sweetpeasprite

It's a slightly stuffy day in the Empire of Hamelin, as Emperor Marcassin hums and pours water from a kettle into two china tea cups.

It's strange how, despite there being no weather under the city's roof, the air can still feel oddly stale to the lungs. He believes it is because the roof hasn't been opened in a little while - they've had rain forecasted all this week, listening to it pelt the metal roof and echoing to the citizens below. Despite the fact they lived with the roof closed for years, under Marcassin's own brokenhearted rule, they've all recently become used to the fresh air the new opening schedule brings. The roof will open tomorrow, however, the forecast being clear for the next while, which should hopefully clear the air of the build up of fumes.

Even with the air being stifling, Marcassin is determined to make the best of it. His plans for the day include drafting a letter to Cowlipha Lowlah to discuss trade between Hamelin and Castaway Cove, as well as a meeting with his new minister of spellcraft - completely inexperienced in politics, but one of the only people he could find who could cast a spell - to talk about what the lift of the ban on magic means for Hamelin. He expects he will have to speak with Queen Cassiopeia on that front - if she has the time, what with her still doing her best to create a new life for herself. He would like his engineers to take a look at a few magimechs, if she'll have them. Perhaps Oliver could help as well, though not on the political side of things… not to mention that most everyone has agreed to allow him a well-deserved break.

He slides into one of the two seats at the table, resting his cheek in his hand as he stares into a corner of the room, waiting for his tea to brew. The recent events have left everyone well-deserving of a break, if he’s honest - he knows Gascon has been sleeping for just about the past week. Unfortunately, Marcassin is the emperor, after all - an emperor still being punished for the mistakes of his brokenhearted self, despite being healed months ago. Winning the people’s favour after over a year of tyranny and policing is not an overnight thing. He’s lucky that he’s had Micah by his side for all of this time; and, perhaps, now that the world has been saved twice over, they will finally have some time to actually talk. He’d like that, he thinks.

He's taken out of his thoughts by a loud knock on his door, echoing in the large chamber. "Come in," he calls, fully expecting a familiar dark-haired face.

Instead, the door is opened almost hesitantly, by a low ranking member of the guard, judging by his armour. Marcassin raises his eyebrows and stands up.

"I'm so sorry to- um, to bother you, Your Majesty," he stutters, wide-eyed, trying to hide his awe at the room he's in quite badly.

"That's quite alright," Marcassin says briskly. "State your purpose."

"Uh-" the guard swallows, "I was told to let you know there will be a different guard stationed as your personal guard today."

That takes Marcassin off guard. His brow furrows, and he feels his heart beat a little faster. "Why? Has something happened to Captain Micah?" he asks, trying to keep the worry out of his tone.

"Well, he-" The guard pauses. "I don't know the details of it myself, Your Majesty," he says honestly, "but from what I understand, he's in the infirmary."

Marcassin stands straighter, his eyes going wide. "What? What happened?"

The guard bows respectfully. "I don't know, Your Majesty," he says. "That is all I've been told."

Marcassin's head swirls slightly, a million different thoughts going off at once. "Thank you," he says, distracted, to the nervously fidgeting guard at the door. "You are dismissed." The guard nods, rushing backwards out of the door, closing it behind him with a low clang, and he's left alone with his thoughts.

Micah is in the infirmary. Micah is in the infirmary? Was he injured somehow? If there was an attack of some kind, Marcassin ought to know about it - it could have been a machine, a malfunction of some sort, but mechanics isn't Micah's department, far from it; perhaps he would be checking on weapons development - and the thought causes a spike of panic through Marcassin's heart - but with the White Witch incident so recent, much of the staff in that area are on break, including the new head, Gascon. Marcassin desperately concludes that it must have been a simple accident. Or perhaps his sister needs more medicine - Marcassin will gladly give him anything he needs - but surely he wouldn't have to stay in the infirmary if that were the only thing?

Nevertheless, that's his morning flipped a little. He's never going to settle until he checks, he knows. He frowns at the tea cups on the table, steeping tea leaves sitting at the bottom of both. One was, of course, for Micah. Marcassin sighs. He supposes it will just have to go cold, as he takes a simple dark purple cape for his trip through the palace, so as to not look too plain in his tunic.

His shoes tap, tap, tap on the polished floor as he walks a little too quickly to be natural to his destination. He passes guards on the way, who all stand up straighter as he goes by - he vaguely wonders who's giving the orders if Micah is in the infirmary. A handful of them are slacking off a little, and scramble to attention when Marcassin passes. He pays them no mind; he's only looking for one guard in particular, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts as he power walks through the halls, going through each possible scenario again and again. As he comes to the door to the infirmary, he forces himself to take a deep breath, so as not to appear too panicked, and calmly opens the door.

He hasn't been in here since he was a younger kid, he realises, revelling in the smell of sanitiser that shines on every surface. Once he learned Healing Touch, he could take care of any simple cuts or bruises himself - and if he was sick, often the nurse would come to him. It's an odd nostalgia for a time when there were, thanks to Shadar, no wizards in the palace other than himself, and any scrapes were taken care of not with magic, but with clean water and a bandage.

"Oh!" comes a familiar voice, and the nurse comes bumbling around the corner. "Your Majesty! I haven't seen you here in a long while. Are you injured?"

"Oh, no, no," Marcassin reassures her, "I've been told that Captain Micah is being held here. I wish to know what has happened."

The nurse laughs. "Being held here. You make it sound as if we're keeping him prisoner!"

Well, if she's laughing, it can't be too serious, Marcassin thinks to himself, and waits for her to stop expectantly. She looks to Marcassin, and abruptly stops laughing, bowing her head in panicked respect. "My apologies, Your Majesty - I fear I am treating you as the child you no longer are.” She raises her head, and attempts an awkward smile. ”Captain Micah… collapsed in the hallway this morning."

Marcassin, who was about to reassure her of doing nothing wrong, feels panic shoot through him. "What?"

"He's fine," she quickly assures. "He apparently woke up almost immediately after - but it was certainly enough for someone to alert me. He has a bit of a fever - I fear he may have overworked himself to sickness. All he needs is a bit of rest. The reason he's here is just to keep an eye on him for a little while; I was planning on calling guards to take him to his chambers."

Marcassin feels himself relax, putting a hand to his heart as he breathes out the tension in his shoulders. "So he's simply sick?"

The nurse bows her head. "Yes, Your Majesty. It seems to be a bad case of the common cold."

He nods. "May I see him?"

The nurse pauses. "The illness may be contagious, Your Majesty," she warns.

"Oh, a little cold never killed me," Marcassin dismisses, walking to the other door to the ward. It's an unfamiliar room to him - he was rarely in here as a child, and it seems to have been refurbished anyway. Three beds are set up, one of them full - and Micah sits up once he sees Marcassin, who quickly crosses the room to him. His armour has been discarded to a corner next to his bed, and he sits in a simple dark long sleeved shirt and leggings. He looks, as kind as Marcassin can put it, awful; bags under his eyes and dark hair greasy with sweat. He swallows and sniffles as Marcassin approaches.

"Hello, Micah," he greets. "I hear you've had a bit of a fall."

Micah, already flushed with fever, turns redder. "My apologies, Mar-" his eyes drift to the nurse, entering behind, "...Your Majesty."

Marcassin tuts, both at the title and the state of him. He reaches up and puts the back of his hand to Micah's forehead, and he almost imperceptibly leans into it. "Goodness, Micah," he murmurs, feeling how high his temperature is even without a thermometer, "why did you think you were fit to work today?"

He takes his hand away, and Micah pointedly looks away from him, ears red. "Someone has to give orders to the guards," he mumbles, voice stuffy.

"Yes, well," Marcassin says, tracing his fingers over the bed frame, "what good are you to the guards if you're passed out in some corner of the palace?" He stands slightly straighter. "I will take you to your chambers myself."

Micah snaps his head around, and opens his mouth to protest, but the nurse beats him to it. "Are you sure, Your Majesty? Surely you have duties to attend to?"

"I am quite sure," Marcassin says, leaving no room for discussion. "I can take a few minutes out of my day to walk my captain to his room, can I not?"

The nurse hesitates, before bowing. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Very well." He turns back to Micah, and offers his arm. "Shall we?"

Micah frowns at him, clearly disapproving of this, but sighs and takes his arm as he gets up, wobbling a little in a way Marcassin hasn't seen from him. They exit the infirmary, passing the nurse, and heading to the guards' section of the palace.

As they walk together through the halls, Marcassin looks up at Micah. He, very clearly on purpose, has his head pointing away from Marcassin, refusing to look at him. "Micah?" Marcassin says. Micah turns his head further away. "Micah, what are you doing?"

"Trying not to get you sick," he mumbles, sniffling a little.

"Oh, honestly, Micah, I've had far worse than a cold," Marcassin scolds lightly. "I'd much rather you were comfortable."

Micah only huffs in response. Marcassin supposes there's nothing for it, and simply keeps walking forward. The guards' chambers aren't that far from the infirmary; they arrive there in good time, and Micah unlocks the door to his room, and starts to open the door, before hesitating.

"Thank you, Marcassin," he says. "You can go back to your duties now."

Marcassin pauses. "I'm not leaving until you're in bed, Micah," he says gently. "If you had been assigned guards to take you here, I expected you would have convinced them you were fit to work. You are resting today, whether you like it or not."

There's a moment of quiet, the faint sounds of machinery whirring around them as they pause outside the chamber. Then, Micah grumbles, and enters his room.

It's a simple bedroom, that Marcassin realises he's never been in before; the same walls as the rest of the main body of the palace, but with carpeting, and a double bed with a dark burgundy duvet. A door connects to a very tiny bathroom, without a bath or shower. There's a closet off to the side, and a simple wooden chair. That's about all the room has space for - it's the fanciest in the guards' quarters, to be certain, but it's still in the guards' quarters. It's cosier than Marcassin's own massive bedroom that still, even fifteen years after he took it, feels far too big for just him. Micah continues to hesitate, as Marcassin leads him to his bed. "I'm sure that I can-"

Marcassin shushes him. "No, you cannot." He pats the duvet. "Into bed, Micah," he says.

"I'm really fine, Marca-" He breaks off into a coughing fit, and Marcassin rushes to his side to direct him to the bed.

"Are you?" he says dryly. Micah sighs as he clambers into the bed, and Marcassin puts his hand to his forehead again. "You're burning," he mutters, as Micah pulls the duvet over himself in a huff. He crosses the room to peek out, scanning the hall and perking up when he spots a servant carrying something away from him. "Excuse me!"

The servant jumps, spinning around with wide eyes. "Y-Your Majesty!" he says, startled. "What are you doing here?"

"Captain Micah is sick," Marcassin informs him, and he blinks a few times. "I would like a cold towel and tissues delivered to this room, please. And some tea, if you wouldn't mind."

The servant takes a moment to process, then bows. "O-of course, Your Majesty. It shall be done."

He turns to leave. "Oh, and," Marcassin calls, and he twists back around. "Please let everyone know that Captain Micah is not to leave this room under any circumstances. That is an order from your emperor, and it therefore overrules any orders Captain Micah himself may give." He hears Micah groan from his bed, and he smiles, satisfied.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the servant says, bowing again. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you," Marcassin says, and he watches the servant go, before retreating back into the room, smiling at Micah.

Micah levels a glare at him. "You can't stay in here forever, Marcassin," he points out, voice nasally, sinking into his bed. "You have things to attend to."

Marcassin frowns - as much as he hates to admit it, Micah is right. "Yes, I suppose I do," he sighs. He hesitates, for a moment, despite this. Micah is starting to get comfortable, curling up under his duvet and sniffing not-so-quietly. Marcassin is struck by how much he wants to be there, for a second - how he would like nothing more than to stay by Micah's side while he's like this, helping him through this illness. How he would like to sit, whiling away the day simply talking - as they used to, though through a door, when he was brokenhearted and lacking any sense of responsibility. Unfortunately for Marcassin, said sense has returned to him - and the kingdom comes first over his personal relationship with the captain of his guard.

"Will you be alright if I leave you?" he asks, and Micah rolls his eyes.

"Of course I will," he mutters, but there's no spite behind his tone. "Go tend to whatever you need."

Marcassin ducks his head, and turns to leave. At the door, he pauses. "I will have someone tend to your duties in your place," he promises, turning back. "Please do not worry about anything. Just rest."

Micah grumbles a response, disappearing into the covers. Marcassin smiles fondly, and switches off the light before he closes the door.

On his way back to his own chambers - he has to admit, it's odd walking around without Micah by his side - he comes across a panicked guardsman, searching around the palace. "Good morning," he greets him, and he immediately snaps to attention. His armour looks too high ranking to be floundering like this. "Is something the matter?"

The guard stares at him for a second. "Y-Your Majesty!" He sounds relieved, and he seems to relax by a good margin. "I've been looking for you. I have been assigned as your personal guard while Captain Micah is missing in action."

"Oh." Marcassin, while having been informed of this, hadn't quite processed what it meant. "I see."

There's an awkward pause. "My apologies, sire, I was told you were in your chambers, but I couldn't find you there."

Marcassin blinks. "Did you… look in there?"

"Ah…" The guard looks panicked for a second. "Simply a peek to ensure you weren't in there when you didn't respond to knocking, is all."

Marcassin's first reaction is offence - but he forces himself to keep calm. It was simply his job, after all, to look for him. "What is your name?" he asks politely.

"Rhys, Your Majesty."

Marcassin nods. "Very well, Rhys. Come along. I have a few letters to pen."

—

Marcassin has decided he absolutely abhors Rhys.

He's just… always there. He follows too close behind, he breathes oddly, Marcassin can feel his eyes burning into his back wherever he goes - his meeting with his minister of spellcraft goes poorly, both because he's an idiot who barely understands what politics are and because of the guard standing behind Marcassin, making him sweat bullets as he argues and feels judging eyes on him. He almost loses his composure writing his letter to the Cowlipha because he's too close to him, making him grip his pen a little too hard as he tries his best to keep his neat cursive flowing. It is least helped by the fact that Rhys is significantly older than him; as are, barring Micah, all of the high ranking members of his guard. He's got a stupid little moustache with silver hairs running through it, and Marcassin would like nothing more than to tear it off his face.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is that he doesn't speak. Of course, Marcassin doesn't exactly start up a conversation like he would with Micah - but the neverending silence throughout his day becomes grating, horrible to his ears. He can feel himself becoming more and more agitated by Rhys' silent presence with every passing second. When all of his duties are finally complete for the day, he comes to his room, and tells Rhys he is dismissed.

He blinks in response. "Your Majesty, I am to guard you until Captain Micah is back on his feet," he tells him.

Marcassin bites back a childish groan, taking a deep breath. "Very well," he says through his teeth. "Then I will be retiring to my chambers for the time being. You are to stay out here and guard my door."

Rhys bows his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Yes, Your Majesty! Marcassin mocks in his head, then winces as he recognises what he's doing as he closes the door behind him. He breathes out, relaxing as he's alone at last. The tea cups from this morning are still on his table; cold, having been brewing since he left them there. He feels a strange pang as he sees them, and sighs as he places them back onto the tray for a maid to collect later. He takes his sceptre from his holster and draws the rune for Travel in the air, reciting the words under his breath. He's sure Rhys would follow him if he were to walk there, and he would rather like to be alone.

When he opens his eyes, he's surrounded by the walls of the hallway in the guards' quarters. He trots down to Micah's chamber, knocking three times, and revels in the fact he's here on his own.

"Come in," comes Micah's stuffy voice, and Marcassin enters happily.

Micah visibly brightens as he enters, sitting up a little straighter. There's an empty bowl and a folded rag on the table beside him, as well as a myriad of used tissues dotted about his bed. His eyes look a little brighter than they did in the morning - though his hair is still unkempt. "Good afternoon, Micah," Marcassin greets. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, I think," Micah says. "Ready to go back to work, I'd say."

"Oh, no you don't," Marcassin laughs. "You're not going anywhere until that cold is officially out of you." Micah frowns, grumbling as he sinks back down into the bed. Marcassin casts a quick Levitate on the tissues, sending them off to the corner of the room with a bin, before sitting down on the duvet next to him, careful not to sit on his legs. "Honestly, though, I've certainly had a bit of a day without you."

Micah shifts, the duvet rustling. "Oh? What happened?"

Marcassin huffs. "Nothing much. I just had the worst personal guard I've ever had as a replacement. That Rhys fellow - do you know him?"

Micah sits up, suddenly alarmed. "What has he done?"

Marcassin opens his mouth, preparing to complain about every single little thing that he's had to deal with - but comes up with nothing. He closes it, and opens it again, gaping not unlike a fish. "W-Well," he blusters, "He's- he never leaves me alone!"

Micah furrows his brow. "He's not meant to. He's your guard."

"Well, you leave when I ask you to," Marcassin points out.

"And I'm not meant to, Marcassin."

"Well-" He stops. "He's not…" Marcassin can feel himself flushing red. "I suppose… he hasn't particularly done anything wrong." He looks down, picking at the duvet. Why is he so upset about this? Rhys has really just been doing his job the whole day; standing by at all times, ensuring the safety of his emperor. It all just felt a little… impersonal, Marcassin thinks, but he can't quite place his finger on why. Then… ah. He closes his eyes as he realises.

"He's not you, Micah," he murmurs, and Micah shifts slightly. "I suppose that's why I'm a little worked up about this."

Micah is quiet for a moment. "Well, maybe I should go back to work sooner," he mumbles.

"No." Marcassin shakes his head. "My schedule being disrupted for a day or two will not kill me. You must rest - have I not told you that already?"

"But-"

"You're being so stubborn about this," Marcassin says calmly, doing his best to keep a gentle tone. "Why? There are other guards that can protect me - a good amount of which would kill for the chance for a day off."

Micah is silent. "Well, you said it yourself," he says finally, looking away from Marcassin. "They aren't… me. I want to be there if you get hurt - I want to stop you from getting hurt at all. It's why I decided to stay in the first place."

Marcassin is quiet, searching what he can see of Micah's face with his eyes. "You spend every day standing by my side, protecting me - caring about me," he murmurs, gently placing his hand over Micah's. "Allow me to care for you this one day in return."

Micah hesitates, before the tension and stubbornness in his shoulders seems to fade, finally relaxing for what Marcassin believes to be the first time all day. "Alright," he mumbles, and Marcassin lets out a breath.

"Right," he murmurs. "Have you eaten?"

Micah smiles slightly. "Yes," he says quietly, "the kitchens sent me a bowl of soup. I think the whole palace knows I'm sick thanks to you."

"Ha, well," Marcassin grins, "you do a lot for the palace, you know. It makes sense if everyone wishes to take care of you for now."

He hums. "I hate feeling like this, as well," he mutters, sniffing. "Feeling so… weak. Especially with the White Witch being so recent."

Marcassin winces - he sympathises. He doubts he'd like to feel ill after everything that's happened, either - he can still feel the manna beginning to burn into his skin, powerless to stop it as it consumed Hamelin - only getting away by the skin of his teeth. "All the more reason to get some rest, I'm afraid," he says. Micah huffs a little, sinking down into his pillows and tugging the duvet up to his chin. Marcassin feels something tug at his heart as he watches him. "I'll fetch you some tea," he says gently, getting up to leave him to rest.

"Wait."

Marcassin waits.

He looks down at Micah, who looks up at him with slightly tired eyes for a while - then, finally, he looks away, his face flushing. "My apologies - it's not my place to ask."

Marcassin blinks. "To ask for…?"

There's silence. Marcassin watches as Micah seems to scan the wall with his eyes, pressing his lips together. "To lie with me for a little while," he says finally, gently. "But you have duties to attend to, and besides-"

Marcassin cuts him off by sitting back down on the bed. "I have finished most of my duties for the day," he says gently. "And the gods know I would rather stay here than go back to Rhys for the evening."

Micah huffs a small laugh, smiling a little. "He can't have been that bad."

"Oh, Micah, he was just dreadful," Marcassin moans, faking a faint half on top of Micah, lying down. "I can't live without you, Micah-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, but makes no motion to push Marcassin off. "I'll fire him as soon as I get out of here." Marcassin laughs, knowing that he would never - and relaxes a bit. He only realises his head is on Micah's chest, with a duvet between them, after a few seconds. He turns his head to look at his face, finding it a little too close for comfort. "You're gonna get sick," Micah mumbles, his face red.

Marcassin is sure his own isn't much better. "I'm sure I'll live," he murmurs back. He isn't sure if he wants to stay here for the rest of time or if he wants to go under the duvet and cuddle for real, if he wants to enter into Micah's warm arms and stay there for the rest of eternity. He doesn't, of course - that would be crossing a line, if this isn't already. But what if he did, he asks himself - if Micah is asking him to lie down with him, then where is the line? Now that the world is officially saved, he has the time to explore it, he supposes.

"Thank you," Micah says quietly. "I've been going a little crazy in here on my own, I think."

Marcassin laughs. "You're welcome."

Micah smiles at him, and Marcassin thinks there is no place he would rather be.

(They talk, as they used to, for the next few hours.)

—

"Your Majesty?" comes Micah's voice through Marcassin's bedroom door.

He lifts his head groggily, sniffing. "Yes?" he calls, and his voice comes out scratchy and nasally, and he closes his eyes as he drops back to the pillow again. "Come in, Micah."

The door opens, and Micah's heavy armoured boots echo through the chamber. "Marcassin."

"Hi, Micah."

A hand brushes up against Marcassin's forehead, and Micah sighs above him. "I told you."

Marcassin smiles. Worth it.