[ It has been an age since he'd worked magics like this for anything other than serving himself. A thoughtless little charm placed to help builders work more efficiently was not kindness, it was necessity; he hadn't wanted to wait six lifetimes for a building to be built and so if he could speed the process along then all the better. Neither were healing spells typically used to avoid healing except in drastic, dire cases, like needing to avoid healing a broken bone left unset for fear of it healing shattered and necessitating breaking once again so it may heal properly.
To do so is not difficult it just requires a touch of finesse. He might not have Aepymetes' or Viktor's ability to heal so effectively without some effort, but fine, detail work he can manage with a little focus. ]
I do so hate to see all my hard work go to waste. As for the matter of hunger, I can promise there is no amount of breaking fasts [ There's a slight hitch, a faint, soft intake of breath at Viktor's touch - of course he would touch, but Emet-Selch hadn't expected his own skin to hum with such sensitivity - and then he soldiers on. ] that would have any impact upon the other hunger.
[ The cool chill of his own spellwork weaves its way through Viktor slowly, the first ice-cold gulp of water after a long, hard day underneath the sun, settling in Viktor's stomach and radiating outward. Every mark remains maintained, Emet-Selch strokes a thumb over one of them with a pleased little look before glancing up at Viktor. Slowly, the shadows that had acted simply as a chair begin to gain a sense of weight again, Emet-Selch's cool fist curling around him, the flames stoked higher once again. ]
An encore, then.
[ He finds he does not mislike being called to the stage, staying perhaps a touch after his welcome, thanks to Viktor.
Afterward, he coaxes Viktor back into the bath and from it, snaps fresh sheets onto the bed, unwilling to deal with the tediousness of making it himself and certainly not bothering to summon staff at this time of night. Morning, maybe; Emet-Selch glances out frosted windows and cannot quite tell if the glow is early morning dawn or lamplights not accosted by fog. It does not matter.
He's traded the empty wine bottle from earlier for glasses of mulled wine with cinnamon sticks soaking within, and, with far less reticence than their previous time in the bath, appreciating the press of bare skin on bare skin impossibly more after the evening. A rinse will suffice, but he is not particularly eager to leave, shockingly comfortable.
When he finishes the latest glass of mulled wine, maybe. His fingers are not yet too pruney, and he's kept himself entertained enough tracing freckles upon Viktor's shoulders with fingers and mouth. From between idle presses of his mouth beween the knobs of Viktor's spine, along the nape of his neck, Emet-Selch murmurs, ]
How cross will you be were I to wake us at our normal bell for lessons?
no subject
To do so is not difficult it just requires a touch of finesse. He might not have Aepymetes' or Viktor's ability to heal so effectively without some effort, but fine, detail work he can manage with a little focus. ]
I do so hate to see all my hard work go to waste. As for the matter of hunger, I can promise there is no amount of breaking fasts [ There's a slight hitch, a faint, soft intake of breath at Viktor's touch - of course he would touch, but Emet-Selch hadn't expected his own skin to hum with such sensitivity - and then he soldiers on. ] that would have any impact upon the other hunger.
[ The cool chill of his own spellwork weaves its way through Viktor slowly, the first ice-cold gulp of water after a long, hard day underneath the sun, settling in Viktor's stomach and radiating outward. Every mark remains maintained, Emet-Selch strokes a thumb over one of them with a pleased little look before glancing up at Viktor. Slowly, the shadows that had acted simply as a chair begin to gain a sense of weight again, Emet-Selch's cool fist curling around him, the flames stoked higher once again. ]
An encore, then.
[ He finds he does not mislike being called to the stage, staying perhaps a touch after his welcome, thanks to Viktor.
Afterward, he coaxes Viktor back into the bath and from it, snaps fresh sheets onto the bed, unwilling to deal with the tediousness of making it himself and certainly not bothering to summon staff at this time of night. Morning, maybe; Emet-Selch glances out frosted windows and cannot quite tell if the glow is early morning dawn or lamplights not accosted by fog. It does not matter.
He's traded the empty wine bottle from earlier for glasses of mulled wine with cinnamon sticks soaking within, and, with far less reticence than their previous time in the bath, appreciating the press of bare skin on bare skin impossibly more after the evening. A rinse will suffice, but he is not particularly eager to leave, shockingly comfortable.
When he finishes the latest glass of mulled wine, maybe. His fingers are not yet too pruney, and he's kept himself entertained enough tracing freckles upon Viktor's shoulders with fingers and mouth. From between idle presses of his mouth beween the knobs of Viktor's spine, along the nape of his neck, Emet-Selch murmurs, ]
How cross will you be were I to wake us at our normal bell for lessons?