Half my hair is gone, my face is melted and scarred, and my body looks like it lost a war, several times over. Does this stop you wanting me? [He says, ditching his first thought of "I have put much bigger and worse holes in men's heads and not blanched" for something that might instead wind Aemond towards the idea of being comfortable rather than considering Adar's capacity for murder and harm.
And as a sort of peace offering, he also adds.] Or I can get your patch, or go to my own bed if you would be more comfortable. But it will not change anything about you for me.
That is different. [ He doesn't know how but it is. Adar is a whole package unto himself. ] And I am vain.
[ Admitting it with a sigh, he sits up to kiss him again, listing into Adar's warmth for a long moment. Aemond doesn't want to sleep in his patch tonight, nor alone, and his eye is starting to puff red. ]
... Bring over the washbowl, will you? And a towel, please.
I am vain too, I just have nothing left to be vain about. [Name an elf that wasn't a little vain about something, either their body, their voice, or the work of their hands. The list, if it could be written, would be short.
He cradles Aemond's jaw in his hands, kissing him back softly. Before he pulls away to get off the bed again he leaves one last kiss on his scar, just above his brow. Then he fetches fresh water and the cleanest towel in the room before bringing them back and setting the wash bowl on the bedside table and sitting on the edge of the bed with the towel held out.]
You are the most attractive thing I have ever laid eyes on, for the record.
[ Scooting to the edge of the bed he waits for what he needs, accepting them with a wan smile. It takes a summoning of confidence to do this in front of someone, Adar especially, and he turns his head to the side to partially shield the sight.
Wetting his fingers in the lukewarm water, he rubs around his eyelids to find the easiest place and pushes one under, hooking around the slimmer edge of the stone to work it free with a grunt of discomfort and place it in the water with a swish. He holds his hand to the empty socket and blinks, eyelids sluggish without the stone to keep them in place, and with a deep breath Aemond glances over to Adar with his ruined eye in full view, the dark red of the hole raw and a little swollen.
He holds back on speaking an apology because of who he is, Targaryens don't apologise, but it lives in his remaining eye. ]
[He made sure not to stare, but he also didn't turn away. There was nothing about a missing eye that he had not seen before, save that he had not seen it on Aemond in particular in this manner where it could not be ignored.
When Aemond is done and turns toward him, Adar doesn't hesitate to kiss him again. No amount of "you are beautiful" or sweet elvish nicknames would get past his youthful vanity as much as he hopes this will, his finger softly tilting his chin up as he kisses him, Adars thumb stroking over his jaw.]
I think they hit you harder than I thought they did. [There is absolutely no "yuck" reaction, or hesitation as he looks at Aemond even from that close distance. Still his silver dragon, sapphire or not.]
[ He cannot help but smile at that, a breath of a laugh swallowed up in the kiss as he wraps his arms around Adar and drags him back up the bed, unwilling to let him go. Not just anyone would be fine with the way Aemond looks, he's not foolish enough to believe it isn't gruesome, but to be treated so normally about it is like bathing in fresh spring water after being stuck in a volcano.
He doesn't know what to do with him. What are they? Lovers? It seems like a flighty word given the weight of Aemond's feelings. ]
You said we belonged to each other by the rites and traditions of your people, yes?
[Adar follows him, always willing but also hoping Aemond won't strain his arm and upset the bandages more than he surely already has. The question catches him by surprise, but he nods.]
It is supposed to be that elves cleave to whom they lay with. It is as good as a wedding in the eyes of the One and my people. [It felt strange to call them his again, after so long avoiding it, but it slips out as naturally as it might have when he was young.]
Though I would not hold you to that unless you chose it for yourself.
[ His arm is sore and laid on his middle as he settles in close with Adar, wanting to be in his arms in their own little world of a cosy bed, in a tower away from the world. Every realm that would harm them. ]
Targaryens wed in the old Valyrian way. It is usually reserved for those of the same blood ... but you are not a mortal man, so I think we can say you're an exception.
[ It makes him smile, nuzzling along Adar's jaw. ]
We would cut our lips with fine dragonglass, cut our palms to mix our blood, then daub it on each other's foreheads and recite the wedding vow.
[Once they have settled back in the bed together, Adar tucks Aemond gently against him. If there was anything to thank this world for it was that he had found someone who cared for him, maybe even truly loved him so much and that here, unlike home, he could afford to be soft. To let Aemond in, to even humour the thought of loving or being loved.
He presses a kiss against Aemond's hair.]
My blood is black, though. [He is not rebuffing the idea, no, there is concern in his voice as if he could contaminate Aemond somehow, despite having not yet managed to.] Tainted from what it should be.
I do not fear your magic. [Just his master's own hand.] If you wish, we can try it. Though you will have to instruct me on what to do. It doesn't sound as intuitive as my people's method.
Speaking of... we did not get to you while we claimed the floor as our own. I would not leave you wanting all night.
We seemed to fall into mine by accident, so I am not sure I agree. [A happy accident, as it so happened, but nonetheless Adar could not have predicted it.]
Nothing in my world that can count their age is quite that old. [But he laughs, a huff of amusement before he kisses Aemond again, nipping his lower lip lightly.] Tell me your heart's desire and I will see it done.
Nuzzling him in return for the nipped lip, he shakes his head and settles in place, half-hard all truth be told but looking about as content as any man ever could. ]
I have everything I want. You do not have to do anything, my love. Only be with me. Speak your thoughts. We are always of one heart, there is no rush to join our bodies.
[He seems to contemplate that for a moment, then for now he accepts it, returning to his comfortable position at Aemond's side fully instead of being ready to move or pounce.]
I am thinking of nothing but you. Was there something you wished to know? [He will not lie, as long as Aemond does his best not to haul his cute rear end across the room in another self-inflicted offense.]
[Names are not so simple a matter for the Noldor, and they were even less simple for Adar, whose whole personality and knowledge of self had been warped for the pleasure of others. He is quiet for a time, thinking more than upset, trying to drag his memories up from the deep and be sure he uses the right names, names no one has called him but in mockery since the day he found himself on the wrong side of the iron gates.]
The Noldor are not given a single name. [Is where he begins, needing to speak so Aemond doesn't think he has taken offence.] The first name we are given is our father-name, always given near birth at our naming ceremony. Mine was Órecalimo, which means bright heart. [His father had been an optimist, he supposed. Though in those days they all were.]
We are also given a mother-name, often later, well into childhood. These names often turn out prophetic, so much so that sometimes fathers shun the name given and try to force another. She gave me the name Ránevaryar, which means wandering protector.
The most common epessë I used was Arvarno, meaning high guardian. My brother gave it to me, I think because I was always keeping an eye on him.
[ It's fascinating, the family and people that Adar comes from. Aemond listens, almost spellbound by one beautiful name after another as he tastes them behind his lips, trying to memorise the lovely language that sounds like a softer High Valyrian. He cups Adar's cheek, thumb brushing back and forth. ]
[That is stranger than speaking them, to hear them back from his lovers lips with no trace of mockery. He wonders if he likes it, or if it has been too long since they were his but each kiss helps the gentle roll of them off of Aemond's tongue settle easier in his ears until he finds himself content enough after all and he draws him in for a proper kiss, deep but not drawn out. When it is over he rests their foreheads together.]
I have not used them in a long time, but you are welcome to if you wish.
I will remember it for you, Aemond. [He smiles a little easier, even before Aemond tries to distract him. Which works, because even light affection seems to pierce his very core.]
And I, you. [Current husband, by elven standards. Which were actually surprisingly simple for a custom of his people.] If your words in your blood ceremony use names, you may wish to pick one. Adar is as much a title as it is anything else.
[He doesn't mind, though, and in some ways he suspects being called Adar is weirdly more thematic for this Targaryen blood magic. He gently combs back Aemond's hair, almost reverently as he tucks it behind his ears.]
A name given by a loved one is not a burden. What would you call me? [He genuinely means it, cannot help but believe it with the Noldorin urge to give everyone many names as it suits them on their journey through life.]
Arghurys. [He tries it, sees how it rolls off his tongue and smiles.] It is a good name. Thank you.
[It goes well with his others, he thinks, then kisses Aemond again. It is a slow and lingering kiss, his desire to be one with Aemond poured into it and the gentle way he cradles his lover's face.]
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And as a sort of peace offering, he also adds.] Or I can get your patch, or go to my own bed if you would be more comfortable. But it will not change anything about you for me.
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[ Admitting it with a sigh, he sits up to kiss him again, listing into Adar's warmth for a long moment. Aemond doesn't want to sleep in his patch tonight, nor alone, and his eye is starting to puff red. ]
... Bring over the washbowl, will you? And a towel, please.
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He cradles Aemond's jaw in his hands, kissing him back softly. Before he pulls away to get off the bed again he leaves one last kiss on his scar, just above his brow. Then he fetches fresh water and the cleanest towel in the room before bringing them back and setting the wash bowl on the bedside table and sitting on the edge of the bed with the towel held out.]
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[ Scooting to the edge of the bed he waits for what he needs, accepting them with a wan smile. It takes a summoning of confidence to do this in front of someone, Adar especially, and he turns his head to the side to partially shield the sight.
Wetting his fingers in the lukewarm water, he rubs around his eyelids to find the easiest place and pushes one under, hooking around the slimmer edge of the stone to work it free with a grunt of discomfort and place it in the water with a swish. He holds his hand to the empty socket and blinks, eyelids sluggish without the stone to keep them in place, and with a deep breath Aemond glances over to Adar with his ruined eye in full view, the dark red of the hole raw and a little swollen.
He holds back on speaking an apology because of who he is, Targaryens don't apologise, but it lives in his remaining eye. ]
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When Aemond is done and turns toward him, Adar doesn't hesitate to kiss him again. No amount of "you are beautiful" or sweet elvish nicknames would get past his youthful vanity as much as he hopes this will, his finger softly tilting his chin up as he kisses him, Adars thumb stroking over his jaw.]
I think they hit you harder than I thought they did. [There is absolutely no "yuck" reaction, or hesitation as he looks at Aemond even from that close distance. Still his silver dragon, sapphire or not.]
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He doesn't know what to do with him. What are they? Lovers? It seems like a flighty word given the weight of Aemond's feelings. ]
You said we belonged to each other by the rites and traditions of your people, yes?
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It is supposed to be that elves cleave to whom they lay with. It is as good as a wedding in the eyes of the One and my people. [It felt strange to call them his again, after so long avoiding it, but it slips out as naturally as it might have when he was young.]
Though I would not hold you to that unless you chose it for yourself.
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Targaryens wed in the old Valyrian way. It is usually reserved for those of the same blood ... but you are not a mortal man, so I think we can say you're an exception.
[ It makes him smile, nuzzling along Adar's jaw. ]
We would cut our lips with fine dragonglass, cut our palms to mix our blood, then daub it on each other's foreheads and recite the wedding vow.
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He presses a kiss against Aemond's hair.]
My blood is black, though. [He is not rebuffing the idea, no, there is concern in his voice as if he could contaminate Aemond somehow, despite having not yet managed to.] Tainted from what it should be.
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[ His legs hook over Adar's, a shin running up and down behind a knee. ]
I should like to try.
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Speaking of... we did not get to you while we claimed the floor as our own. I would not leave you wanting all night.
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[ He brings Adar's hand up to kiss his fingers, shaking his head. ]
I'm always ready to go with you, [ his smile flashes, ] I am not the ancient walking weirwood tree who has seen the last thousand-thousand ages.
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Nothing in my world that can count their age is quite that old. [But he laughs, a huff of amusement before he kisses Aemond again, nipping his lower lip lightly.] Tell me your heart's desire and I will see it done.
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Nuzzling him in return for the nipped lip, he shakes his head and settles in place, half-hard all truth be told but looking about as content as any man ever could. ]
I have everything I want. You do not have to do anything, my love. Only be with me. Speak your thoughts. We are always of one heart, there is no rush to join our bodies.
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I am thinking of nothing but you. Was there something you wished to know? [He will not lie, as long as Aemond does his best not to haul his cute rear end across the room in another self-inflicted offense.]
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The Noldor are not given a single name. [Is where he begins, needing to speak so Aemond doesn't think he has taken offence.] The first name we are given is our father-name, always given near birth at our naming ceremony. Mine was Órecalimo, which means bright heart. [His father had been an optimist, he supposed. Though in those days they all were.]
We are also given a mother-name, often later, well into childhood. These names often turn out prophetic, so much so that sometimes fathers shun the name given and try to force another. She gave me the name Ránevaryar, which means wandering protector.
The most common epessë I used was Arvarno, meaning high guardian. My brother gave it to me, I think because I was always keeping an eye on him.
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Órecalimo. Ránevaryar. Arvarno. My Adar.
[ Each name gets a kiss in between the other. ]
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I have not used them in a long time, but you are welcome to if you wish.
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[ The light tease comes to try and warm those cold memories, Aemond nuzzling kisses down Adar's neck, nosing his way back up. ]
I am very excited to marry you, future-husband.
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And I, you. [Current husband, by elven standards. Which were actually surprisingly simple for a custom of his people.] If your words in your blood ceremony use names, you may wish to pick one. Adar is as much a title as it is anything else.
[He doesn't mind, though, and in some ways he suspects being called Adar is weirdly more thematic for this Targaryen blood magic. He gently combs back Aemond's hair, almost reverently as he tucks it behind his ears.]
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[ Tipping his head into that touch, he closes his eyes to savour it. ]
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[It goes well with his others, he thinks, then kisses Aemond again. It is a slow and lingering kiss, his desire to be one with Aemond poured into it and the gentle way he cradles his lover's face.]
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