How I feel about this character

LOVE HER! She and Emhyr are the only Witcher characters i actually full on "stan"

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Morvran, Cerys, False Ciri, Daenerys Targaryen

Non romantic otp

Geralt, Yennefer, Rhaegal (Dany's Green Dragon. That bby lizard is even colour coded to be hers)

Unpopular opinion

I tend to Ignore the "time travel" aspect of her powers. It makes her a touch overpowered. That's definately not an unpopular opinion, I see most people do that, but I thought I'd mention it.

Thing that I wish would be canon

The Empress Ending!!!

[valandhirwriter]

Story game

do-androids-dream-ao3acc hat gefragt: Ha ... you shoveled your own grave, miss "I am not good at writing Emralt"... now I want one. What-if. Go crazy. 😂

@do-androids-dream-ao3acc send me her wish - and here we go.

What if...

“No troops,” Geralt of Rivia said, his normally gravelly voice becoming stern as he spoke. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he was entirely unimpressed by the Emperor of Nilfgaard and entirely unmoved by their common history.

Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard and conqueror of a good portion of the north, was not a man who usually tolerated insults. And yet, he had to struggle to hide a smile at Geralt’s attitude. The man was magnificent and stubborn all the same. “You will need more than the last few witchers to fend off the Wild Hunt,” the Emperor replied, his voice a study in tight control. “You will need soldiers, the best there are in this world. And you are not qualified to command them.”

Geralt’s frown deepened, and his white eyebrows formed a steep V on his forehead. “I will not have troops under the command of some Nilfgaardian General in Kaer Morhen,” he repeated, and there was that stubborn glint in his eyes that told Emhyr Geralt would not budge. 

He never did. If anyone knew what had truly happened between them in Stygga… No, Emhyr did not allow himself to think of that terrible, wonderful, embarrassing day. If the truth ever came to light, the bards would have a field day with it, and the salacious tales would cost Emhyr his hard-earned reputation as an iron-fisted ruler. But if there was one lesson he had learned that day, it was that Geralt could be manipulated if he would not budge. “So your objection is a General leading the troops?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Geralt replied, “he won’t know what to do and not listen to sense. We don’t need that when the battle begins.” 

“I agree,” Emhyr replied, hiding even the hint of a smile that wanted to creep onto his face. “So the General would not be the person to give the final orders. That would be agreeable to you?”

He could see the startled glance of the Witcher. Geralt was a smart man, a very smart man even, but he was not good at manoeuvring. “Yes,” he said after a moment, then frowned again. “But who would be in command?”

“I will be,” Emhyr replied, and his heart leapt in a small triumph when he saw the sheer expression of shock on Geralt’s face. “That should alleviate your worry about a commander having no clue what monsters truly mean, would it not?”

He could see Geralt’s shoulders stiffen. “Yes, but… you cannot. It is too dangerous,” suddenly, a very defensive tone slipped into his voice. “We all will be risking our lives there, death will be certainty…”

“I am the Emperor of Nilfgaard; death is the one certainty I have daily on my throne,” Emhyr replied, “and if you agree that me being in command is acceptable to you…”

Geralt cast him a scowl, but before the Witcher could marshall his thoughts and argue, Emhyr had already turned his head to the man standing by the door, awaiting orders. “General, ready Impera Brigade to march come morning, being faced with a battle in an ill-maintained fortification, you are free to recruit whatever additional auxiliaries you deem useful from our forces assembled here in Vizima.” 

The tall soldier saluted without talking back. Emhyr knew General Aeron Cadfael was unhappy with the choice but had known what Emhyr had decided on, and seen where this conversation was going. 

Geralt harumphed, ready to speak up, but Emhyr ignored him for the moment and gestured to one of the soldiers standing guard at the other end of the room. “Captain, fall out,” the soldier stepping forward wasn’t as tall and muscular as the General; where the General was a formidable field fighter, the Captain was a fast rattlesnake. “Captain, assist the General in the preparations, you are free to find auxiliaries of your ilk if they can be useful.” 

The Captain was about to protest Emhyr risking his life in a grandiose fashion. He was never shy to stand up to Emhyr, but Emhyr didn’t give him a chance. “General, Captain… this is it. What I told you, you were preparing for. You had ten years. Now prove you were worth it.” Emhyr kept his voice stern and aloof. He had to. They expected him to. Both saluted and left. 

As they walked out of the audience room, Emhyr turned to Geralt. “You were saying…?”

***

The walls of Kaer Morhen were more impressive than Emhyr had expected. He had made a point of gathering any scrap of useful information about the school of the wolf, and the descriptions of the sacking of Kaer Morhen had made Emhyr assume that most of the fortress had been razed. Now, he saw that this was a misconception. The enemy troops may have slain the Witchers, but their fortress still stood. The towering walls had taken more damage from the ravages of time since than from the soldiers who had slaughtered the inhabitants. Emhyr’s lips twisted derisively; the Kings of Kaedwen had been fools like all northern Kings were. 

Turning his head, he could see the long marching column of the Nilfgaardian forces making their way up the mountain. The terrain was rough, and the pass was ill-maintained, but they moved ahead steadily. Emhyr could see Geralt’s frown - the Witcher had taken to frowning a lot while they marched for Kaer Morhen. He had taken to all kinds of protests since they had marched from Vizima, beginning with the claim that the Nilfgaardian soldiers were not good enough to be of any use. A little duel between him and the General had put paid to that argument. 

It had not been something Emhyr had enjoyed. While he knew Geralt was stronger and more robust than the General, who was fifty-six after all, he had also known General Aeron yet beat any of his younger officers on the training fields. What was worse, Aeron knew he was fighting a stronger opponent. Their duel had been a sight to behold, and deep down, Emhyr still hated seeing Geralt going toe to toe with danger. He could not bear it, not since Cintra, not since Stygga… not since knowing that nothing in their hearts had changed. Geralt had emerged unscathed but grudgingly admitted that Emhyr’s Impera Brigade was better than he had expected. He had sulked for two days after, and Emhyr had quietly enjoyed needling him a bit. 

Other arguments had followed, until they finally reached the foot of Killer trail and Geralt had pointed out that the pass road was impassable for an army. Emhyr had expected that one, and coolly pointed the General towards the sloping path that had been used by the attacking army of Kaedwen decades prior. 

“You had to insist on this, did you?” Geralt growled as their horses approached the stone arch that was the gate of the castle. 

“I did, I do,” Emhyr replied, his eyes still surveying the mighty walls and shattered towers. They were in better shape than he had feared, which would be useful. His eyes went to Geralt, and like always, Emhyr had to try to hide a softer expression that threatened to slip onto his features. “Contrary to others, I have known since the night of Cirilla’s birth that this confrontation was coming. All I ever did, all my deeds, as dark as they were, was to prepare for that day.” He had hoped for more time, for another decade, before the inevitable was upon them, but Cirilla’s escape and her incessant hopping between realities had created a trail on which doom was following. 

“Nilfgaardians,” Geralt shook his head, “I will never get you. You did away with all the trappings of the old world, the superstitions and false beliefs… and then you turn around and believe in prophecy.” 

“All things happen but once, but one time, they have to come to pass,” Emhyr availed himself of a quote that he had picked up from another man. He did not feel ready to fully tell Geralt was driving him. Having lived with the full reality of the prophecy over his head ever since Emhyr had held his daughter for the first time, knowing what was to come was frighteningly real had reshaped the way Emhyr thought, the way he planned. Maybe one day, one day when all this was over, he could tell Geralt, tell him of the icy burden on his shoulders and of the harrowing fear that gnawed at Emhyr. Would his preparations ever be enough? 

Luckily they were saved from further conversation by an old Witcher appearing in the gates of Kaer Morhen. He was almost as tall as Geralt, with steel grey hair and he walked like a man who knew no pangs of age. “When I said: bring allies, I did not say: bring the entire northern armies of Nilfgaard,” the older Witcher grumbled, his voice was as rough and gravelly as Geralt’s was, but he spoke with the firmness of command. 

Vesemir. Emhyr concluded. This had to be the Master of Wolf school. Vesemir the Grimwolf. “Sir Geralt of Rivia asked for too little when he sought allies,” Emhyr answered, cutting into the conversation. He would not stand by and be ignored like an unwanted guest. “He asked for a few fighters, where even an army would hardly suffice. If I am to commit Nilfgaard to war with the unnatural, I will not do so on half-assed terms.” 

The older Witcher turned around; his eyes were not golden like Geralt’s but a pale yellow, like a hawk’s. “Emhyr var Emreis of Nilfgaard, I take it?” he asked, his tone not leaving any doubt that he had recognised Emhyr at once, not a surprise; the armour Emhyr wore screamed the truth. And it did not intimidate Vesemir in the least. “If you are half the man your grandfather Torres was on the battlefield, you’ll do,” he announced before turning seamlessly towards General Aeron. “General, take your men around the castle, towards the east side, and enter by the shattered main gate. You will want to man those walls if I am to guess your plans…”

Emhyr had a hard time not gawking as the old Witcher approached a General of Impera and said something that indicated he knew not only Impera’s preferred strategies but also had read their lesser-known cookbook. 

***

“What are they doing here?” Vernon Roche spluttered, shock twisting his face, eyes darting between Emhyr as he was standing in the Eastern courtyard of Kaer Morhen and another man as if trying to decide whose presence was the greater offence.

The other man, none other than Letho of Gullet, grinned broadly at Roche, clearly waiting for the man to lose it and attack. “You didn’t think that the Wolf wouldn’t bring my honourable employer to this little dance?” the Viper Witcher asked, adding a mock bow towards Emhyr. “I cannot serve with a satisfyingly slow end, your always-cantankerous majesty.”

In most situations, Emhyr would have barked a sharp answer, but seeing the Bluestripes Commander go red as a beet was way more satisfactory. “I expected Sir Geralt to bring all surviving Witchers,” Emhyr replied, like he had always known Letho yet lived, “it will be fascinating to compare your numbers to my list, to see whether he missed someone.” 

Letho barked a laugh, his eyes betraying venomous amusement. “They are here, Emperor; if I were you, I’d not get into debates with the bears.” 

Their barbed conversation was interrupted by Roche’s voice rising as he talked to Geralt. “You cannot let them stay. They smashed Temeria, enslaved Temeria… they are the ones behind those accursed elves…” 

Emhyr studied the man coolly, his eyes hardening. “Either make yourself useful and show some of your vaunted military skill, Roche, or turn tail and run down these hills. Maybe you’ll find a hidey-hole with some squirrels in it.” 

Geralt’s annoyed glare at Emhyr was worth it, Emhyr decided. There was nothing more formidable than a certain Witcher getting truly pissed and barking orders at people. Did Geralt even know that he had all the command a knight in the armies needed in him? Emhyr wondered. He could see Geralt easily leading men into battle and being formidable at it; he could be so much more than just a wandering monster hunter. Not that Emhyr would give up on that monster hunter any time soon. 

Unfortunately, Vesemir came down from the wall where he had been plotting with General Aeron, and one glance of the old Witcher silenced all parties involved. “If you are quite done holding court with your freshly broken-in subjects, your Majesty, the General, and I have a plan on how to make use of all that liquid fire your armies brought along.” 

***

Emhyr stood on the west wall of the castle as the night fell, a freezing chill had been creeping into the air during the last two hours, and there was something… something dreadful in the air, something he had not felt since his days as a cursed monster. A dread of something creeping closer and closer. He had to exercise all his discipline to appear quiet and collected, at least on the outside. 

Along the battlements were crates with bottles of liquid fire stacked up for easy use. The green liquid inside the bottles shimmering like poison into the darkness. 

Down in the main yard, he could hear Aeron address the troops; his powerful voice carried easily up to the main walls. They have told you that man cannot stand against the unnatural; they have told you we never had a chance, that we all are dead. Here’s your truth: we all will be dead. But until then, we stand! When the conjunction spit your forefathers out on these dark shores, they were faced with monsters tearing them apart. Until the Sun Knights drove them back, but until that day, our forefathers stood! When the mages brought the monsters back, our ancestors were bloodied until the Witchers came to put an end to the monsters again. But until that day, we stood on our own! And after all, they threw at us, we are still here! We stand!

Emhyr bit down on his lip, preventing himself from making a face, as a thousand voices answered from the battlements.

We stand!

The Emperor did not know where Aeron had to go in his mind to find another gutsy speech for the men he was to lead into another hopeless situation. He somehow always found the words and then some way to get them through the nightmare. He made it look easy. Emhyr knew the speech should have been his; he should have addressed Impera. Only he never had found the words to get them to that point: ready to tear apart any enemy that came at them, forgetting fear and pain, acting on sheer courage and desperation. It was not the man that Emhyr was - he was a thinker, not a fighter, and the only reason he was here, was to make Geralt accept the help that the Witcher so clearly needed.

Emhyr could not admit it to anyone: he was not here for his daughter, for the girl he had lost a long time ago. He was here for a certain white haired Witcher, wo stood ready between his brothers down in the east yard.

One of the Witchers - the grey haired Griffin - suddenly looked up to the skies. “The moon casts no glow…” the words made no sense, until suddenly a gust of freezing cold swept over the yard. Emhyr felt the cold coming, an icy chill that enveloped him, his blood freezing, as the ice encased him, freezing him on the spot. 

From afar he heard noise, battle noise, voices, screams, explosions ripping through the air, the battle was erupting… and not reaching him. He was still frozen, the ice forming a barrier between him and the events. An explosion shook the west wall and shrieks rose, as green flame engulfed attackers, burning them in hot green fire. It all echoed past Emhyr. 

Then, his eyes, still under the ice, saw a familiar figure down in the yard. Geralt. Faced with two… no, four, attackers, the Witcher had retreated into the yard below, his blade a silver arch, as he pushed back one opponent, ducking deftly under another hit, and coming up, he beheaded one of the Aen Elle attacking him. Another went down, Geralt’s blade in his chest. 

But then it happened: as Geralt was yanking his sword free from the falling opponent, he was impaled from behind by one of the two remaining foes. The Witchers’ graceful movements suddenly broke, the power holding them cut like the strings of a puppet, as he crashed to his knees, his enemy’s blade in his back.

Emhyr wanted to scream, to reach out and pull Geralt away from the hunters, but the ice still held Emhyr in place, and so he saw Geralt on his knees and the Elle circling him leacherously. They wanted to play with their prey before allowing him to die. White hot anger rose inside of Emhyr, a bloom so hot he could not believe the ice around him still lasted. Those bastards wanted their pound of flesh, he could see that.

Reaching deep inside Emhyr found the dark spot in the recesses of his mind, that dark coil of fear and hatred that had laced his monstrous existence, the spark of despicable darkness that was his true self. Pulling on it, like he had not since his days as Duny, he brought it forth, feeling the pain surge through his body as the ice shattered, freeing his body from the cold encasement. Losing no time, Emhyr raced along the wall to the crate still holding some bottles of green fire. Taking them, he threw the first at Geralt’s attacker, ready to impale him again. Emhyr might not be a good fighter, but his aim was true - the bottle shattered on the shoulder of the Elle and exploded, green flame engulfing the warrior, who tumbled away screaming.

Emhyr threw the next bottle, hitting the second Elle in the yard, scorching him as well. Hastily he looked around, flames were engulfing most of the gate and the east wall, but the fighting clearly had moved towards the front gate, the attackers were being pushed back. Losing no further time Emhyr raced down into the yard, towards Geralt who had sunk in on himself, breathing shallow and erratic. 

Hastening to him, Emhyr knelt down beside him, carefully cradling the wounded Witcher in his arms. Geralt’s breathing was laboured and painful, his skin had taken an unnatural pale tone and his eyes were glazed over. “Do you have any swallow left?” Emhyr asked hastily, he knew the Witchers had a draught that could get them back to their feet from almost anything.

“All gone,” Geralt rasped. “Shattered… you must let me go, ‘Mhyr,...”

The nickname sent a surge of pain through Emhyr’s heart. It was one of the few endearments Geralt had ever used, one that felt sweeter to him than any other. “You cannot give up, Geralt… not when…”

The words died on his lips. Not when what?

The story of their love had been nothing but chaos. Geralt had saved him in Cintra, and that night Emhyr had not wanted his newlywed wife but the Witcher who had saved him. If anything had made Calanthe hate Emhyr, it was his affair with Geralt. And when they had been pulled apart, Geralt taking on the father role for Emhyr’s daughter when they found each other again in Stygga… Emhyr had realised that after all these years, he still loved Geralt, and miraculously, Geralt loved him still. But again, fate, a pogrom, and death had torn them apart.

“I cannot let you die again,” Emhyr’s voice was rough as he tried to move Geralt into a more comfortable position. “I cannot. I mourned you once; I was ready to burn the entire North in punishment… I just… I can’t do it again.”

A small voice inside his head reminded him that he still was a monster, a worse monster even than Duny had been. He was cold, the blood on his hands was the blood of nations, and his love was all dark, tainted, poisonous. Geralt’s death, then and now, would be caused by Emhyr’s darkness. 

A movement at the entrance of the yard made Emhyr startle. Another Elle had appeared there, sword in hand, and Emhyr didn’t need to see his face to know the wolfish smile on his face. He had no green fire left to fight the Elle off, either.

He let Geralt go and scramble to his feet, drawing his blade. His heart was racing against his chest. Emhyr had made a point of re-learning sword skills after he became the Emperor, it was expected of him. Aeron had been a patient teacher, trying his best to give Emhyr a good basis to defend himself. And Emhyr had hated every moment of it.

The Elle rushed him, the attack wild, powerful. Emhyr evaded, sidestepping him, blade raised before him, ready to block. The Elle came about, and a quick series of attacks followed. Emhyr parried, ducking under one, parrying the next. Steel crashing on steel, in the old song of war. He followed the Elle’s movements, blocking the next advance; his blade slid down his opponent’s, hitting the crossguard; he felt the pressure against his hands as the Elle broke free his blade in one powerful movement, sending Emhyr’s blade flying across the yard. 

Emhyr panted; he could not even be shocked or afraid. This was it. The End. He would die here. And maybe… maybe if Geralt was free of Emhyr’s taint, he could live, be better for it. He raised his chin, daring the Elle to do his worst when a movement behind the Elle alerted him that they were not alone, and a huge blade cleaved through the Aen Elle, sending him down to the ground in two halves.

A huge witcher stood there, seven feet tall, with a grey mane of hair. “You injured?” he asked in a growling voice.

“No, but Geralt…”

“He’ll make it. I hear his heartbeat, and he is breathing alright - he’ll come around.” The Witcher replied. “Stay with him; we’ll clear the stragglers.”

Stragglers… did that mean the battle was done? Had they… had they somehow, impossibly somehow… won? Emhyr stumbled back to Geralt, who was trying to get up and stand. Knowing how useless it would be to tell him not to, Emhyr extended a hand and helped Geralt get to his feet and lean on him. The Witcher coughed, finding his footing. “Are you crazy going toe to toe with them?” he asked, rasping. 

Emhyr cast him a glare as he guided him to sit down on the stairs of the battlements. “Should I have left them to you?” he asked tersely. He hated swordplay when he had to fight himself, but having protected Geralt made it worth the countless hours he had spent sweating in the training yard.

“Oh, shut up,” Geralt grumbled. Suddenly, Emhyr found a familiar warm hand at his neck and was pulled into a fierce kiss. 

Wrapping his arms around Geralt, Emhyr let himself sink into the kiss, claiming the next when one ended. From somewhere behind him, he heard voices; orders barked as the troops moved across the fortress to clean up. Settling beside Geralt, Emhyr snatched a third kiss, not letting go of his Witcher. He spotted Aeron’s voice among the others. He lived. Good. He could handle clean-up and then come up with the next strategic steps along with the old Wolf Master - Emhyr did not intend to leave Geralt’s side anytime soon. Death had failed to tear them apart and Emhyr would not give it another chance. 

[ashkaarishok]

Geralt, the wolf protector

930 words - Rated G

In a world where the death of the Usurper allowed the coronation of Emhyr var Emreis and his wife the Lady Pavetta of Cintra, peace treaties have been reached between the Nilfgaard Empire and the Northern Kingdom. However, there are those who wish to see these accords broken at all costs, even that of a Princess’ life. The White Wolf disagrees and jumps in… literally. 

For the last eight years of his life, Mousesack had devoted his life to protecting, teaching, and nurturing two young Sources. He had followed them to the Southern Empire of Nilfgaard despite the locals’ disdain and the jealousy of the Court Mages. Just like he had ignored them all until now, he continued to do so as he barged into the Meeting Room and called over the brouhaha of the agitated nobles and mages: “I found her, Your Majesty.” The crowd parted and turned toward him, showing the Emperor straightening from his lean over a map of the country. Empress Pavetta was less composed, immediately on her feet and running to his side. “Where?” “She’s using the talisman I gave her. She’s calling me.” “How many soldiers can you take along?” the Commander of the Guard asked. “None. The talisman is a one-way single-man portal.” Pre-empting any protest, he added while staring at Pavetta reassuringly and then glancing at Emhyr for his agreement: “If she’s calling me, then she’s alive and alone. I’ll go in, free her, and help her escape. As soon as we’re out of the anti-location ward, Fringilla will be able to find us and portal guards to us.” “Do it,” Emhyr agreed. “Fringilla, Impera, prepare yourselves.” After a last nod at Pavetta, Mousesack focused on Ciri, on her unique power, and the little spark of his own he had imbued into her talisman. This kind of teleportation was different from portals: he didn’t control its opening. One second he was in the castle and the next he found himself underground.

Unused to the darkness, he blinked and had to rely on his hearing to step back when the growl of a beast sounded out in front of him. He called light to his hand, and the flash of it blinded him temporarily as well as the other occupants of the room. “Mousesack!” Ciri shouted happily, her sweet voice attracting his attention to a corner of the room. She was curled up tightly, sitting on the ground, while in front of her stood a white dog… no, a wolf?! It was the source of the growl, but it was fading and the wolf was relaxing.  Ciri scrambled to her feet, walked around the wolf, and threw herself in Mousesack’s arms, who welcomed her gladly. The young girl had barely reached her tenth birthday, and she had already been abducted and threatened. Poor girl. “My dear, are you hurt?” “I’m fine. They didn’t hurt me. They were going to curse me, but something happened, and… Geralt killed them.” “Geralt?” The name rang a bell, but surely… Ciri gestured at the wolf who had sat down and was watching them. “Him. He was a man, at first. There was a portal, he came out of it as the mage threw the curse at me. It hit him, and he became… a wolf. Then he killed them.” Mousesack observed his surroundings for the first time and was startled by the proximity of three corpses. They were covered in claw and teeth marks but in very precise and deadly places. “Oh, dear.” He pressed Ciri closer to his side, to spare her the sight, although surely she must have seen the worst of it. He looked back at the wolf, noticed a glint of silver around its neck, and tentatively asked: “Geralt? of Rivia?” The wolf barked and nodded, while clearly displeased. “Well, that’s… a headache in the making and a story we’ll have to revisit later. For now, let’s get you out of there. There’s a magic ward on this building stopping the Court Mages to find you. Let’s destroy it or move out of it, and they’ll open a portal immediately to bring you back.”  “There is no door,” Ciri complained. “The mage portaled us here.” Geralt let out a loud huff and pointed at a wall with an annoyed tilt of his head. Mousesack turned around to see what he was hinting at. All he could see on the wall was a ring for a torch that held a rock instead. It was high on the wall, too high for them to reach.  “This? You think this is the enchantment?” Geralt walked up to his side and grunted as he tapped the silver necklace around his neck. It was the wolf head of the School of Witcher. “Ah, your pendant is vibrating.” “Do you know Geralt, Mousesack?” Ciri asked curiously. “I do know a Witcher called Geralt of Rivia, indeed,” he confirmed as he studied the engraved rock. “That’s a story for later, I think. Everyone, step back, I’ll blast this.” With the rock reduced to dust, they coughed long enough that a portal had already appeared.  “Easy, gentlemen,” Mousesack had to call before the cave could be filled to the brim with overexcited soldiers who were a bit too eager to wave their blades near Geralt. “All enemies are dead here. I’m afraid there’s only clean-up left. The Princess, however, is eager to go home, and her… new friend is to be allowed to follow as well.” This is how one White Wolf followed Princess Cirilla to her home, the Palace of Nilfgaard.

[bittersweetbark]

So, "anon", no: It's not bitchtweetbark or bitchkingofangmar, although those would be excellent names - it's bittersweetbark as in

"Emhyr. Emhyr who smelled like bitter-sweet bark and barked with laughter at Geralt's sarcasm."

Because

"The other day Geralt sat in the library reading - or trying to read - and the emperor, accompanied by his two obligatory Impera, swept in with a book from his personal collection (Rembert Dodoens' legendary Herbarum Historiae about Nilfgaardian plants and their alchemical properties), leant against the table so close Geralt had to look straight up in order to talk to Emhyr's face and not his pelvis, and swept out again seconds later, leaving Geralt with the tome and the urge to stare into thin air. Air faintly smelling of warm musky oak moss and orange zest and traces Geralt hadn't identified yet and were probably part of Emhyr himself."

(that's from "Jane Eyre and Wyverns")

Would be a shame if I couldn't see those very funny hate messages because I wasn't tagged right.

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Does the Lady of Space and Time really need Rosa var Attre as a guard? Ciri can defend herself. Then that's more about officialdom, but in this way it devalues Rosa's personality and skills. And it's a different matter when we're talking about the emperor Emhyr who's just a human, tho he has Impera Brigade.

Cirilla may be the better fighter, but she is Empress, and an Empress need not draw her sword all the time when there is someone who can do that for her.

(In Nilfgaard's court - or any other for that matter- one settles disputes with the opposition with words -written or otherwise-than with a sharp blade. And if diplomacy fails and an impasse cannot be breached, well... there is the Secret Service).

And if there comes a time when the Empress draws her sword, it helps that someone is there to watch her back. Rosa isn't just there as Ciri's adjutant, but Rosa also serves as an affable companion, an advance scout and a sparring partner.

Also, I recommend the fic Suns and Swallows by @jawanaka on AO3 where Rosa var Attre's plays an important role in the Empress Ciri's court.

[seventfics]

Lionhearted

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Talking in your Sleep Relationships: Cirilla/Morvran Voorhis (+ background Emhyr/Geralt) Rating: T  Content Warnings: None Summary: Before her future reign can begin, Cirilla has to commit to the trust exercise that is an arranged marriage. If only her sleep would be peaceful.

Read on AO3

* * *

“...Cirilla?”

Ciri stirs fully awake at a gentle touch over her shoulder. It is a miracle she does not lash out instinctively and break something. Her limbs feel tight, aching by how tense they’d become in sleep. The faint shadows of a nightmare still dance behind her eyes. She hears the clopping of hooves, the horses of the Wild Hunt approaching—the cold blast of winter hits her as if naked in the snow.

Pure imagination. The bedroom is warm-lit by a hearth. It is summer, and she is safe. She is more than safe.

The touch that rose her pulls her back from the lingering vision of doom. She turns to light eyes, pinched in worry.

“Sorry..." She draws the sheets closer, her wild hair a fan over her face. The room is warm, but a chill runs under her skin all the same. "Did I disturb you?”

Morvran studies her. He sits a comfortable distance away from her. The monstrously-large bed makes that easy. “Not really.”

Slowly, her muscles unwind from their tense curl. A minute passes, and she’s tired again. “Don’t let me keep you awake,” she says rolling on her side, and then, almost a whisper, “you know, you can call me Ciri.”

* * *

The final battle is over. It has been for a peaceful few years. And yet, her mind stays restless, ready for the next enemy to come tearing through her life. So far it’s only been arrogant old men with predictable ambitions, which is pitiful compared to the ageless Aen Elle that had chased her through time and space, and the world-ending White Frost waiting at the end of it all. Really, they should step up their game if they want to make her sweat.

Her dreams made of frost and blood do most of the work for them. It's inescapable. Exhausting.

Every time she wakes from snow clogging her lungs, she sees Morvran had stirred awake in the night, and she apologizes with genuine-felt guilt.

Her husband is always polite about it, which is hard for her to accept at first. Experience tells her to expect a confrontation, or a fight about affecting him with her sleeplessness. But Morvran—she discovers quickly into their spousal arrangement—is quiet company, even if sometimes he seems a little on edge himself. A soldier's nervousness lies behind his gaze. The General without a war to fight. At least she’s not the only one struggling with peacetime.

They say that marriage forges a bond between two souls. That is what her father—of all people—tells her on one of their joint-breakfast mornings.

“There is a responsibility there," Emhyr says with enviable composure. "He is the only one’s opinion you must consult and rely on with matters of state.”

Ciri nearly scoffs. “Not even yours then?”

“Not even mine. Do you not trust him?”

She thinks long after that, a little angry with his nonchalance. Of course she doesn't. Of course it's not that easy. Ask any other lady or princess what their marriage gave them and see if any one of them bring up the word trust. Her father is biased. His own marriage had been sown by destiny's hand.

And yet, after the whispers of dark dreams rouse her at night, she does trust Morvran to be near, to remind her with his presence that she is no longer a child running from great and powerful enemies anymore. She is the daughter of the Black Sun. Nothing can touch her now.

Would be nice to sleep well again on her own soon, though.

Emhyr accepts her silence and sips his tea while it is still warm. He doesn't say anything about the dark circles under her eyes, and she doesn't talk about why they're there.

Geralt visits not a day after, the first time after her marriage, and he sure won't let it go unaddressed.

“I'm fine, Geralt. Haven’t slept well is all.”

That is all she's willing to say, not wanting to bother him too much when he'd arrived so happy to greet her. But it’s Geralt. He knows her better than anyone. Better than she knows herself.

"Haven't slept? You know what that does to your clarity of mind. And are you doing anything about it? Is it the mattress? I tell you, they make them too soft in the south. You need a little firmness to stop you when you're tossing..."

His fussing calms her heart. The opposite would be just as true. If he panics, all her own worries neutralize as she remembers how to think straight for him. They are each other's pillars.

So he frets, and she waves him off, feeling a little better by the second.

Tea together in the garden is a relaxing surprise activity with him, although now that he's brought up the topic of modern furniture and poor craftsmanship, Geralt is grouching about how uncomfortable the chairs are.

“They’re meant to keep your spine straight," she says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, and it’s crap. Doesn’t fit all of me.”

“That’s because you’re carrying fifty pounds of armor and steel. You might not want to rest all your weight on it actually.”

Geralt purposely leans back on his chair, the wood giving an alarming creak. “Are you calling me fat?”

She laughs at him so hard the Impera keeping guard from the garden's entrance twitch their heads to them. They act like a sign of joy from her is a terrifying dragon come to burn the palace down.

“I miss that,” Geralt mutters with a fake pout.

“What? My laughter?”

“Your…ease with it. I know being empress is nothing to scoff at." At the mention of her future court, Ciri touches her imperial diadem—both a symbol of her patrimony and a wedding band. Geralt tracks the gesture. The sigh he gives is heavy and long. "I mean, shit, this whole marriage thing attached to it isn’t what either of us planned for."

The metal warms under her rubbing thumb. "None of what's happened in our journey ever has been."

A witcher's path is unpredictable. One lives by the day and learns to adapt to what comes. And she's doing that still. Adapting like a witcheress. Soon, she'll have to start thinking more like an empress.

"The General," Geralt starts, and she refocuses on him and the serious set of his brow. "He’s a good man at least. A little…eccentric I think, but he is one of the better ones in Emhyr’s court.”

Now it's her turn to grumble, “I know. It’s annoying. I wish I could have a reason to hate him but he’s so…ugh, mannerly!”

This time Geralt laughs, and for a moment, Ciri is a witcher’s child in the wilds again, punting her father’s shoulder for a dumb joke he's pulled at her expense.

She stops suddenly when a familiar figure, all shoulders and dark colors to contrast his light hair, comes through the garden gates. 'Speak of the devil' might be a rude thought to have, yet it perfectly encapsulates how luck draws its cards on her this morning.

“Geralt of Rivia!” comes Morvran’s happy voice. “I thought I heard the rumble of bickering servants on the way here. Now I understand what displeased them so.”

“I’m not wearing their black-and-white cotton traps and you can’t make me.”

Ciri blinks between them. It surprises her how well Geralt gets along with him, and how openly joyous Morvran is being about his company—and yes, she would call him joyous even as his face is subtle in expressing it. Breaking courtly address would normally upset her recently-made husband no matter the suspect. And yet Geralt, who does not mean to do it intentionally, receives no such berating speeches on etiquette and formality. Actually, Morvran shakes his hand the northern way of greeting. Maybe he's good at adapting too.

“Of course not, sir witcher," Morvran says with his other hand raised in acquiescence. "There is no dire interrogation to fulfill at this hour.”

"Don't threaten me with a free clean shave again." To her, he offers a parting, “Alright. I've taken up enough of your time, I’m gonna head out.”

Her heart sinks at the cursory goodbye. This is her father in all but blood leaving her secure little bubble once more, to be a witcher without her. She is not a child anymore—he doesn't ruffle her ashen hair, though she dearly wants him to for old time's sake. It would mess up her diadem and the intricate plaiting of the braids behind her head.

She is not a child anymore, and yet she is already melancholy at the quick turn of his back.

"See you later, Geralt." Her words are a promise. We will see each other again.

As he steps into the flower path that winds back to the guards, Morvran calls out, “His imperial majesty is currently in a meeting.”

Geralt stops. He looks, for some reason, abashed. “What? Why are you telling me that?”

“I thought you would be privy to that information." Morvran shrugs in dismissal. "Va faill."  

It's almost funny how fast Geralt stomps out of the garden. As Ciri observes the exchange, all her previous heartache is swept under the rug. There is something she's not picking up. Fortunately it's not all she has to talk about to her present, lingering company.

“It’s weird that you two actually get along.” At her words, Morvran turns to her with open surprise.

“Geralt of Rivia is a genial man," he says, his hands meeting behind his back as is Nilfgaardian custom in public. "I believe anyone would be glad to refresh their acquaintance with him.”

Ciri, who was not raised with said customs and is instead being tutored in them with little success, snorts. Loudly.

“You just like that you can rope him into joining a riding competition on a promise of free food.”

Under all his Nilfgaardian powder, Morvran blushes. She can see it in his ears.

She laughs at him too.

* * *

It’s another night of bad dreams. Her memories have toyed with her enough that now she is witness to futures she cannot control. Geralt alone on the Path, the Empire at war with itself from her negligence, all of her old friends, her family, broken apart and dying as she lives on.

She wakes slowly, not in a startle or a choked breath. Her body aches worse than if she had.

Morvran is already awake beside her, a frown set upon his lips.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Between waking and the dissipating fear of her nightmare, Ciri is caught completely off guard. “I...didn’t, no.”

He doesn't explain any more, choosing to give her space as he's done for previous interrupted nights. Part of her wants to ask more. She wants to hear what she had said—what nightmare had she been speaking into existence. Did he recognize anything? Did he want to ask, but simply refrain out of properness?

Whatever it is she uttered in fever sleep, she lets it go. Talking about it now would be worse, somehow. Like making her nightmares a real, concrete thing.

Sleep still fights her long into the night. It does not come a second time. Which is good, as she opens her eyes to a timely assassination.

The weapon under her pillow slides into her hand not a breath later. She always keeps something sharp and deadly there. Good habit, both her fathers would say, for different reasons.

Before the assassin can strike, Ciri blinks in between time. They are dead where they stand, frozen mid-step, collapsing the very next instant time moves for her.

In the commotion that follows, everyone wakes. The emperor looks as regal and rested as always and Ciri envies that as her hair resembles a rat’s nest, mussed from the fear-sweat of her haunted sleep. At least Morvran is just as unkempt as her. They make quite the competition for most messy bedhead, side by side. And though the hours stretch on, from private meetings to argued suspicions, Morvran looks in his element. Her element.

Put an enemy in front of them and they will beat it down until it’s rid of.

Her mind is driven to this new task. Securing entry points, questioning any guards that had slack. Her edges feels frayed—sticking to Morvran like a shadow as they move from room to room, servant to official, order to action, way past sunrise. Her angry expression turns any worried servant away from asking for her imperial majesty to eat.

The assassin had tried to kill him. And no one seems to be that concerned since her own head is still attached to her shoulders. Not even Morvran.

Things calm down well past noon. They both return tired and dry-eyed to their arranged room.

She touches his sleeve and holds his weary gaze. “If you die I won’t forgive you.”

Morvran nods, like she makes sense. “I would never plan on it. It would upset your father.”

For a second, Ciri doesn’t know which one he means, and that makes her smile stupidly, at its pure truth.

She wipes her grin off before Morvran has a chance to politely appreciate it.

* * *

“You’re antsy.”

Ciri hums, taking a bite of her deviled eggs. “I'm not antsy.”

“You are bending the good fork.”

She stares down at her hand and finds that Emhyr is right and the fork is just a little twisted at the neck.

"I'm sure someone's job is to fix it. Just, call them."

Nothing in her posture or her expression could possibly tell Emhyr what sits heavy in her head, short of him being a mindreader. And yet, somehow, he pieces everything together correctly to ask, “Would it be so terrible for you to like him?”

Ciri sighs, looking up at the ornate chandelier, begging it to crash down on her and get her out of this conversation. Because she already does like Morvran, quite a lot, and it is terrible. She would hate to admit to her father that he is right. He’ll never live it down.

Of course, she doesn't need to say anything at all. Her godsdamned mind-reading father already knows. When did he learn to read her so effortlessly?

...Has he been consulting Geralt?

However it may be, Emhyr clears his throat and straightens his fork on his side of the breakfast table. “Some people," he says as she sulks internally, "are fortunate and marry the one they love. Others find a way to make it work.”

At his following pause, Ciri straightens in her seat to meet his gaze. His silences are always weighty and grave.

“I hope that he is worth the work,” he ends.

Then the moment passes, and he's eating again. Leaving her to contemplate alone what it means that her father, the emperor, might actually want her to be happy with the man who would share her rule once she is officially crowned. It's...it's trusting. It's too much to think about so early in the morning.

Being who she is, however, Ciri returns to the source of her sulk and the many questions it created.

“So, have you spoken with Geralt?”

Emhyr drinks his tea very slowly. “Of course not. Had he anything important to relay to me?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I'm sure you know he came to visit recently, but you don’t ask me what we talked about?”

“Whatever it is you two get up to does not concern me.”

She hums, sipping her own tea. “It’s funny I guess, I thought you asked of him through Morvran.”

Emhyr sets his cup down, narrowing his eyes in thought. As he studies her, she keeps on sipping her tea until it’s finished. “Just curious,” she adds before parting for the day. Give him something to puzzle over that isn't her.

* * *

'Did you know you talk in your sleep?'

Only two nights of the next seven does she stir awake. Not from bad dreams, exactly. Not from dark memories or anxious fears either. Ciri rubs her face now, frustrated, pulled from sleep again for no apparent reason.

Morvran is awake beside her, as he always is. His face is not pressed with a frown, though. She can't stop thinking on his words so casually spoken the night an assassin tried to take him from her, and settles back onto her enormous pillows.

“...What did I say this time?”

“Oh,” he blinks at her, and it’s sleepy and lazy, not at all very general-like. “Something about a swallow. That you miss it. Did you used to own a bird?”

She closes her eyes briefly, oddly at peace with her sleep talking. He had listened to her secret fears for all these nights, her haunted screams, and made them his own secrets.

If she could trust him to know that, then, it is not so difficult to trust him with the more simple things.

“No. Swallow was the name of my sword. I carried her with me everywhere.”

“Ah. Where is she now?”

“I gave her to Geralt before I came to be here. A witcher’s sword is not something I can wield from a throne.”

He touches his hand to her cheek, the first time he’s breached courtly etiquette with her. It is warm and callused.

“I am confident that sir Geralt keeps Swallow sharp and oiled so that the blade stays strong. I am...sorry,” he says with more awkwardness.

She covers his hand with her own, a little laugh escaping her when he blinks rapidly at her returned touch, like he had not expected it at all. “It's alright. I entrusted her to him.”

Marriage forges a bond between two people.

[sargassostories]

Emhyr totally had a gangbang with the Impera on the throne to "raise morale" send tweet

:’) it’s nice to have you back, too, emhyr anon

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

First Lines

Rules:  Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able to and see if there are any patterns!

I was tagged by @between-thepages, thank you :)

"Counting secret taxes again, Roche?" (From Novigrad Tales: In Our Winter City, The Rain Cries A Little Pity)

"Your Majesty, the minstrels are here." (From The Forgotten Tales, Chapter 28, The high and mighty show up, the king is in doubts)

The trip to Toussaint was a disaster from the start. (From The Script For My Requiem, Road of No Release Part VII)

The palace’s air was suffocating. (From Lavender)

"You want me to do what?" (From A Sacrificial Rite To Render Truth)

Of all the complicated lovers Geralt ever had, Emhyr var Emreis was the worst. (From Find Me Naked In My Virgin Misery)

The bed squeaked ominously as the feline nudged him onto it with a smooth movement. Lambert's heartbeat throbbed in his ear.  (From Our Sick Story (Thus Far))

It all started with a game of chess. (From A Symptom Of Being Human)

The ford was still partially flooded when Lambert crossed the Pontar. Heavy summer rains had resulted in the floodwaters rolling downriver in a brown mass, making the river nearly impassable. The ferry at the village two days from here had sunk at the beginning of the flood, which had forced Lambert to ride several days upriver to reach the ford. Normally he would have managed the ride in half the time, if he rode hard, not sparing the horse and forgoing sleep. But he had been too tired for that, the slower pace upriver had allowed for a welcome break to recover from his latest contract. (From The Unforgiven)

Blue-gray was the world, both shrunk and gigantic equally. (From "Across The Waves")

It's interesting for me to see how often I started with a one-liner in this last ten fics. Also, I started with a dialog three times out of ten. Six out of those ten are Emralt stories, the other are Emhyr/Impera Officer, Emhyr/Regis, Lambert/Aiden and one is a gen story. Cool! Oh, and technically, the lines from "The Unforgiven" aren't even mine, I think. Maybe all of this was written by @valandhirwriter.

I'm gonna tag @valandhirwriter, @regis-favorite-raven, @gleamingsilence, @jayofolympus, @definitely-not-iorveth and @beardedladyqueen AND, as I always forget people, YOU reading this. Have fun.

[queenofyumcha]

CW// sexual assault mentioned, omegaverse, blood and violence

omega emhyr being assaulted in his palace whilst in heat. he rips the alpha’s throat out with his teeth and flees blindly through the halls, corpse left lying behind him.

almost nowhere feels safe. terrified, his distress reducing his vision to that of a pinprick, he hides in the impera’s quarters, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

his impera following the scent of distressed omega and blood to their quarters, finding their emperor scared and upset, curled up in a corner.

scared and upset, but rebuffing every attempt to coax him up or to check him over for injuries.

Emhyr glares up at them from the tight ball he’s cured himself into, the omega’s face drawn and tight with stress, the lower half of his face drenched in blood, lips a firm line.

it takes an age for emhyr to allow them to touch him, his impera resigned to sitting as close as emhyr will allow, edging closer before freezing when the omega snarls, his hackles rising.

when the air is thick with scent of alpha protectiveness, emhyr comes to them. he drops into an impera’s lap with a casualness that does not betray the tense standoff that occurred between alphas and omega.

Emhyr allows them to touch him, the impera’s hands gently roaming the omega’s body to check for injuries. when the alpha sits back with a relieved sigh, satisfied his emperor is safe and cradling Emhyr in his arms, that is when the omega lunges for him.

feral bloody omega emhyr pinning his chosen alpha to the chamber floor. kissing his impera fiercely, the blood of the attacker passes between them, the cloying taste of iron almost distracting from the way their teeth knock together.

emhyr urged on by his heated blood, his impera clumsy in their eagerness to reciprocate the omega’s desire, hampered by the instinct to keep Emhyr safe.

emhyr has no such instinct towards his alphas. his impera emerge from their quarters more bloodied, bruised and bitten than the omega.

[valandhirwriter]

Shadows of Spring then. OR anything Lux I don't know yet 😂❤️ (LUUUUUUX)

LOL, you hit an Erland story actually. ;) So i honestly went looking for a Lux piece you do not know. Which is not easy, because you know most of them. I take one where I am fairly sure, you didn't see it, or only the opening paragraphs. It is one of my crazier ones, so forgive me for that one. It was this one, or the time-travel one.

Chapter 1 – Enfant perdu

The hooting of a grey owl drew Lux out of his slumber, and the rolling hoot, almost like laughter rang through the early spring night air. He blinked against the pale moonlight filtering through the tall window illuminating the room. 

Tall Window? His mind startled from the haze of sleep. His quarters in the bastion of storms had the privilege of a window - a small slit in the vaulted wall letting some vague light filter through. It was a privilege that only officers had, and Lux as a captain only made the cut because he was Captain of the Royal Impera. Everyone else had quarters deep in the underground vaults of the bastion. He blinked again. Definitely his quarters - his armour on the rack, the three glass holders for prayer candles, the clear glass discoloured from flame and ash, remnants of his past, and the shelf on the wall, stacked with books, this was his room - it did not change the straight walls and the high double lancet window with the complex tracery in the upper arches. The type of window was found in parts of the old palace wings, certainly not in the barracks. He pushed himself up on one arm, ready to swing his legs out of the bed, when he noticed, that he was not alone, someone’s arm was draped over his side, and his legs were partially entangled with someone else's.

He almost jumped up but forced himself to go still. If this was a dream, then a very real one, and if it was real… it couldn’t be. He had returned to his quarters in the bastion a few hours ago, after an angry and scathing dressing down from his Majesty, who had been deeply annoyed about the safety measures for the journey to Rowan. He had wished Lux to the other end of time and gotten truly vexed when Lux had dug in, he did not compromise where his Emperor’s safety was concerned, even if it meant risking the man’s ire. He still might see punishment for insolence - not the first in his career either. He carefully extricated his legs from the tangle, careful to not wake the person who was with him and then turned around. His hand brushed over the blanket. He frowned. His quarters were comfortable, but he most certainly used no sheets like these… what was going on here? Had he been drunk and landed in a guest suite? No, his things were here. 

He sat up, and looked at the person lying between him and the wall, and he had to hastily balance himself to not fall out of the bed inelegantly. For tightly snuck in between him and the wall, buried in two comfortable blankets was the familiar figure of a very asleep and also very naked Emhyr var Emreis, resting peacefully on the thick bedroll Lux preferred in lieu of cushions. 

Lux froze in place. This had to be a dream - a very vivid dream for sure. But a dream. Maybe brought on by the recent trouble? Had he been exhausted enough to allow his mind to slip to thoughts otherwise forbidden? Panic rose inside him, or had he been drugged with something? A magic delusion? Truth drug his mind supplied. They gave you the test of loyalty again after you were too recalcitrant. He sighed. He had been through that test by the court mages a number of times, they had trouble reading him correctly and thus had resolved to test his loyalty to the Emperor using a concoction of powerful drugs. The problem was - the drugs worked on one’s feelings towards the subject. He had passed those tests always with flying colours, but they buried at things that should better not come up to the surface. 

He sighed, time to get out of here. He carefully moved off the bed, moving across the room noiselessly. The room was too big to be his quarters, even as it contained his familiar things. The floor felt cool under his naked feet, and there was a soft brush of air from the window, pebbling against his skin. He stepped to the small table holding the candles, lifting one up to smell it - prayer candles were usually scented. But instead of the familiar scent of sandalwood, the soft scent of blue lotus and moon orchids tickled his nose. He closed his eyes letting the gentle scent brush against his senses. The mages had really messed it up, or the mage administering the test had expensive tastes. Moon orchid candles were pricey on the best of days, not to mention that most makers reserved their moon orchid oils for making more marketable things than prayer candles. 

He checked over his shoulder, the Emperor was still asleep, nothing was moving. Definitely a test. The mages could not fully see what happened inside the test, or they would have known about Lux years ago, but sometimes they tried to force it. He picked up the long pine chip, lit it at the dying fire in the open grate - since when did a Captain’s quarters warrant a fireplace of one’s own? - and when a small flame licked up the chip he ignited the prayer candle, a small flame rising. 

While the light of the sun is beyond doubt or debate, the flame of a single candle is of greater danger, as every power needs a proper focus. The words long taught to him whispered in his mind. He put the pine chip aside after extinguishing it and took a deep breath to centre himself. Exciting this test was usually a matter of control of one’s own mind. He placed both hands in fists crossed on his chest, and directed his mind inward… to his core…

“Nightmare?” A warm voice asked from behind.

The Emperor had woken. Lux turned around, suddenly aware that he was in a state of full undress, and very well visible in the moonlight. Not to mention the candle casting a cone of light right on him. 

Emhyr had propped himself up on one arm, warm brown eyes shimmering, reflecting the light of the candle. “Kaer Sion again?” he asked softly.

Lux almost took a step backwards, he could feel the colour drain from his face. How in the world did the Emperor know about this? No one - no one - knew what had happened in those dark days in that mountain fortress. He had managed to escape, and he had never told anyone of what had transpired there. 

His mien must have confirmed it, for Emhyr extended a hand towards him. “Come back to bed, there are better remedies for nightmares, than prayers,” 

Sun above, what kind of drug cocktails had the mages given him? Hesitantly Lux stepped back and touched Emhyr’s fingers, feeling them curl around his hand. “It was just a dream,” he said, trying to sound normal. 

Emhyr pulled him down, so he came to sit on the bed again. “I know those ‘just a dreams’ too well,” he said, pulling Lux down onto the bed and feathering soft kisses along Lux’s jaw. “The kind of dreams, that has you pray warrants distraction,” he interspaced the words with more kisses, his lips trailing over Lux’s throat, and Lux threw back his head, to allow for that wonderfully warm touch. A part of him was panicking, if the mages saw that he’d be in for it. Their cocktail must be off by a lot this time. 

“Sometimes a little focus helps,” he replied, biting away a Sire at the last moment. If this was just his own mind, he might as well behave normally. His fingers found Emhyr’s dark hair, slowly running through the silky locks. Lux couldn’t help it, the sudden closeness was intoxicating much as it was forbidden. 

Emhyr interrupted his ministrations and looked up. “I prefer you without that focus, without the walls you build up, the man you hide beneath,” he said his hands gently but very insistently roaming Lux’s naked body. 

The entire surreality of this hit Lux full force again. He was in bed with the Emperor, not that he would mind, but it was not likely to ever happen. And yet his mind and whatever drugs the mages had given him, had conjured this up and he did not manage to break the dream’s hold. He might as well…

“Walls protect, Emhyr,” he said, throwing all nerves to the wind, wrapping both arms around the other man, to kiss him in return. His hands wandered up Emhyr’s back, to the shoulder blades and he could feel the slender body strain into his touch. 

Emhyr groaned, his hands running over the entire length of Lux’s body possessively. “Just a reason to crumble those walls again,” he said, before capturing Lux’s lips in a very deep kiss.

Lux’s closed his eyes, just letting the sensations wash over him, it was like a dream - a very forbidden dream - but his will to resist the dream’s lure was waning rapidly. He responded to Emhyr’s kiss slowly, not that it seemed to perturb him and let his hands slowly discover the lean body above him. When their kiss broke, Emhyr smiled at him, a hungry, brilliant smile. “Never let it be said, I could resist a wall in need of breaking down…”

***

When Lux woke again, he honestly expected to find himself tied to a testing chair in the bowels of the dungeons, with a good chance to throw up the rest of the potion. Instead, he found himself in bed, warmly snuggled up with a certain Emperor, and the first light filtered through the high window. Warm lips traced his scalp, Emhyr was already awake. Lux blinked up at him and was greeted with a smile, he could barely imagine Emhyr was capable of. “You slept like a marmot,” he said his eyes sparkling. 

There was a closeness and intimacy in the words that seared itself directly into Lux’s heart. Even if his Emperor, like others before him, chose to sate his baser urges with one of his soldiers, physical affection would have been the most Lux might have hoped for. This… this was different. He tilted his head to feather a kiss on Emhyr’s lips. “You were right, the best remedy for restless dreams.” 

He had hit it right, his Emhyr, this Emhyr they both liked to win and to be right because the slight smirk said told you so without words. Lux cast a glance at the window, registering the sunlight and sat up. “I better get moving or the General is going to have kittens…”

Emhyr chuckled. “One day, Lux, one day you will tell me what happened in that hole in the ground that convinced you Aeron is capable of that feature.” 

“One day,” Lux echoed, he had no clue how such mornings were supposed to go, the usual cases gracing the Emperor’s bed were escorted out by morning at the latest if they had lasted all night. An Emperor in the quarters of one of his officers… there was no protocol in the world to rule that. 

Emhyr misread his glance. “I know - it is this day - having to listen to Voorhis sniffling widow for hours will not be good. But it must be handled before we depart for Rowan.” He cast a glance at him. “Keep the helmet off today, my hunter, I want her to remember who gutted that treacherous curr for all the capital to see.”

He had killed Prince Voorhis? Publicly? Lux did not doubt he’d be capable of it, he had learned to kill and not ask questions when he had gone to the hills and joined those fighting the usurper, but… this sounded like a spectacle. He could not ask. “I best get myself scrubbed,” he said, having slipped into breeches and a light tunic. He’d have to find out where in the palace he was first, and then work out the rest. 

His luck persisted, because his quarters were obviously situated near the hidden stairwell leading down into the bastion, and he could easily get to the communal baths from there. It was early enough for the baths to be not overcrowded and give him time to wash thoroughly. He was almost done when Bran, his Lieutenant, occupied the tub beside him and made a face. “Curd soap, Lux? Do you want to bring a bad mood down on all of us, one day before we ride - one day before he too has to be in the saddle all day? Don’t be cruel, please?”

Lux looked at his old friend, wondering what he was thinking. Were they friends? Or did he despise him for sleeping with the Emperor? What were they here? “Bran?” He asked, not quite sure what he meant. Everyone used curd soap down here, it was provided by the army in large quantities to keep the soldiers clean. Scented soaps were forbidden in military bathing houses - if everyone used them the stench would be enormous and every blind assassin would find them by the nose alone. 

To his surprise Bran got out of the water, padded across the tiled floor and grabbed something from a basket and threw it at Lux, it was a bar of soap smelling of Winneburg orange blossoms and a small flask of oil from the same source. “You alright?” He asked with a hint of worry in his voice. “You know how he hates the ‘soldier stench’, so what made you revert to…”

“Just not thinking,” Lux replied, realising he’d have to play it by ear. “I was tired and went by…” habit he wanted to say, but he saw Bran’s arched eyebrow.

“Take a boy out of the hills, but you’ll never get the hills out of the boy,” Bran teased, before falling serious and letting himself drop into the water again. “Do us all the favour and avoid needless upheavals will you?” he said, “The whole Voorhis case will have him in a mood up and down the walls and the ride for Rowan…”

“So no carriage?” Lux asked, before diving under to clean his hair. When he came up Bran arched an eyebrow. 

“Lux, please - there is no need to revert to that facade again. I have known since… well since ever I should think. I know he will travel horseback, much as he dislikes it, and use the chance to hit the communities along the road with surprise visitations. So keeping his mood somewhere bearable will be your prime mission objective from here on out. I guess the General isn’t saying it any more, because he can assume you know.”

Lux got out of the water, drying himself off, and swiftly got dressed again. He made a bit more haste, so he’d be at the guardroom before Bran, which gave him a chance to hastily flip through the guard log and get up to speed on the daily operations of the Royal Impera. He noticed it was run as a double company, each led by a Lieutenant, and the shift patterns were odd. So he’d have to find out the reason for it. Caio de Varderaan, the golden Peregrine, was another surprise. He led the secondary company, coming off the night shift, and he, like Bran, seemed to be an old comrade of Lux. “Word has it, that the Emperor intents to visit the extended var Emreis lines, once he has dealt with that Roweni Duke in Dun Fionn,” he said, “now that we are back here, he intents to crush all the traitors, much like he crushed the north….” he stopped and his eyes fell to Lux’s belt. “Gods above, why did you dig that blade out? Where’s your gear?”

Lux frowned, he wore a regular Impera belt with a familiar blade by his side, it was the same sword he used at home. A simple appearing blade, that had never failed him in many years. Before he could react, Caio had turned around. “Sergeant! Hailey - run over to the armourer and ask why the Captain’s gear isn’t back here. And make him work faster if he forgot it.”

Lux leaned against the windowsill covering his surprise. There had been no other weapon’s belt on the armour rack in his quarters. He was sure of that. He had grabbed the gear he had seen there, it was the usual gear Impera Officers used. Hailey - how in the world had he ended up in Impera? - came running back. “Trouble, Sir,” he said “The armourer says the gear vanished, armor and weapons. He had it last night and now it is gone. He swears it was right there.”

“Could be a matter of theft,” Lux said, “run to the master-at-arms and ask, maybe one of the helpers dropped it off with him when delivering the repaired gear this morning. Otherwise, we’ll make do.” 

“Why in the world would someone steal your armour?” Caio arched an eyebrow. “It couldn’t be sold anywhere, without getting the person in trouble and no one can use it obviously.”

“Assassin,” Lux replied, “get a man of the same stature, put him into the armour and you’ll walk through the gates before someone wonders.”

“Now I know again, why you got this post,” Bran quibbed, “you are paranoid. Someone pretending to be you, wouldn’t last long in here, and if he is anywhere close, no five minutes. And I mean it.”

Not very encouraging words, Lux thought, though he kept any thought carefully wiped off his mien. “Let’s go over the day until Hailey gets back,” he said, and the next half hour was spent on planning by letting them talk, and listening Lux managed to fill in a lot of blanks that would allow him to function, at least in his role for now. 

Hailey came running back with two helpers. “Weapons master says only your battle gear is stored with him, I had him break that out, to give us time to find out what happened at the armourer’s.”

It was an idea that made sense, or at least some sense. Again Lux played along, just enough to not give himself away. “Warn the other guards that someone might try to pretend to be me - just in case an assassin gets smart. And have the armourer check the basement - if one of his helpers decided to reorganize his stocks again…”

The words elicited a groan from Bran. “Then we might find your armour in three years behind a pile of steel bars. I’ll have someone on it.”

Alone in the narrow side room, Lux took the time to change, and examine the armour brought up. It made sense to split field gear and palace gear, as Impera’s Armours for court duty tended to be just a tad more ornate. But this chaos felt ridiculous. He worked fast the layer of leather first, they fit perfectly, and then the armour pieces. At first sight, they were typical Impera - black armour, the left pauldron engraved with the winding silver band indicating his rank, but when he assembled them he realised they were anything but. Two intricate layers of chain and steel were perfectly moulded to his body, allowing for flexibility while providing maximum protection. Some changes were subtle, like the much finer structure of the armour gloves, to allow the hands more movement range. 

Lux almost dropped the bracer he was holding, realising it was not a one-piece lower arm bracer, but layered from several leaf-shaped plates. It wasn’t possible. This armour only made sense if he had ever let anyone know of his training. Jarcai demanded that style of flexibility. And the entire point of his military career had been to not let anyone know where his training had come from. Jarcai was not meant for war, it was meant to master mind and body and transcend the boundaries of the flesh. And like many others, Lux had used it to fight back against the Usurper. Like often before, those who had done so, would join the armies pretending to be good, but normal fighters, dispelling any fears that a sect had the potential to raise an army that could wipe regular forces off the map. He weighed the bracer in his hand - he usually used the excuse that he was trained in sword dancing, which had Vattier search up and down the garden districts for the remnant of an ancient knightly order. His fingers traced over the black steel, perfectly shaped to fit his body, to fit his movements. He could not have told the secret? Could he have told the truth to the Emperor? Lux had luckily never been in that spot. The Emperor did not care where the lethal skills came from, as long as it was used in his service. 

Again a cold question rose inside him. Was this a test? Were the mages digging for a secret? No, it was unlikely. Then what was happening to him? Was he dreaming? Or was this a dream of another life? Lux had read about such experiences, but he knew he had never shown any talent for dreaming, be it prophetic, or transcendental. Worse even - he had no time to consider all variables. He was seemingly trapped within another version of his life, and one where he must have made very different choices. He sighed and finished donning the armour. Once it was assembled it fit like a second skin. He put the helm on the armour rack and walked out. He could only see what the day would bring.

[queenofyumcha]

nest of leathers wip

CW// omegaverse

Emhyr gingerly takes the orange segment between his teeth, oddly off kilter at this gesture of care from his guard.

It feels… strangely intimate, being fed by hand, despite the fact that there is not an inch of skin on his body that his guards have not touched.

The taste of orange is cool and refreshing, the sweet sour juice bursting from the fruit and pooling in his mouth. Emhyr enjoys the flavour, watching impatiently as his guard hurriedly prepares another piece.

He takes another orange segment between his teeth with no hesitation this time, watching with slight amusement as his guard frantically peels pith off the orange as though his very life depends on it.

As though Emhyr were some pampered omega that would turn their nose up at any offering that was less than perfection. He has heard stories of omegas in heat that have refused to eat in their stupor, either too mad with lust to consider eating or too picky to accept anything from an alpha they thought unworthy.

Emhyr has done everything he can to reassure his people that his designation does not impact his ability to rule. It is both aggravating and oddly comforting that his men presume he will be like any other omega in his heat.

He does not have to be strong for them here. They will not judge him for his weaknesses in his heat. Perhaps, his heat is the only time any weaknesses will ever be tolerated in a Nilfgaardian emperor.

Buoyed by the thought, in a moment of whimsy, Emhyr clasps the wrist of his guard when the man offers him another segment of orange.

His guard freezes, looking at Emhyr in concern that he has misstepped. Emhyr fights the urge to laugh at his flustered alpha, teeth plucking the fruit from his guard’s suddenly lax fingers.

Seeing his normally composed men so unsure when faced with his actions is amusing and fast becoming a guilty pleasure.

He swallows, holding his guard’s gaze. The other man’s throat bobs, his eyes fixed to Emhyr’s lips.

Emhyr smiles before lowering his mouth to the man’s hand, lips brushing his palm in a kiss before his tongue traces the trail of fruit juice that flows down his guard’s fingers.

[queenofyumcha]

nest of leathers - WIP

CW//omegaverse

Emhyr/Impera that accidentally became crackish which might disqualify this scene to becoming part of the NoL fic

-/-

“Even if he did make an attempt to be more feminine, it’s not as though it would be enough to shut the nobles up. They’d just find something new to complain about.”

A hissed whisper from between gritted teeth.

“Talking of shutting up, aren’t you of noble birth, Hendrik?”

“Are you technically still of noble birth if you were disowned? I resent you for bringing that up, by the way. Anyway, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. An omega is an omega. Who cares what he looks like? As long as there’s slick and somewhere for me to stuff my knot, I’m good to go.”

Emhyr cannot stop himself from laughing, abandoning feigning sleep to clap a hand to his forehead.

It’s not hard to see why Hendrik’s mouth might have been a leading factor to his disownment.

It’s mildly heartwarming to hear he has some support from his Impera, even if it had been put in the most base of ways.

“Your majesty, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect! I just think that-“

“Hendrik.”

The young alpha shuts up instantly, mouth closing with an audible click. Emhyr really does enjoy his easy obedience. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t insist on discipline.

“I think we might all be better off if we hear less of what you think. Now be quiet, all of you, but especially you, Hendrik. I was, at some point in the last forty eight hours, asleep and I’d like to return to that state.”

Hendrik bows his head and gives Emhyr a cowed look, doe eyes gazing contritely at him from beneath his eyelashes.

That boy was going to be a headache.

-/-

Hendrik’s hands greedily caress every inch of his body, the alpha’s teeth nipping at Emhyr’s chest, teeth and tongue teasing at the omega’s nipples.

Emhyr groans in a mix of frustration and pleasure as his sore chest is touched once more, undecided in whether to push towards the pleasure-pain or pull away from it.

The alpha looks up at him in concerned confusion, gently pressing a kiss to his chest in apology. His hands halt at Emhyr’s waist, thumbs nervously kneading away, tracing circles on Emhyr’s skin.

“Well I didn’t say stop.”

Emhyr sighs, a bemused smile slipping its way onto his face.

“Why is it you’re all so obsessed with my chest? At this point I’m concerned I’ll never be able to comfortably wear a fitted shirt again.”

Hendrik’s ears burn red, and the other Impera in the room for once decide to avert their eyes, conveniently distracted.

“It’s- it’s just that none of us have ever bedded an omega before, never mind a male omega, sire. I’ve never even met one before you. Male omegas don’t exactly grow on trees…”

The plucky alpha is surprisingly hesitant.

“Hendrik, against my better judgment, I implore you to finish your statement.”

Hendrik’s entire face is bright red now and the ranks of Impera scattered throughout the room are suddenly tense and still where they had been relaxed.

It doesn’t bode well.

The words tumble out of the young man in a frantic rush, as though he isn’t able to keep the words in for a second longer.

“Well sire, it’s pretty much the one thing I hear that omegas universally enjoy. I didn’t really know how male and female omegas differ, uh you know, down below, and we decided this was a good failsafe if it looked like you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

Emhyr closes his eyes for a moment, determined to make his Impera suffer with him in the wrought tension of the silent room.

“We, Hendrik? Who exactly is we?”

The young alpha stammers, looking back and forth between Emhyr and the other Impera brigade officers who are determined to not make eye contact with anyone, and if possible, anything.

“Just, just the lads and I. Sorry. We’re sorry. We know you didn’t want this, want us, we just wanted you to be happy.”

Hendrik’s voice wavers a little, the young man visibly uneasy.

Emhyr feels strangely guilty. His men had discussed how to take care of him during his heat, to not just get through it unscathed but to actively ensure Emhyr had a pleasurable experience.

To make the best out of a situation they’d known Emhyr had not wanted to be in.

Emhyr’s tucks a errant lock of hair back behind Hendrik’s ear, doing his best to smooth the chaotic tangle of the young alpha’s hair back into order.

Hendrik leans hesitantly into his touch, tentatively pressing his cheek into the palm of Emhyr’s hand.

Emhyr swallows. “Well. Like I said. I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Hendrik grins up at him, any trace of upset instantly erased.

[queenofyumcha]

Omega Emhyr / Impera Brigade

CW// omegaverse

Emhyr shoulders stiffen, and he feels oddly defensive as the young alpha’s gaze sweeps over the length of his body, eyes darting from place to place yet hands remaining firmly fixed to his sides.

It has been minutes since Emhyr has given permission for Hendrik to touch, and yet the man has done nothing but look.

Emhyr is under no delusions that he is an attractive omega. He has left his youth far behind him, his temples are by now far more grey than black.

Were his men to conjure an image of an omega whilst lying in their bunks, it would not be an image of a scarred, broad shouldered old man that would join them in their bed.

And yet- it upsets him all the same that his men would need to be ordered to his bed, that permission is not enough for Hendrik, that the young alpha would need to be incentivised in order to stomach touching an omega like Emhyr-

Hendrik’s calloused fingers skim gently across the palm of Emhyr’s hand.

A rush of embarrassment and relief alike. His heat has altered him greatly and not for the better, if he can descend into a flurry of anxious thought with so little provocation.

The young alpha peers carefully at him, and seeing no rebuke forthcoming, covers Emhyr’s palm with his warm hand, fingers and thumb tentatively wrapping around Emhyr’s wrist.

Emhyr knows without looking that he will find the familiar pattern of sword callouses across the fingertips and palm of Hendrik’s hand. The callouses are familiar, known only by touch.

After all, they were the same callouses Emhyr once bore upon his hands, now soft and ink-stained.

The only difference is in the dip of the callus on Hendrik’s index finger and thumb, worn down by the repeated draw of a bow.

Hendrik’s thumb gently brushes over Emhyr’s inner wrist, nudging him from his thoughts.

“Is… Is that alright, sire?”

Emhyr presses his fingertips against the curve of Hendrik’s wrist, seeking out the alpha’s pulse and proof of his desire.

Hendrik’s heartbeat pulses fast and yet steady against Emhyr’s fingertips.

It’s oddly intimate.

Emhyr swallows.

“Continue.”

[queenofyumcha]

Impera Brigade OC Hendrik - In the context of the omega Emhyr WIP, Nest of Leathers

Hendrik, House of *redacted* - The youngest Impera Brigadier.

Hendrik is the second son of a minor house, disowned when his loose lips and open candour result in the greatest scandal amongst the Nilfgaardian nobility since the Usurper's coup.*

*This is all according to Mererid, so one might take that with a pinch of salt. The man is known for his dramatics.

In no certain order, the scandal involves Duchess Aep Dahy's prized show dog, an admiral's favourite hat, a young lady of questionable parentage and a young lord related to House Voorhis who was besotted with the aforementioned young lady.

Hendrik insists it was all a terrible misunderstanding. None of the Impera can get him to tell the full story and it isn't from a lack of trying.

In the small hours of the morning, lying side by side, Emhyr manages to coax the story from Hendrik once and only once. That morning, the entirety of the royal wing is prematurely woken by the ferocious howls of laughter coming from their Emperor.

Emhyr laughs so hard, hunched over on himself, that he manages to pull a muscle in his back and has to spend the rest of that day in bed. Which was perhaps fortuitous, because the Emperor continues to laugh until he is sedated.

Ciri spends months trying to get Hendrik to crack and tell her the story. He remains stubbornly silent to the point that she decides it may well be easier to get the story from Emhyr.

It is not.

When asked, Emhyr laughs hysterically until he pulls a muscle in his back again. Mererid unofficially bans the topic of Hendrik's disownment from the Imperial Palace lest the Emperor end up permanently bedridden.

Hendrik's path to the Impera Brigade

Emhyr acknowledges him once during a military skills competition held in the capital city, praising his archery skills. Emhyr mentions off-hand that the only man he believes could parry/evade Hendrik's attacks would be 'the Witcher', and that he was sure the mutagens would give the man an advantage.

Hendrik develops a disdain for Witchers, and a special disdain for whichever Witcher that had managed to catch the omega Emperor's eye and impress him, no less.

Hendrik applies to join the Impera Brigade. He is immediately rejected for his youth, lack of military accomplishments and lack of experience in close-range combat.

On the day of the rejection letter, Hendrik leaves his place as a senior archer in the calvary behind and applies to join the infantry, happily accepting a lower-paid, junior position that is rarely filled by a member of the nobility - no matter that he was disowned, Hendrik's blue-blooded Nilfgaardian accent never leaves him and a number of his new colleagues salute him upon hearing him speak, assuming he is their superior officer.

He applies to join the Impera Brigade so many times that his handwriting is recognisable on sight to the Impera recruitment officers.

After three years of serving in the infantry, Hendrik's successes in battle against Nazairrian highlander clans win him some hard-earned repute amongst his superiors.

Finally, after Nazair is conquered, Hendrik's request is approved. When he joins at 23, he is the youngest officer in the Impera's ranks and his fellow officers never fail to remind him of that.

That compliment, that acknowledgement from the Emperor and that fateful day of their meeting is enshrined in Hendrik's memory and shapes his future.

For Emhyr, it was a Tuesday...

-/-

Hendrik is uncommonly blunt for someone born to the Nilfgaardian nobility. His open honesty is often confused for naivety and many of his superiors have thought him skilled and obedient but not very bright - A perfect soldier.

Emhyr finds his honesty and good-tempered nature rather endearing. A biddable alpha who is happy to take direction from an omega is rare. Emhyr trusts him.

-/-

Hendrik's scent - the blue roses of Nazair and the metallic scent of iron

Emhyr's scent - candied ginger and citrus, when he's upset or stressed, which he almost always is, he smells like burnt sugar and charred lemon peel

When Emhyr is happy or aroused, the scent of the spicy candied ginger is much stronger than the smell of citrus.