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Tav has pulled, on average, a unique displeased face every thirty seconds during the last five minutes now.
I see that this twenty-page missive of praise from the Lord of the Gist Manor is unimpressive to you, the Emperor says.
"Meaningless pomp," Tav replies. "On any given day, you get more done for the city as the Lord of the Elfsong Basement than any of these fools.”
He tosses the stack of parchment into the wastebin and then finishes his march across the room to the Emperor’s desk. The day has just begun, but he’s been busy; multiple conflating emotions emit from him, annoyance and anticipation and determination.
“Happy Returning Day, by the way! You shouldn’t be working.”
The Emperor finally looks up, pointedly, but sets down the quill.
“Ravengard is making a speech,” Tav continues. “I’m sure you know. On Returning Day, when our legendary hero came home from his great journey, it’s customary for the Grand Duke to talk extensively about Balduran, founder of Baldur’s Gate. The whole speech is usually about him, in fact.”
I am sure that Ulder Ravengard will have a great deal of civic praise to heap, the Emperor says dryly.
“He had better. Come now, you simply cannot spend today doing accounting. I will not have it.” Tav curls an arm around the Emperor’s shoulders, and mentally visualizes tossing all of his paperwork into the wastebin as well. “Your forms can be filled out and your influence can be expanded tomorrow. You are going to have a good time instead.”
And you propose this will happen by listening to Ravengard’s speech?
“There will be festivities at the Wide! And the food, with vendors arriving from far beyond the Coast. You know, half the reason I need to leave the city every now and again is because seafood stew every other day gets boring.”
Perhaps that period spent scavenging for supplies from overturned wagons and half-rotting crates has something to do with this need for dietary variety.
“You do what you must on the road. It’s a perfect day—overcast, but not too cold.” Tav rubs his hands down the Emperor’s arms. “We can certainly stay in as well, of course. Whatever you want. As long as it’s not at this desk.”
The Emperor considers, and then rises to fetch his cloak.
The sky over the Upper City is indeed pleasantly clouded, with a sheet of ankle-high mist. Tav picks out a route through the food vendors that avoids the majority of the crowd. The elf darts from stall to stall, sampling dumplings from the Border Kingdoms, and boulqthi—a pastry popular with the halflings of Luiren. Somewhere along the way, accumulating souvenirs and snacks, he ends up with daisies in his hair and colored glass pins on his hat.
The Emperor links senses with Tav, enjoying the taste of curry and anise and clove, and listens to the bard make the common complaint of veteran travelers about the blandness of local pub food in comparison. While the Emperor is not so qualified these days to judge, he has thought the simplicity of Baldur’s Gate food a strength—the freshness of the day’s catch, a pinch of salt, and a knob of goat butter and a still-warm loaf of bread. And during long sea voyages, of course, Balduran could hardly afford a fussy palate.
Perhaps he is being sentimental. Brains, of course, have flavor to him, but describing joy or fear as a taste is mostly metaphorical.
“Citizens of Baldur’s Gate,” Ulder Ravengard says, from a makeshift stage built for the occasion. Behind him, one of Balduran’s many statues looms. The Wide is usually free of them, but this one was transported here just for the occasion. “I thank you for joining us on this momentous day.”
“Ah, one of my favorites,” Tav says. He is talking about the Balduran statue.
The Emperor indulges him. What makes it your favorite?
“Look at the detail. I think it’s the only one where they did not stick the Helm on.” The elf laughs. “I like the ears, especially. Very ambiguously carved. You’ve heard that this is a point of controversy, right? I don’t know why people care. The city is seventy percent human, so it’s not as if it’s a matter of culture. Well, and you never struck me as particularly…”
The Emperor glances away briefly.
A memory: His mother recounting from a piece of parchment curled with age. A family tree. The surnames are lost, the connections faded.
I do not recall how much elven ancestry I may have had, the Emperor says. He attempts again to focus in on his mother’s features, but many surviving details of his previous life lack the clarity of illithid memory. Cut-shade silk.
Tav looks at him furtively, uncertain whether this is too delicate a subject. “Well, plenty of people have some! It hardly matters now—And at least you don’t have to worry about the complexities of oh, elven reincarnation and the existentialism therein and your soul bouncing across Arvandor like a rubber ball. You know, they are making me a statue, too, and putting it up in the High Hall. We will be neighbors!”
The Emperor projects his amusement. I’ve heard. I’m afraid I have reliable intelligence that your petition to reuse the one you purchased from the Circus of the Last Days will be ignored.
“People are frightened by a little artistic nudity? Sad. You are not going to make me get rid of it, are you?” he says plaintively.
What you keep at your personal vaults at the Countinghouse is your concern. I’m afraid I have reliable intelligence that your petition to display your nude statue at the Elfsong will also be ignored.
“Tyrant of a landlord,” Tav says, shaking his head and grinning. “You like it, though, right?”
I prefer its subject, the Emperor says delicately.
“The real thing is much better than a statue,” Tav agrees, brushing the Emperor’s chin as he walks by to sample another stall.
From the stage: “As we celebrate the founding of our city this day, we should take the opportunity to reflect on what we stand for—and what has been endured despite every world-quaking disaster, every nefarious villain of legend, every attempt to dismantle us. We endure.” Cheers and whistles from the crowd. “And we remember. Today, we venerate a great hero—a great man.”
From waist-level in the crowd, there is nervous movement and a nervous mind. Somehow, an urchin from the Lower City has snuck past the Old Gate, and is prowling about the food stalls.
The Emperor tracks the quick-fingered child across the market. Only a few bread rolls have gone missing so far, but this will hardly end well—or result in better relations between the Upper and Lower City, if the famously terse City Watch accidently beats an orphan to death. As he approaches, the Emperor plucks an apple from an unsupervised cart and hands it to the child in question.
The boy gapes up at the disguise the Emperor wears. There is surprise and wariness rather than gratitude. Gratitude tends not to survive life on the streets.
Of course, an apple is a two-hour solution to hunger. The Emperor slips a sapphire ring off of his finger and drops that into the boy’s palm as well. Then, he advises the orphan to leave before the Watch passes by.
As the urchin scuttles off, Tav drifts over, leaking admiration. “Do you always love to give your things away?”
The Emperor can see where this conversation thread is going. Tav sees it, too; his eyebrows waggle.
Is this an exercise?
“To name a positive thing about Balduran, founder of Baldur’s Gate? Why not. Tell me,” Tav reaches out, easily navigating the Emperor’s illusion to twirl a tentacle about his finger. “Why should he be so beloved? Surely we must all have some reason to like him this much.”
He could be generous, yes—to a fault. In his youth, this was taken advantage of.
Tav’s mouth quirks. “’Generous!’ How much was it to build an entire city wall? You may as well take all the credit for his deeds, at this point.”
It wasn’t about having gold, the Emperor says. It was about getting it. He was hardly an exceptional financial steward.
“No, few can contest an illithid accountant,” Tav says, grinning. “After all, you did my taxes again.”
A simple thank-you will suffice. You do not need to…
Tav is already opening his purse and is across the street in a flash, picking out several pieces from a jeweler—a replacement ring, a set of filigreed forearm bracers, and a matching set for the legs, brilliant hammered gold. Obligingly, the Emperor slips on the ring and the bracers, and then sits on a bench to let Tav prop each leg onto lap and fasten the rest to his calves.
“It is no easy thing to steward a city such as ours. And not merely a matter of great feats, but the everyday work, the banal, the wearisome but necessary daily labors. Balduran is not just the founder of our home, but a tireless example of what it takes to maintain a city such as ours—in all of its chaos, its diversity, its freedom,” says Duke Ravengard. “Here at Baldur’s Gate, all are free to make new starts without judgment, no matter their past. So let us remember that every day is a new day. A new chance, and a new self, for all of us. And no matter what we become, this city is our home.”
The Emperor says, Did you write the speech for him as well?
Remaining at the bench, he watches Tav bounce between two more food stalls before returning and answering.
“People do change their views, you know.”
The Emperor extends his mind towards Tav’s, coaxing until the elf gives up a memory from a tenday ago.
You held a meeting.
“Diplomatic, but sternly worded,” the hero of Baldur’s Gate says smugly, waving a sizzling skewer. “That’s the key to talking with Ravengard—you can’t be too brusque, otherwise that will raise his hackles, but you must also be firm about what you want. It also helps to remind him that you saved his life and the city and also got that initiative of his passed last month.” There is a pause. “Anyhow, I hope it was an acceptable speech.”
He lifts the stick to his mouth and bites off one of the ring-shaped pieces of meat. The Emperor savors his savoring of it.
“It’s squid,” Tav says. “Simply mouthwatering. My favorite, and I think about it all the time.”
The Emperor takes a piece.
“Are you supposed to eat the batter?”
No. I’ll be fine.
Tav laughs at this but eats the fried coating off the next piece before reaching between tentacles to slide it directly into the Emperor’s mouth. His fingers brush the Emperor’s teeth.
Through Tav, he can appreciate the tangy-sweet sauce the squid has been dipped in, while the texture of flesh is still pleasant for the Emperor to enjoy directly. He watches Tav eat and, as a drop of oil runs over the corner of his mouth, the Emperor wipes it off with a tentacle. Tav’s smirk widens.
“I simply think you should be appreciated for all your considerable contributions towards the city’s prosperity, great deeds notwithstanding,” he says.
That can be arranged.
Tav feigns surprise. “Oh!”
Then, takes his hand, and they depart.
There’s a hidden bluff overlooking the ocean that Tav likes coming out to in order to stargaze. It is far enough from the city that there’s no sound save for that of a small freshwater stream nearby and the roar of waves far below, nestled from wind and sun by a well-shaded overhang.
They lay in cool grass, watching for whales for a while, and then the Emperor hears Tav humming. He extends his mind, farther, not merely seeking a memory this time, and in turn, feels Tav’s bardic magic meet his psionics halfway.
Today, there is some trepidation in Tav’s mind. The source of it is the fact that he knows the Emperor will know about it, through their bond.
Ah, it’s foolish, Tav says. Don’t worry about it.
Especially cognizant of the ghost of Balduran, he is trying hard to make it a positive day for the Emperor. Mildly embarrassed about this being found out—and furthermore embarrassed about his reaction to his own reaction.
I know I shouldn’t be, Tav grumbles.
The Emperor says, curiously, You know I would hardly judge regardless, but you are usually the last person to be self-conscious.
Exactly. I am usually much better at this.
I see.
There’s a tinge of quicksilver melancholy. Then, Tav sighs, tosses an arm over the Emperor’s chest and his hat into the grass. Draws and releases a deep breath. His pulse slows, and he pulls both of their attentions onto the feel of the grass beneath his palms, and the Emperor’s hand at his flank. “Say, do you believe that you are your mind? That there’s no distinction between it and your ‘self’?”
As much as you believe that you are synonymous with your soul.
“And yet my mind generates thoughts on occasion that make no sense, and that I can get around to disregarding, and detaching from them via mental exercise. I don’t think they’re me. Does this work differently for you?”
I understand, the Emperor says. Mind flayers do possess involuntary impulses that arise; for example, the ability to develop phobias—a necessity of a functional limbic system. All living things possess survival instinct designed to respond robustly to perceived threats. It is my myriad higher cognitive functions that I would categorize as my sense of self.
He shows it to Tav—albeit carefully, so that it’s not like running the non-illithid over with a wagon. Not that the thrill-seeking hero of Baldur’s Gate would mind. He’s described the corridors of the Emperor’s mind as like a kaleidoscope, or the infinite night sky.
It is not that involuntary thoughts do not arise, either, the Emperor says. Unlike you, however, I can do more than redirect from unwelcome ruminations. I can excise them psychically.
“Yet you’ve never done that,” Tav observes, recalling Belynne Stelmane, and a certain conversation within the Astral Prism.
No. I have not.
“Troublemaker,” the bard says, smiling. “They’d never let you back into a colony.”
Some of the dew he lays in sparkles in his hair, and on the petals of the flowers there. Tav is effortlessly beautiful—like most of his kind—though it is nothing compared to the verdant vale of his thoughts, keen with skill and discipline. And he is also a musician, of course. There is constant melody, joyful notes. Even his sorrow is hypnotic.
“What?” Tav says. His eyelashes flutter, as the Emperor pulls their psychic link tighter.
Tav’s mindscape is both dreamlike and starkly lucid, the result of centuries of nightly meditation the elf does in lieu of sleep. The windswept banks of the Chionthar. At the edges of his subconscious, the green dream-fields become suffused with light, like the white borders of an unfinished painting, the extension of something long-lost.
At this, there’s a flash of insight from Tav—an imagining of what the fields of the distant plane of Arvandor must look like. Home. Exile. The inability to even recall what has been lost. Such is the eternal cycle of his kind. This is something that weighs on him, occasionally.
Say, if you look closely enough, could you…dig up the primal memories? From before? There is great longing in Tav’s mind, and the quiet despair of already knowing the answer—but also a spark of hope, since the Emperor is an illithid, after all.
The Emperor looks. There’s a suggestion in Tav’s mind here of something fleeting and unknowable, but it’s as tangible as footprints washed by beach waves. The Emperor withdraws mentally and says, I can’t. If you ever possessed memories of any previously experienced lives, they have been removed by means beyond even me.
A quiet laugh. “Right. Loads of people have tried all sorts of things to catch a glimpse. The memories of Arvandor aren’t gone. They must be just…somewhere else. Unreachable by psionics, since it is not in the mind. Unreachable by magic, by divine decree.”
You believe that memories of your past lives are stored in your soul?
“Well it’s either that or a great grain silo in the sky,” Tav says. Why don’t you make doubly sure, though? Get in there.
Tav sits up behind him, and begins to knead his shoulders.
No need. I have eaten the brains of elves before, and never extracted memories from previous lives, or of the Outer Plane your souls dwell upon between reincarnations. Your theory may hold weight.
“Oh? Are we much tastier than anyone else?”
Even with a single lifetime there is a great breadth of experiences within centuries, and so elves are considered quite gourmet. Don’t worry. None of those brains I’ve eaten are comparable to a mere walk through yours.
“Flatterer,” Tav snorts. He strokes the Emperor’s hands, which feel to him like the texture of soft calfskin—and then down the Emperor’s thumb and the webbing between his fingers.
“It seems that there are great swathes of Balduran’s life that you don’t remember, even though you’ve got the important bits.” Tav’s tone is casual.
Correct, says the Emperor. They cannot be recovered. Efforts were made.
“Mmh. I would say that although I remember nothing of those past lives of mine now, they still make up ‘me’.”
The Emperor sighs, leaning back, and closes his eyes at the occasional brush of Tav’s lips at his neck.
…There’s truth in that. That which is unattainable or unviewable still exists. The old adage about the tree that falls, without anyone to hear.
Tav shifts around and takes the Emperor’s foot by the ankle, propping it in his lap and undoing the laces. Even after a year or so of wear, the boots are nearly new and entirely spotless—an advantage of seldom walking in them.
After slipping each boot off, Tav starts to brush a thumb from the back of the heel up towards the Emperor’s leg, past his newly acquired golden accessories. The Emperor brushes his cheek with a tentacle, and then plucks the rest of the daisies, which are mostly squashed, out of his hair.
Tav smiles. “All of this talk of minds and souls makes me think, we should not neglect a thorough conversation about the body as well. To be holistic and all.”
You make a compelling argument.
Tav flips the hood of the Emperor’s cloak off, and his hands work at the brooch clasping it. He holds it up—the coat-of-arms of Baldur’s Gate.
“You dressed for the occasion, after all,” he laughs, holding it up to the light, where the symbol of ship sailing upon the blue sea sparkles. He tucks it carefully into his pocket.
Then, Tav mouths slowly down the Emperor’s clavicle, and the vital artery running parallel to it. Teeth press slowly in. The Emperor closes his eyes into the sensation. Mentally urges at Tav, who is sucking slowly, to bite.
Tav does so, and the pressure increases, heady, just at the edge of almost-pain.
The Emperor puts a hand on the back of Tav’s head, and the elf pauses, moving off easily with a slight tug at his hair. Waits patiently as the Emperor makes a show of considering, and then guides him back up—both of them sigh into the sensation of Tav kissing languidly under the tentacles.
“What would you like to do?” the bard murmurs.
Tav is prepared for anything. He has a game in mind, if the Emperor is in the mood for contest, and a prize owed to the winner. He has a ribbon in his bag he can magically tie about his naked body in a bow, if the Emperor should like to unwrap a gift and have his way. And if, on the opposite end, the Emperor would simply relax and not choose at all…
It’s a surprise, the elf says from behind a mental shield, an impressive effort on his part. That’s the point.
Indeed, curiosity wins over, and the prospect of being at Tav’s mercy is hardly a detriment.
Cheered by the choice, Tav unlaces the Emperor’s tunic, and leans forward to kiss each inch of flesh exposed. He takes his time peeling the Emperor out of his trousers, mouthing down the vein on the inside of a leg, sucking until there are marks. Quickly enough, the Emperor is bare, except for the recently acquired golden accessories gleaming upon each limb.
And how would you like me?
The bard smiles in answer, rises briefly to go and sit at the edge of a nearby rock, and then asks him to kneel.
The Emperor floats gracefully down in front of Tav, sinking into the soft grass. He gets as far as getting Tav’s shirt off, though his tentacle is gently brushed aside when it strays to the belt.
“I’m quite alright, thank you.” Tav’s hand moves to the back of the Emperor’s head, stroking very softly, causing a cascade of tingling warmth. “I already have my own day, you know. The anniversary of the Netherbrain’s assault on the city. They are going to make it a whole thing.”
The Emperor studies Tav’s breeches, calculating the chances of successfully removing them in this scenario versus getting his hands restrained. Well, Tav might wish to do that anyways. The day has only begun.
I see. Would I get to double-up on Founder’s Day as well?
“You may as well take all the credit at this point.”
The stream of endorphins running from Tav’s mind combined with the sensation of callused thumbs pressing into his skull causes a near-reflexive lull. The Emperor lets the full weight of his head drop onto the bard’s leg. Tav is wearing intricately high-laced boots, in the pattern of leaves.
Then, the hand wandering along the underside of a tentacle brushes the edge of the Emperor’s mouth. With a considerable intention. The Emperor’s first reflex is still to move away, but Tav’s other hand gives his shoulder a coaxing squeeze.
So the Emperor tilts his head back, letting the fingers slip into his maw.
“Your jaw doesn’t get tired or anything, does it?” the bard asks casually. He thumbs alongside the Emperor’s teeth like assessing if a blade needs a whetstone.
No.
Clever fingers probe along the roof of the Emperor’s mouth, in slow, circling motions, stroking the soft palate there. A low chuckle. “You know, the fact that you can still talk like this is…”
Is what?
The response to this is the sudden plunge of fingers down the back of the Emperor’s throat.
He flinches, freezes in place. Tav’s pulse leaps furiously, hyper-conscious of the teeth around his wrist. Nonetheless, his smile is confident.
The Emperor holds perfectly still. You never fail to surprise me.
Tav brings his other hand around to cup the back of the Emperor’s head, both supporting it in lolling back and preventing retreat.
“It’s fascinating. And useful.” Tav’s hand slides in farther, working its way down the throat. His eyes gleam when he feels the ripple of muscles clenching around his limb. He plunges deeper still, forearm now entirely inside. Slowly.
An involuntary sound escapes the Emperor, to the surprise of both of them.
Illithids lack gag reflexes, strictly speaking, though obstruction of the airway still triggers autonomic response. When Tav goes a little past elbow-deep, the Emperor begins to choke.
Tav releases the hold on the Emperor’s head with his free hand. The Emperor does not move.
“Oh,” the bard murmurs. “Brilliant.”
When the world begins to go a little hazy, the Emperor pulls back. He sucks in oxygen, chin on Tav’s knee, while a hand strokes the back of his skull, rubbing slow, deep circles into the flesh over his brain matter. The Emperor moans against Tav’s thigh.
Tav starts to move his hand, but the Emperor reaches out with a tentacle, curling it around his wrist.
“Again?”
The Emperor gives a small tug, and hears a chuckle, feels Tav’s one hand under his chin, lifting his head, tilting it back. The other hand slips back in his mouth.
“I should hardly be surprised. Hail, Baldur the Brave,” Tav coos.
There’s an argument here, since Tav is the one with a ring of mind flayer teeth locked around his arm. Despite the Emperor’s best efforts, some still dig in. Tav smiles.
“I know it is still very complicated. But for a while, things can be simple, yes?”
Scarcity of air narrows the ability to think down to something frightening. Even an illithid mind in all its expansive glory is now a single point of nerves and flesh and want. He cannot maintain more than one thought concurrently, let alone a mental link with Tav; there is only the self-directive to remain still, and soft fingers digging curiously into the walls of his esophagus, and Tav remarking that he is pretty.
By the time the Emperor can breathe again, he finds himself on his back in the grass, with Tav’s wet hand stroking between his sprawled legs.
He parts his thighs, closes his eyes, relaxing while fingers work into him. There is no reason, by default, for a mind flayer to experience sexual gratification. As illithids do not mate to reproduce, the orifice in question’s function is hardly intended for coupling—though such a principle has never stopped anybody, historically, let alone a determined enough bard. By now, Tav has figured out a methodology, and a pleasant rhythm.
The Emperor feels one of his tentacles being taken hold of. Guided downwards, and then its tip pressed to his entrance. Obligingly, the Emperor sits up and inserts his appendage into himself, moving it in and out to the motion of Tav’s hand. The pace is indulgently slow.
“You seem to be enjoying this more,” the elf observes. “Not that you didn’t before, but…”
Though this body lacks certain anatomy intended for this use, I am still equipped with far superior neuroplasticity. My nervous system is far more extensive and controllable than yours. It can be rearranged in response to consistent stimuli.
“Rearranged.” Tav’s eyes glitters, nearly black, pupils blown. “You mean you feel more now? Compared to before?”
As I have said, I am able to adapt.
“By doing this often?” Tav has released his hold. The Emperor parts his legs farther, so that the view is better, and then continues the motion, sliding his tentacle in and out of himself. The elf watches, unblinking.
Yes.
“And? You do that, then?” Tav says in a low tone, like he is hypnotized. “Pleasure yourself?”
I… The Emperor finds a dragging motion that feels good. I have found that my thoughts have turned there, especially when you are away.
“Oh, I see. Well, I am only too happy to help you along in your ongoing adaptation.” Tav reaches out again and his finger slide in alongside the tentacle. “If I have you every night, every day, several times a day, would that make it happen faster? This evolution of your ‘anatomy’s intended use’?”
You are welcome to try.
Tav’s desire sharpens, white-hot. A slew of cheerful fantasies—taking the Emperor against the wall, over his desk, at the foot of a Balduran statue in the square.
Tav’s grip tightens for a moment, before he wraps the Emperor’s tentacle around his forearm so that the end of it is pinched between his thumb and index finger. And then slips that plus two fingers in. The stretch of a hand within him, the tightness of it around the Emperor’s tentacle causes shuddering ripples of pleasure, racing all throughout his body.
Tav does this for a long, lazy while, and then begins to hum. There’s rattling from the Emperor’s wrists, his ankles—the recently acquired gold adorning him matching the pitch of the elf’s song. Both greaves and bracers begin to lift themselves, tugging upwards. He allows himself to be pulled, and then strung there in the air.
The greaves drift outwards, dragging his legs apart. Tav puts his head between.
Just like the Emperor’s body has adapted to their physical activities, Tav’s mind slots faster with the Emperor’s nowadays, due to frequent mental communion. The bard is beginning to respond to the Emperor’s wordless desires within fractions of seconds. He is currently bending this phenomenon towards expertly using his mouth.
The Emperor writhes, faintly aware that he must be quite loud at this point—something that only fuels the bard, who acts with the hunger of someone who hasn’t eaten for days. (In his mind, Tav makes a joke about his favorite food, which the Emperor does not respond to.)
At one point, Tav gives a small hum, a vibration at a precise point that makes the Emperor jerk; his legs attempt to clench, but remain held open by the surprisingly unyielding animated accessories.
After one minute, Tav’s spell wanes—the animated objects go quiet and their upwards hoist vanishes.
The Emperor remains floating.
He feels Tav’s chuckle between his legs, but otherwise the elf continues dutifully and without pause. The heady sparking of pleasure from neuron to neuron. With each wave, his long illithid nerves carved out by the clever lap of Tav’s silver tongue, sculping like an artist.
Tav started out sitting on the rock, but has since slid to the ground, as the Emperor drifted lower and lower. When the Emperor notices this, he lets himself float back down towards the grass. Tav gives one last lingering kiss between the Emperor’s legs before sitting back himself to catch his breath, lips glistening.
The Emperor utilizes the opening to get his tentacles at Tav’s belt, finally slipping it off, and then psionically tossing it into the grass.
The bard concedes with a breathless laugh, flipping one of the Emperor’s legs over a shoulder, lining up, and taking his own pleasure at last. He taps the Emperor’s hip, encouraging him to set the pace.
Tav slots his fingers into the ridges of the Emperor’s pelvis, then turns him over, as if for completion’s sake. His grip starts out loose but there will be bruises, at a certain point of enthusiasm. The Emperor doesn’t mind.
Face buried in silken grass, he allows himself to lose track of time. Linen and leather, coarse against the backs of his thighs. The clover, dewy and cool against his skin. The rhythm, unfalteringly steady. Tav, mumbling increasingly incoherent encouragement.
Eventually, Tav reinitiates a psychic bond by reaching out with arcane magic. As soon as the Emperor closes the circuit of connection from his end, the full brunt of his pleasure hits Tav, who can no longer hold back.
And so the world shrinks into a singular moment, with only the existence of the two of them. If they are particularly loud, the crash of the ocean drowns it out.
Tav’s afterglow washes over the Emperor like honey. It is like being caught in a warm river.
The bard himself, on the other hand, always seems post-coitally energized, somehow. He is rustling around his bag, pulling out a towel from it. He gets up and wets it in the nearby stream, and then warms the cloth with a spell.
“You had a good point, though, about the mind. The addition of it really is something else, every single time. How is your bodily adaptation going now?”
The Emperor sighs at the pleasant texture of the heated washcloth trailing over his body. I am sure that sufficient progress has been made.
Tav props his head up with his hand, smiling. The Emperor pulls him closer.
“Mmh. As for how the soul is involved in all this, I’m sure I felt some sort of metaphysical tingle.”
Fascinating.
“I will need more data, definitely. Come now.” Tav lightly nudges the Emperor, still sprawled beneath him. “Can I tempt you into another round?”
The Emperor lays utterly relaxed, with thoughts adrift.
I’m not stopping you, he answers.
Tav grins.
And so the rest of the day slips away.
End.
