Work Text:
This is a Cahir/Emhyr excerpt from my Emhyr rarepairs fic 'take heart, beloved'. You shouldn't need to have read that fic in order to understand this one :)
‘Emhyr. Discard the unworthy, the useless. When they no longer serve your purpose, remove them from your deck. Keep your hand of cards close to your chest- and be selective.’
He has not forgotten Ardal’s lessons- when your cards have outlived their purpose- discard them. Waste not, but do not cultivate a hand of paper tigers. Emhyr will ensure his hand will only clasp daggers, shining fever bright.
The brightest amongst them, Cahir. Cahir is devoted, cunning, and intelligent- a young man of noble birth, to be moulded and perfected to Emhyr's whims.
He wonders if Cahir is aware of how his body responds to Emhyr.
Turning towards him like a flower towards the sun, ever reorienting to place Emhyr at the centre of his universe, ever eager to please.
If any other man displayed such blatant obvious wanton adoration towards him, it might have sickened Emhyr. To show your vulnerability and want so freely, do you possess no scrap of self-control to rein in your open displays of desire? You might as well place a blade at your throat and beg your enemies to rid you of your weakness.
But with Cahir... Emhyr is flattered rather than disgusted. He has an array of valid excuses that rise to defend his unseemly favouritism. Cahir is useful. Cahir is obedient. Cahir is without a doubt, loyal.
Reluctantly, Emhyr admits, if quietly and only when alone, Cahir is beautiful. Such an odd boy created from warring traits. Fragility and strength, fervent belief and doubt, blind loyalty and frantic despair. For all that the young man is one of the rising gems of Nilfgaard, he is concerningly easy to pick apart, his confidence all but falling to shreds when it comes to Emhyr, a proud, confident knight reduced to a trembling, unsure boy in Emhyr's presence.
When Cahir begs an audience with him, he always approaches Emhyr with the demeanour of a pilgrim who has travelled far and suffered much to kneel at a holy site, to offer all that he is, all that he has. A lost child, desperately begging for guidance, for a scrap of approval. He reveres Emhyr with an intensity that unsettles him. He looks at Emhyr as though he wishes to worship him and sometimes- sometimes Emhyr wishes to seize the young man by his shoulders and shake him till he comes to his senses.
You idolise a foolish, weak man. You worship a false god.
Your death in my service would be a terrible waste. There is nothing I despise more than wasted potential and yours is one I mourn daily.
But the idea of Cahir's betrayal cuts deep. One of his most loyal, his most, admittedly, fanatical supporters. If Cahir would ever turn away from Emhyr, he fears his rage would know no end. He knows Cahir is a commendable swordsman. He knows Cahir is capable of killing him if he chose to ever betray Emhyr. As loyal and trusted a servant and tool Cahir is, Emhyr knows he will never be anything less than the weapon Nilfgaard made of him. He will never be less of a potential threat to Emhyr’s safety.
If Emhyr can no longer control Cahir, he is no longer an asset, he is a threat.
I would kill you, boy. I would choke you with my bare hands till your foaming spittle soaked your front.
Betray me, my beloved boy, and your suffering will know no end.
And yet here, now, on his knees before his Emperor, Cahir is nothing less than vulnerable.
Nothing less than loving. Nothing less than adoring. Cahir looks up at Emhyr with devotion shining in his eyes, void of all else but a fanatic, loving obsession. Emhyr knows adoration is not love. Slavish devotion is not love.
But is it not close enough? Cahir’s fervent love feels similar to Vattier’s, only sweeter.
Cahir is a beautiful young man that older men would love to ruin. If he were a stronger man, he would resist.
He gives in.
Cahir is every bit as beautiful in his ruin as Emhyr has imagined.
Cahir bears pain as though he had been born to it.
It starts as an internal wager, a petty, cruel joke. How sweetly capitulant Cahir is, Emhyr thinks to himself, to bear the sneers of the court and his fellow officers with only a strained smile and stiff shoulders. They think that Cahir has only managed to rise so far through the ranks because of how he spends his nights- on his knees for his Emperor. It is as much an insult to Cahir's capability as it is to Emhyr's judgement. He has never cared for the attention of the fools, of the weak. Every person he has ever invited to his bed has been exceptional in some way and Cahir is no different.
One night when Cahir had been sat astride him, Emhyr had gripped his thighs tight and watched with no small amount of alarm as Cahir had recoiled in pain. Strained muscles from training, Cahir had explained, but he'd assured Emhyr it made no difference- he'd endure, he'd see to his Emperor's pleasure before his own pain. And the first spark of curiosity came into being.
Emhyr had wondered just how much his sweet, beautiful boy could take before losing that fanatic love in his eyes. How much would he suffer before complaint? How would he cry and beg for mercy? Would he stop Emhyr straight away, or suffer what he could before protesting? At first, it is merely pressing a thumb into a bruise, instructing the boy to hold uncomfortable positions for as long as he can- not that Cahir ever admits to the discomfort, simply remaining obediently in place until his body collapses beneath him, legs shaking and no longer able to hold his weight.
It escalates till that beautiful, mother-of-pearl-inlay dagger is skimming across porcelain white thighs, pressing lines of white flame into his skin, till that merely threatened pain becomes true trickling tears of red.
Emhyr cannot help himself, that is the lie he repeats in his mind.
For Cahir is simply so much more beautiful when he's hurting.
Tonight is no different.
Cahir suffers for him so very beautifully and Emhyr tells the boy so, relishing the way Cahir responds to his praise, hardening untouched. The boy had long since gone soft, but he has done his best to remain diligently still even as the blade nestles between his thighs and the lines of threatened pain along his sensitive inner thighs begin to decorate his skin with red. A shift in position, a shudder of pain- one arched eyebrow from Emhyr and his boy settles once more, obediently still and quiet.
Why won't you fight me, beloved? I hurt you, night after night and you suffer in silence. Why won't you fight me?
He imagines these wounds will reopen when Cahir rides out with the garrison tomorrow, that he will bite back tears of pain as he pretends he suffers from saddle sores when his limp is questioned by his fellow soldiers. Will he hold his head high when they laugh behind their hands, thinking he has been bent over a desk by their Emperor and fucked till this state, sore and limping? Emhyr hopes that Cahir will think of him no matter how far he travels North, that whenever his hand dips between his thighs to pleasure himself, he will brush against thin scars and stroke himself whilst thinking of Emhyr.
That as long as he lives, he will never be free of Emhyr, body and soul.
When he slides his hand up Cahir's trembling thighs, past slick trails of blood and half-dried, flaking semen- he wishes to freeze time and keep him like this forever. In pain and exhausted, panting and flinching from every additional touch. He has begun to associate Emhyr's hands with pain. Yet instead of fleeing, instead of begging for a single moment's reprieve, Cahir presses into his touch, his blade, with a tireless eagerness to please.
"You can hurt me more, sire. I can take it."
Cahir smiles even through his tears, his expression pained. He looks up at Emhyr through tear-laden eyelashes, his eyes as filled with devotion as ever- but filled with fear too.
"Anything for you."
It is as though some monster had clawed out the core of him and left him empty.
There was only one monster in the palace that night, and it was Emhyr. He doesn't remember cleaning Cahir up and ushering him out of his quarters, the boy confused and upset at Emhyr's sudden detachment, his sudden perceived disinterest, unused to Emhyr treating his wounds, unused to Emhyr treating him at all with kindness-
The taste of bile sits heavy at the back of his throat.