A/N: WARNING: This is an M-Rated chapter (though it doesn't get too explicit, if I do say so myself). This is a loose sequel to my previous chapter, "Song of Her Heart", and Aurumite's (previously known as Tiquismisquis) chapter five "Nothing" in their collection, Halcyon Days.
A shout-out should also go to my friend for giving me an insider look on one perspective of being asexual. Thank you!
The war was over. They had returned home. The crowds that had once threw stones at her now threw bouquets and praise. She smiled to know that her words on the ledge had touched the hearts of her once despairing people. And while she held each hand outstretched to her and spoke words of gratitude for each offering she received, her gaze remained on her family.
Chrom standing tall as he lead the way through his kingdom, with beautiful Lissa bouncing beside him. Her memories might have fled her once, but she still remembered the way he had led the Shepherds and his people through the darkness. He had told her when they returned that he would be ready to step down again so she may take her rightful place as Exalt. She laughed, and had to resist the habit to brush back that stubborn lock of hair from his eyes. She could still see the young boy laughing as he played with wooden swords, pretending to be a soldier. And yet the man before her was not just a soldier, but a king. He had carried the torch she had passed on to him with all the wisdom and compassion she knew he had. Her role had been fulfilled. Her time as an Exalt was long since passed, and now it was his mantle to bear.
She had told him as such, and instead requested to look after the small cottage attached to the castle. It had once been the gardener's house, before Father ordered all the attendants to live in the servants' quarter. Fond memories of her and her siblings playing house in that run-down cottage came to mind. And the little place had become decrepit from neglect, its once fruitful gardens filled with dry grass and barren soil. She reckoned a little more love and care would do just the trick in making the house a home, tucked away from the responsibilities and pressures of the castle.
Needless to say, Chrom had agreed.
Now she only wishes the garden would agree, too.
"Your Grace." Frederick looks down at the prior Exalt as she crouches in the dirt, covered to her wrists in soil.
"Good day, Frederick. How are you?" Emmeryn asks, and yanks at a weed. At least...she hopes it is a weed. Distinguishing one flower from the next is more of a challenge than it might seem.
"Fine, Your Grace. I am more curious as to why you found it necessary to torment the butterfly weed."
She blinks at the bright orange flowers. "It is a weed, is it not?"
"In name, yes," he admits, kneeling beside her, "but it is also a native flower that is famous for attracting butterflies."
"Oh…" She releases her hold on the half-uprooted plant, and tries to gently push it back into the soil. "Well, I pray that it will forgive me for my intrusion." She tries to pack the soil around the flower's base with one hand while holding up the plant with the other, but her reach is not long enough to push the soil from behind the plant.
"Allow me, milady." Frederick holds up the stem, and she moves the soil around it until it's packed firmly into the earth. But when he lets go, the plant droops forward into a pathetic heap on her lap. She may be well-versed in the art of healing, but it would seem that no spell could heal her brown thumb.
"Oh, dear," she tuts. "Seems like I need to study up more."
"Not everything can be learned from books, milady," Frederick says. "Why not leave this to the gardener? It is his duty, after all."
"But then I would be unable to appreciate the beauty as much as I would, had I carried out the responsibility myself. I have never been allowed to do more than breathe on the flowers in the main castle. Now that this cottage is my own, I would like to give it the love it deserves."
"Dedication to one's home is honorable," he concedes, "but surely the dirt is no place for royal blood."
"Thou createth from the soil, and thou shalt returnth to the soil."
The knight exhales, but whether it is a sound of necessary respiration or an equally necessary need to vent exasperation is unclear. Emmeryn smiles as she carves a small hole in the ground with her hand trowel, but no sooner had she finished the hole and prepared to drop a daisy seed into it did Frederick interject, "You'll want to prepare the bed first, milady."
"Prepare the bed?"
He nods. "If you simply drop the seed into that hole, the soil will dry out before the roots can penetrate. You first have to turn over the bed once, then twice, to loosen the soil, and then supplement it with mulch to enrichen it."
"You sound as if you've had your hands in the soil more than once."
"Are you surprised, milady?"
"A little. I know you've honed many skills, but I have not heard you mention gardening much before."
"The topic never seemed relevant before. But yes, my mother had kept the average vegetable garden, and some of the other Shepherds kindly expanded that knowledge."
Emmeryn looks at the small trowel in her hand, then at the entire yard that is now her own, whose soil is as hard as chalk. "Perhaps I might ask the gardener for some assistance, after all."
"Well, as I am already here," Frederick says, taking the hand trowel from her, "I don't see why I cannot assist."
"You already have enough work, my friend," she protests. "And this responsibility is supposed to be my own."
"And so it shall be," he says, already turning over the soil. "but at the very least you should observe someone with experience before trying your hand at it alone. Do you have a second trowel?"
Emmeryn smiles. "As a matter of fact, I do."
And the rest of the afternoon they spent under the sun. Frederick did not mind that the names of flowers eluded her, and she did not mind that he had to busy his hands before he relaxed enough to let his tongue speak freely. But once he does, he talks about how the other members of the Guard no longer doubt his credentials for his position since the war; about the paces he's been running the new recruits through, earning him the title of Frederick the Heartless (which he looks quite satisfied with, she notes with a giggle); and his ire at the state of the palace since he had left.
"Truly, any simpleton worth his salt should know that Lady Lissa's teddy bear should only be washed with the gentlest of soaps to preserve its softness," he gripes, spearing his spade into the earth as if it was the head of the fool who had made the grievous error. But even through his grumbling, Emmeryn can hear the contentment underneath that he has time to fret about such details at all.
She smiles. Oh, to be home at last.
l*l*l*l*l*l
He comes every night to check under her bed and through the bushes to ensure that her cottage has been unmarred by intruders. And every night she prepares two cups of tea, a slice of warm bread for him, and a cookie for her. A Treatise on This the Most Holy Sacrament, Exalt Calistus IV still sits on her bookshelf. They have not returned to the topic since that day she had voiced her concerns. Not that she could entirely blame either him or herself, what with the war and her illness that had followed afterwards. But now that her time is her own, the question lingers in her mind, like a cold that would not leave.
One evening, as Frederick is laying out her clothes for the morrow (a habit he insists is his duty any time she argues against it), she watches him from over her book as he goes about his routine. The firelight dances upon his features and highlight the sharp contours of his face and the gold tones to his hair. He seems so at ease, as if her home was his. It might as well be, seeing how they kept each other company on countless quiet nights such as this. She tries to picture him somewhere else. With someone else. Tending to the fire as he is now, another woman waiting to share their bed, perhaps.
Emmeryn may not seek the attentions of suitors herself, but she is no fool. She sees the way other women look at Frederick. During the wartime he had caught quite a few of the female Shepherds' eyes. Understandable. He had proven his worth a thousand times over in the battlefield and out of it. There is no shortage of eligible beaus lining up for him, and any one of them would be lucky to call a man noble as Frederick as her own. Emmeryn could just imagine him, years from now, sword fighting with a boy who has the same broad shoulders and strong chin as his, or a little girl with tousled brown hair always falling to her eyes as she dances in the house he undoubtedly would build with his own hands, as a matter of principle. And likely to perfection, no less. She smiles at the thought. Even if he does not believe it, she knows Frederick would make a wonderful father. And if another person could give him such happiness, she would be content. He is her best friend, after all.
And yet...and yet she cannot stop the tightness in her chest at the thought of the empty chair beside her where he always read to her. Is this the sin of greed that Naga condemned? This—this ache. While she knows she is not nearly as stainless as her people wish to believe she is, she never thought that she must claim greed as her sin. But would she really trade his happiness for her own? The thought scares her.
No. She might be a sinner, but she would not hurt her best friend for her own selfish desires. Emmeryn loves him too dearly. She knows that—has known it for years.
But is her love enough?
She had always thought of her love for Frederick as akin to the one she shares with Chrom and Lissa: her family. And yet she feels no such ache as she does now at the thought of her siblings' nuptials. Only joy that her loved ones had found happiness. But with Frederick… Well, she can say her bond with him does not seem like the love between a man and a woman that writers often illustrate in books: that burning passion powerful enough to drive one mad. No. If she had to compare her love for Frederick, it would be like that of a campfire. A radiance of warmth and light that never fails to comfort her, no matter the darkness that preys on her mind.
If he were no longer here, that warmth would go out with him. There would be other lights, of course, other fires to huddle around, but none would bring her such comfort as his. The flame that had given her solace through all those years of doubts, when she was but a girl forced to be her people's savior.
And yet she has read over and over again the sacred books until the pages had turned thin from her use. Her affections is not the sort sanctioned in the holy books; nay, not even mentioned. She does not feel such burning, such desire, of which is supposed to be the good and holy gift of Naga. And if she does not carry that appetite required for a blessed union...then does that mean any marriage she consummates is based on sin? If her love for Frederick is more than the one she holds for her family but less than the devotion a woman has for a man, then what is it?
Is this her punishment, to be doomed to such a purgatory? To a life where anything other than the purest love for her family and her people is condemned? The mere thought sends shudders down her spine.
"That's the last of the chores," Frederick says, snapping her out of her thoughts. He dusts off his hands and strides to the bookshelf. "Does milady have any preferences?"
A pressure weighs on her chest even as she smiles at him. "Why don't you choose tonight, Frederick?"
"If you insist." He cups his chin as he runs his finger across the spines, before selecting a novel: A History of Ylisse.
"Interesting. Usually you chose something with more—"
"Warfare?"
"Strategy. I was about to say strategy."
"As you say, Your Grace," hums Frederick. "History is trove of strategy. And now that the land is secure, I believed it wise to appreciate what we have." He raises a brow. "I would have thought you'd approve. The need to learn from history, lest we repeat it, and such."
"That does sound like something I would say."
"Would you prefer another selection?"
"No, this is fine."
And so he sits in his armchair beside her, so close that she could reach over and trace the angles of his face. His usually stern voice manages to soften even the turgid words of the text. Years of lessons had engraved the history of her kingdom into her heart until she could recite it without fault, leaving her plenty of focus to direct elsewhere. Such as listening to the way his low voice enunciated each syllable with the same utmost precision he carries throughout all his actions, until they sound as carefully selected as a pianist's finger on a key. After her fall, he had read to her each night. While she had not been able to remember the name of the knight in the sky-armor, his voice had always felt intimately familiar.
Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, weighed down with a plethora of words waiting to be released. They had talked about everything together, even subjects that would have stained their reputations if they had ever been heard outside the walls of her quarters. But how could she share these thoughts when every word was about him?
She doesn't delude herself into believing she can keep this secret from him forever, nor would she want to. But she has no answer to her troubles. Nothing but concern and uncertainty to offer.
"Your Grace? Your Grace? Emmeryn."
"Hmm." She blinks, turning to Frederick. He's looking at her, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a worried line.
"Is this story not amusing you, milady?"
"No, it's fine. My apologies. I did not mean to tune out your readings."
"It's of no consequence. The slaying of King Leobald is one hardly of note."
"Frederick, it does not do to speak ill of the dead. Even about their decapitation."
"Truly? Personally, I would admire if one disdained the mismanagement of my beheading, seeing as I would not be able to do so myself."
"Thankfully, we will have no need of that, Sir Frederick."
His lips quirk up, but it quickly drops as he measures her expression. His piercing stare could make many a veteran tremble in his boots, but she had never felt so...until now. He knows her too well.
"Are you alright, milady? You seem..distant."
"I'm fine. I simply have a lot on my mind right now."
"Would you care to discuss it?"
She smiles at him. "Thank you, but I'd like to dwell on my thoughts a while longer before sharing."
Frederick nods. "As you wish, Your Grace." He looks down at the book, but his eyes don't scan the page. "Just be assured that you can tell me anything, and it will be kept in the strictest confidence."
"Even that I sing the most dreadful of operas as I bathe?"
"Even that."
She snorts, and once again the ease of his company strikes her. Her smile falters.
"Frederick...do you remember that conversation we had, before the war? About...appetite and marriage?"
That was the first time he had read to her. She had poured hours into Exalt Calistus IV's treatise until her thoughts had been chasing themselves like a tornado, and by the end of it she felt only more certain that she knew nothing at all. But Frederick had set the treatise aside, and chose another novel for her, settling into the chair he is in now and reading to her as if she is a little girl again. And somehow it became a tradition. Every night he read another chapter, another story. Even when she was lost in her mind, she could hear his voice breaking through her scattered thoughts like a river flowing over pebbles.
Frederick's brow furrows even more as he sets his current book aside, focusing his attention on her. "Yes, I do."
"I...have been spending more thought on it since my return."
He sits back, his eyebrow arched. "I assumed now that you are no longer Exalt, your mind would be at ease."
"To an extent. I am no longer required to marry for heirs. As it is, Chrom is quite assured in that position, if his three children are any indication of that.
"But you're still troubled."
"Yes," she says, her eyes downcast as she smooths out her coverlet. "I still have not come to an answer, and that concerns me. While I now have more freedom than I ever had as an Exalt, there is still an expectation to marry—if not for personal reasons, than for political ones."
"The kingdom cannot expect such a commitment so soon," he insists. "Not after what you've been through. Not after the war."
"Because of the war. Peace is always fragile, and marriage alliances are one of the surest ways to secure it. And even if an alliance is not necessary, I would still desire an answer for my own peace of mind. Therefore, I must ask…" Her voice carries the calm surety of a royal, even as she folds her hands on her lap, lest their tremble betray her. "Is it unholy of me to lie with someone even though I do not share Naga's gift of appetite?"
Frederick's expression does not change, the stoic he is, but the tips of his ears redden. But instead of protesting against such an intimate topic, he stays silent, staring at his hands as if he could divine an answer as a reader would from a palm. She sips the tea from her nightstand as she waits.
"I am not certain how much of an authority I am on the subject compared to a priest such as Libra," he says at last. "But...if Naga truly did give us these bodies, then I believe that nothing that naturally results from them can be against Her will."
"Even if it means I cannot satisfy the person I love? As another lover could?"
Now he is definitely red. "Gods, Emmeryn." He leaned his head back until it thumps against the wall. But by the intense furrow of his brow, she hasn't exhausted his patience quite yet.
"I think...there are different ways to sate yourself...and others."
"I...do not understand."
His fingers squirm for the hilt of his sword, which is unfortunately already hung up on the wall. But then he straightens, and she can almost pinpoint the moment when a new, likely more digestible, idea comes to mind. "Well, for example, I do not derive direct satisfaction from inspecting the weaponry or procuring clothing that best suits Exalt Chrom. But I know my actions ensures that my comrades can march to battle with dependable weapons by their sides and that milord's apparel guarantees he can make the best impression wherever he goes. Those results please me, if not my actions directly."
Emmeryn taps her fingers on her cup as she mulls over his answer. "So you are satisfied simply by knowing the ones you care about are taken care of?"
"Satisfied may not be the right word. It implies...passiveness. But performing a service for another person's benefit is another expression of...respect, as any other."
Emmeryn tilts an eyebrow. "Are we still on the topic of copulation or on knighthood?"
"Emmeryn."
She laughs. "My apologies. I shan't tease again."
"Swear it?"
She smiles a little over her teacup. "For tonight."
"How good to know my advice is repaid with the utmost solemnity."
Her smile widens, but she resists the temptation to laugh again. She sips her tea, letting the warm liquid settle over her tongue before preparing her next question. "But does such intimacy not rely on a mutual desire? Would a spouse truly want someone who does not share an eagerness equal to theirs?"
To her surprise, Frederick snorts. "As if many a marriage does not fail from lust, whether present or absent. Only a fool would believe that would take more importance than other priorities. Tolerating one another's presence outside their bed chambers, for example."
This time Emmeryn couldn't hide her own titter. "It is true that Naga looks favorably upon those relationships forged by friendship first."
"One cannot build upon sand and expect it to last," Frederick says, appearing much more comfortable now that the discussion has turned closer to his realm of common wisdom. "Does that answer your questions, milady?"
"All but one," she says, setting her teacup down and folding her hands in her lap again.
"Yes?"
"For someone like me, how do you know the love you hold for a person extends beyond pure friendship?"
Silence again. The traces of humor that his features had mustered are gone, and the quiet runs deeper than before. Emmeryn clasps her hands tight.
"I suppose," he murmurs, "it would be when you could not imagine living the rest of your life without that person."
His words seem to linger in the air like a mist between them. Then she nods. "I see."
"Is there anything else, milady?"
"No. I think that concludes the questions I have for tonight."
He nods, rising from his seat. "If that is all, then, I believe I shall leave you to your thoughts."
"That is all. Thank you, Frederick. You have been very helpful."
"Of course, Your Grace." He returns the book to its shelf, then retrieves his sword from the wall, his back to her. Then he faces her, his expression once again unreadable, before nodding. "Your Grace." But instead of turning away, he stays there for a moment too long.
"Yes, Frederick?"
Something flickers across his face, like a shadow, but it's gone before she can decipher it. "Nothing. Good night, Your Grace."
"Good night, Frederick," she replies, slightly puzzled. But he is already gone. And suddenly the firelight does not seem as bright.
l*l*l*l*l*l
"The daisies are developing well," Frederick notes. A butterfly flutters past his nose as he lifts one flower for inspection under his magnifying glass.
"They're lovely, are they not? I cannot wait to bring Lissa a bouquet. She's always loved making flower crowns." Emmeryn rises from the flower bed, dusting off the soil from her hands. Over time, the feel of the soil underneath her fingers had calmed her mind enough that by the time it was nightfall, her energy was so spent from the day of work that thoughts didn't have time to feel her head before she was off to sleep.
She moves onto her patch of sunflowers near the fence. The bright burst of color every morning never failed to make her days a little brighter. When she first planted them, she did not know a healthy leaf from a sick one, but now she can trim the unhealthy parts of the plant without hesitation. She clips the dried-out sunflower heads and places them in her basket. Come next season, she can feed the seeds to the birds or renew them for another bloom.
"Yes, I recall wearing quite a few myself, when she was younger."
"Last year, then?"
"More like a month ago."
She laughs, and the corner of his lip quirks up. He slips into the house, and returns a moment later with the second pair of pruners from her gardening basket. For awhile, they work together without the need to say much. Eventually, she asks him about his day, and he tells her about how Cynthia and Severa are quite the pair of Pegasus Instructors. Cynthia encourages them to do their best, but if the new recruits become the least bit cocky, Severa cuts them down faster than a bunch of hay. An appropriate combo, those two.
Emmeryn laughs, but has trouble concentrating on his words. Usually the afternoons where they would garden together were Emmeryn's favorite part of the day, next to the time he would read her to her. But the usual calm she felt had slipped away like petals in the wind, and now her hands shake.
"Frederick?" she says suddenly.
"Yes, milady?" He straightens, catching something in her tone.
"Have you ever wondered why you have yet to encounter a child of your own, like Lucina or Severa?"
He freezes mid-cut. Then he shears through a stem with a decisive slice. "The rest of the Shepherds did not discover their children until after they were wedded. Seeing as I am not, I must deduce the future of such a child is uncertain."
Emmeryn nods, keeping her eyes focused on a sunflower when she speaks again. "And do you think the future will stay that way? Uncertain?"
Frederick lowers the blade, and she can feel his stare on her without even looking. "I am afraid I don't know what you mean, Your Grace."
"I mean...we are good friends, are we not?"
"Of course, Emmeryn!"
"And do you think we could ever be more?" She turns to him now, keeping her expression calm even though her hands are shaking underneath her sleeves. His eyes widen, and color quickly rises to his cheek. So many hours in the sun and yet his tan could never hide his flush.
"I—I—"
"What I mean to say," she interrupts, and bites her lip, "to be absolutely clear… Could you ever see me...as the way a man would see the woman he loves?"
Frederick swallows...then sets his jaw and nods. "I could."
Two words, and yet it sent her heart fluttering.
"Then Frederick...would you do me the honor of marrying me?"
This time, any composure he mustered is loss as his entire face reddens and he gapes at her.
"Wha—I—of course!" he sputters, and she feels her soul leap. "But..why me, Emmeryn? You are of royal blood. You could have any pick of men."
"But none have been as precious a friend to be me as you have been," she says, stepping forward until she's looking up at him. "And while I may not be the perfect bride my faith idealizes, I know my life would be poorer without you beside me. You're my best friend, Frederick, and always will be."
"And you are mine, Emmeryn," he says, his lips breaking into a smile. But then he clears his throat. "Though I feel like I must insist on following the proper procedure for an engagement," he says as he lowers himself to one knee.
Suddenly, all the nerves she had felt squirming in her stomach suddenly bursts out in a snorting laugh. How disappointed Phila would've been! "Frederick, I became the youngest Exalt in history, and you one of the youngest Royal Knights. When have we ever followed proper procedure?"
"Be that as it may," he says, straightening his back and lifting his chin, "I would prefer to follow the proper code of conduct for this ceremony."
He takes her hand, then pulls something out from his pocket. Her lips part as the jewel shines dozens of facets of light in the sun. But she's looking at his eyes, and they look back, reflecting her own. "You already had the ring?"
"Weeks ago," he admits with a smile. "Time must be spent to guarantee the right sizing, nevermind the polishing. I have dreamed for quite awhile that such a day would come, and I dare not sully it with an ill-sized ring."
And judging by the solemnity of his tone, he means every word. Just like Frederick. She would have giggled if the thought wasn't so dear to her. "My heart is yours, Emmeryn," he says, "as it always has been. I vow to defend you as knight and husband until death should part us. You are already the woman I cherish, but would you do me the honor of becoming the woman I spend my life with, as my wife?"
There are moments that take only a second, where only a few words need be said for someone's whole life to change. Emmeryn realized that when she had traded her life for the future of her people's, and now again, when she looks into Frederick's eyes and sees the future she thought she had given away. The way his smile broke through even the redness of his cheeks told her that they both knew the answer before she could say it. And yet no utterance had ever tasted so sweet as this one word:
"Yes."
l*l*l*l*l*l
News of the wedding spread throughout the land, and well-wishings were given from as near as Ferox to as far as Valm. However, they manage to make the wedding itself a small affair, limited to the company of their close friends and comrades. And yet the endless smiles and the excitement crackling in the air was enough for Emmeryn to thank Naga when they finally returned to her cottage, tucked into the shadows, away from the light of the celebrations. But when they enter her home—their home—it seems so...silent. She can hear Frederick's breathing behind her. Moonlight slips through the curtains and falls on the bed like a spotlight. Suddenly, the bed seems to take up most of the room.
Frederick clears his throat. "I'll start a fire."
He slips behind her to the hearth, while she goes to the bed, trailing her hands over the fresh sheets. She takes off her veil and starts to unweave the plaits of her hair until they fall in waves down her back. By the time a warm fire is crackling, the last of her accessories are set on the chair. Frederick is still staring into the flames when she goes to him. She turns around and shows her back.
"The zipper, please."
Her peripheral vision is just enough to catch him nodding as he rises, swallowing. His hand slowly runs down her back, and her skin shivers as the warmth touches it. The dress loosens, and she catches the front before it can fall. "Thank you," she says, slipping her shoulders out of the dress and letting it fall to the floor.
Maribelle had chosen a simple, white negligee with only a subtle floral pattern in lace that brushes her knees, but judging by how Frederick's eyes widen when she turns around, she could've been wearing the finest silks of Chon'sin.
He clears his throat, cheeks red. "Maribelle has chosen well. The lace on the neckline breaks up the monotony of the silk. It contrasts well with your skin."
"Thank you, Frederick." she says, her voice breathy with half a laugh. Of course he compliments such intimate apparel with an objective stance. "Your attention to detail is always appreciated, but...is there something else that catches your eye?"
He ducks his head a little, but his smile is broad. "And you are beautiful."
Now her laugh is full. "Thank you, my love."
Her slim fingers set to work unbuttoning his vest, while he busies himself in winding the gold waves of her hair around his fingers. Once she slips the fabric off him, she folds it neatly the way he likes it before placing it on the fireplace. Then she lays a hand on his shirt; she can feel his smooth muscles underneath her fingertips.
She looks up at him, and his brown irises seem to melt in the firelight. "Do you want this?"
Frederick takes her hand, holding it to his cheek and pressing his lips against her palm. "I do." He look at her from under his long eyelashes. "And you?"
"I do."
But the furrow in his brow deepens. "Are you sure? I know that we are made in different ways, and I have no desire to do anything unwelcomed."
"I promise, Frederick, this is what I want." She reaches up to her tiptoes and kisses him. "And I might be less delicate than you believe."
His lip quirks, and no more words need be spoken. This time the quiet is a comfortable one as he uncuffs his sleeves and she unbuttons his shirt, as if this is a routine they had done a thousand times before. Finally, he shrugs off his shirt and folds it neatly on the fireplace before turning back to her. She takes his hand, feeling the calluses that line his fingers and palm. The trophies of years of hard work: the sign of a good man. She leads him to the bed until the sheets brush the back of her knees.
She sits down, and Frederick raises a brow at her when she leans forward and grabs something on the floor, hidden by the bed skirts. She smiles at the bemused look at his face when she shows him the bottle of oil. "I've done my research," she says simply, then pats the spot next to her.
He still looks confused but sits down.
"Turn around."
"Emmeryn?"
"Turn around. Please?"
He's still looking at her with that notorious raised brow, but does as he bids. Only then does she see the protruding scar tissue across his back, uneven and jagged like the scratchings of a madman. She swallows. He had told her before about the wolf attack when he was but a child, and yet seeing the results of such night was another matter. The firelight casts flickering shadows over the scars, as if they were alive. She traces her fingers over each line, each protrusion and divot, and imagines Frederick as a little boy, all alone in the forest with only the hungry eyes of wolves to beat down on him. He had been there to heal her, but she was not for him.
"I know I am not as handsome as Chrom," he starts, voice tense, carefully controlled, "or as charming as Virion, but I hope—I mean, I wish—"
But she interrupts him with a kiss. First on the scar that trails down the base of his neck to his shoulder blade, and then another that sweeps down his back, and another, and another, until she has kissed every constellation of his skin.
"I love you, Frederick."
He inhales. "And I you."
She pours some of the oil onto her hands, rubbing them together until it's warmed, then lays them on Frederick's back.
"I did not know a massage was part of the nuptial traditions," he says, a mixture of confusion and mild amusement coloring his tone.
"I thought we might invent one of our own. " Her hands follow the cords of muscles on his back, rippling out from his shoulders like a wave. His skin glows with the slightest golden sheen from hours training in the sun, and when she slides her lathered hands down his arms, his skin feels like silk.
"Do you like this?" she asks.
"It feels...very pleasant. But I'm afraid I don't understand the reason for it."
"Must there be a reason if it feels nice? You always work serve so diligently, I want to give you something now."
"A knight is supposed to work diligently without expecting a return."
"But a husband should."
Her hands travel back up to his shoulders, her fingertips pressing gently down on his skin until she finds a tough strait of muscles, tight from constant stress. Her fingers start to knead the knots, but he jerks forward.
"A lady shouldn't—"
"I am your wife now," she states firmly, "and I want to. That is...if you do."
He slowly nods. "Yes. Please."
She smiles, and her hands knead the tough skin. Slowly, with enough warmth and attention, the muscle starts to loosen. For a rare time, his shoulders relax, and he exhales.
"There. Does that feel better?"
He nods, then faces her. "Thank you, milady. Now, please allow me to return the kindness."
She obliges and turns around, drawing her hair forward. Then she reaches to her shoulder and slides the loose straps of the negligee down. The fabric falls to her hips, and she can hear Frederick gulp. Her heart pounds against her chest, and she wonders if he can hear it, when she quickly inhales at the touch of his warm hands against her back. They pause at first, hesitating, before slowly rubbing the oil onto her shoulders and down her back. She closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of the oil warmed by his heat and his touch on her skin. They slide down her back, gliding over her neck and down her arms. Only when her whole back is covered does she slowly turn around.
Frederick's eyes widen at her bare form, a flush coloring his face. "Beautiful…"
For a moment they simply gaze at each other, the firelight crackling as it casts its warm glow on their skin. But he does not break his stare, holding hers as he leans forward, only taking his eyes away when he presses the lightest of kisses on her forehead.
"My angel," he whispers.
She feels like a light is glowing inside of her chest, radiating when she smiles. She kisses him on the lips, keeping the connection as she lays back and draws him closer, as if they were tethered. When he leans on his elbows, his eyes continue to drink her in, but his lips are still compressed in a thin, restrained line.
She takes his hand and holds his palm to her cheek, pressing a kiss on that one callus on the side of his thumb. He seems to take the hint, for when she releases his hand, he moves on his own violation, tracing his fingertips over her cheek, her neck, down her skin, and the rough calluses send little sparks wherever they graze her skin. She hums to let him know the pleasure his touch elicits, but she is more fixated on his expression. He looks down at her, his gaze so intense that she can feel him committing every detail of her porcelain skin and curve of her features to memory. Finally his fingertips brush her hair from her shoulders, and trace the dip of her collarbone...before stopping.
His eyes meet hers again, a question: she smiles in answer. He swallows, but his fingertips continue grazing down until they reach the curve of her breast. "See? 'Twas not so hard," she whispers, then reaches up until she's kissing his lips.
A low groan rises in the back of his throat, and his hands clench around her waist, but don't move, trembling there.
Emmeryn's exhale brushes his ear. "I told you, love, I shall not break." She returns to his lips, deepening it, and he moans before his hands pull her closer. But he pulls away again, his forehead touching hers. "Is this—am I—what can I do to please you?"
"You already are." Before he can give her a look, she adds, "But I do like it when you touch my waist. It feels...like little sparks are spreading from where you touch."
He nods, trailing his fingertips over the curve of her figure. Sparks scatter through her belly when his rough calluses graze her skin, and she finds it fascinating to see how quickly Frederick reacts to all her minute changes, circling his thumb in the spot that makes her shiver and pressing a kiss against her neck to hear her exhale, as if he is studying every secret of her body.
She thinks it's only fair to return the favor. Her hands trail up the hard curves of his arms, then over the ridge of his collar bone to the smooth plateau of his chest, down to the strip of his abdomen, focusing on each quick shudder of breath and every hint of blood rising to his skin. She lingers on his arms, watching his eyes irises widen when she strokes the cords of muscles there just so. "Does that please you?" she whispers.
He swallows, and nods. She smiles and traces her fingers over his arms some more, and his eyelids almost almost flutter shut like a satisfied feline. Then her hands find their way back to his chest, trailing lower. She brushes the space where his skin hit his trousers, and a low groan rumbles deep in his throat.
"Emmeryn," he gasps in ragged breaths, his eyes snapping open.
She grins, and her giggles sound like the bubbles of a fine champagne, light and airy. He summons enough self-control to narrow his eyes at her. "I daresay," he manages to exhale, "you're having too much fun with this."
"Not at all," she says, widening her eyes innocently before taking hold of the fastens of his trousers.
"Emmeryn."
His voice trembles, thought not from pure pleasure, and her smile slips away. She moves her hand back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rush you." She reaches up to stroke his face. "We have the whole night. We can take our time, my love."
But he takes a deep breath, holding it in for a moment, and when he releases it, he seems more composed again. "No, it's alright. I want it, too. Naga help me, I want it," he murmurs, dropping his head into the crook of her neck until he's breathing in the sweet scent of chamomile from her hair.
"Then I want to give it to you." She snakes her hands around his back, pressing just enough to encourage his intentions. His hips brush hers just the slightest, and his hand travels down until he slides off the trousers and frees himself.
For a moment, Emmeryn could only stare. She had learned about the main differences between the female and male anatomy, but for obvious reasons, her tutors did not go into such details or visuals, lest her Exalt eyes were tainted. She has no way of comparison, but the way Frederick seems to shiver to his core when she simply brushes his length with her hand tells her enough.
"May I?"
He swallows, but nods.
She sits up and feels her way around, pressing and holding and stroking, all the while seeing how his muscles tense and his breathing accelerate. "So responsive," she murmurs.
"It is a sensitive area, if thou has not guessed," he says in between breaths. He lets her prod a little more before finally catching her wrist. "That's enough," he says, laying her hand gently against his side. "May I pleasure you now?"
Emmeryn would have liked to experiment further, but didn't want to deny his own exploration. She nods, and lets his hand gently guide her back on the fresh sheets. He trails his hands over her body again, giving extra attention to the spots he learned were sensitive, before going further into the wisps of hair between her thighs. Some moisture is already there when he dips his fingers between her folds.
His cheeks are flushed and his eyebrows are bunched in confusion as his fingers search for a reaction. "T-Tell me what pleases you."
She wishes she had enough experience that she could. But instead she closes her eyes, focusing on the feeling of his exploring fingers, the sparks they elicited, until—
"Ah-mmm!" Her lips part in a small cry, before she purses her lips together, pressing her hand against her mouth as a tingling heat curls in her belly. He immediately catches onto her reaction, and his fingers continue his circling, over and over, and she's never felt such a sensation before, and it's building, the heat becoming stronger as he circles faster, and her heartbeat's frantic like a bird's and her breathing's outpacing his and—
"Ahh!" This time she can't hide her cry as the heat seeps through her, washing over her with every shudder her muscles releases, down to her toes and fingers and deep into her body like a steaming bath. The tension in her muscles soon relaxes. Even though the heat had melted away, it had left behind this feeling of serenity, as if she were lounging in the sun on a warm day. She opens her eyes, and sees Frederick gazing down at her, the softness of his expression beautiful in the warm firelight. When he finally takes his hand away, his fingers are shimmering.
She sighs, a smile playing on her lips. "That felt...wonderful.
He returns the smile, but there's something a little too...mischievous about it.
"You seem quite proud of yourself," she observes.
His smile breaks out into a grin—a rather nice look, indeed—and he presses a kiss against the still-rapid pulse in her neck. "Should I not be, for having the most perfect woman in my arms?"
"I'm not sure about my level of perfection," she giggles as he pecks up and down her neck, "but I am glad you are happy."
"Happy is an understatement, milady. Bliss might suffice."
She watches him as his fingers trail down to her thighs again, slick with her pleasure. When he meets her gaze, a question lingers in his eyes.
"I'm ready," she answers, and nods to the bottle of oil. Frederick takes the hint, pouring some out and slipping it over his length, before returning to her again. His nose brushes hers, and he caresses her cheek with the back of his hand.
"Are you certain, Emmeryn?"
"Mm-hm," she hums, stroking her hand down his chest.
He swallows, but leans toward her, brushing against her inner thigh. She doesn't know what to exact, but the calmness lingers even as she feels him starting to prod—gently, so gently, as if she is an eggshell that might break. She reaches up and strokes the soft spot of his neck, right behind his ear, and she murmurs words of trust that let him inch ever closer, until he's finally inside.
A sharp pinch, and she tries to hide it with a purse of her lips, but Frederick's already seen it, tensing above her, his hips drawing back. "Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm fine." She weaves her fingers into his hair, stroking his head, but his expression is still pinched. "I'm fine, Frederick. The pain's already gone. You can move, my love."
Frederick nods, pressing another kiss to the side of her neck. He keeps his mouth there, a source of warmth, as he slowly moves again, letting her adjust to the sensation. She whispers words of love and encouragement, and watches as they spur him. His movements are like any other of his: controlled and measured, with no wasted energy. But as his breathing becomes heavier and hotter against her skin, his strides quicken until she's moving with him. She takes in every detail of his brown hair like long ink strokes on his forehead and the moisture of his skin slick against her belly. All the while they hold each other's gaze, his eyes darkening as he braces his arms on either side of her, and she presses her hands on his back until there's no more space between them.
Finally, his smooth, controlled strokes lose their rhythm as his heart drums against her chest, and his movements become more wild than she's ever seen. He clenches his jaw in his stubborn struggle to keep control, but suddenly his eyes pop, shining with a mixture of bliss and surprise, and he lunges forward. She doesn't know what makes her do it—if it is some natural instinct that she did not know she had or a reaction to him—but she arches her back until he's at her deepest point and push her hips against his like a wave crashing on a shore. He moans, and she catches the sound with her lips, until he's completely encircled in her embrace. A different sort of pleasure swells within her, and she had never felt so pleased, so satisfied, than this single, shared moment, when the man she had given her heart to is bonded with her so utterly and completely.
When he finally draws back, his breathing is heavy but not as labored, and he kisses her on her forehead, on her nose and neck and breasts, until she's bursting with giggles. Only then does he return to meet her gaze; his eyes a warm, melted brown and his expression so at ease and content, like she's never seen him before.
"You are a wonderful woman," he murmurs huskily, trailing his fingertips from her forehead to her waist, stroking in that one spot she adores. "And I love you, Emmeryn."
"And I you, Frederick," she says, drawing him near into another blissful kiss.