Naturally, it was Emily’s fantastic face that had drawn Wyman. She grinned, stifling a rather non regal giggle at the kind words. Ah, she had forgotten how Wyman could make such simple phrases tug at her heart. Sadly, the moment was slightly ruined when Emily noticed Wyman’s well hidden hesitation. She thought about how to put them at ease, before they continued speaking.
Pretending to be in deep thought, she raised a hand to scratch at an imaginary beard before responding, “I could, but can you imagine the uproar it would cause among the old men? I’d have to listen to them complain for days.” She would have continued, had Wyman’s hand not come to rest upon her own. It clenched slightly in response, before Emily turned it over to cup Wyman’s smaller hand. She returned the squeeze, hoping that her startle hadn’t been too obvious.
The empress smiled as Wyman recited a bit of poetry. The courtier was prone to doing that, and it was something Emily was fond of. She’d never been all that interested in prose herself, but wouldn’t have said no to a recording of Wyman’s voice reading some poet’s works.
“If the silverware is shaking, perhaps we should get a better table.”
She chuckled at herself, before suddenly freezing as Wyman shifted into her. Muscles tensing, Emily had to fight down the immediate response to jerk away. Her smile strained, as she tried to force herself to calm. The hum helped, and it only took a few moments before she was able to mostly relax. She felt ashamed, Wyman had to have noticed. Would they think she was uncomfortable with them? It wasn’t that at all, Emily found herself wanting to melt into Wyman’s side just like they always used to. But at the same time, her own body was trying to get away. She pressed herself closer to Wyman, fighting the instinct, and hoping to make up for earlier.
The courtier’s next words distracted her, but also slightly confused her. Just what was Wyman offering? She shifted, looking down at them, searching their face. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.” Emily glanced away, brow furrowing, wondering just what Wyman thought of her. “If you’re offering to be a punching bag, I don’t think I could take that offer in good conscious. You are, rather small.” She tried to laugh, but felt her heart squeezing. Did her friend really think that Emily needed violence to distract herself? Did she really give off that impression?
Every Morley-blooded man or woman, prince or pauper, had a poet’s soul. That was the myth, anyway -- and as much as Wyman shirked the other traditions of their homeland, they found the arts difficult to shake off. “Perhaps.”
Emily’s reaction wasn’t unexpected, but it was disheartening. This was worse than their time in exile -- there, Wyman could keep busy with the foreign court’s affairs, devour the empress’ missives whenever they so sparsely came. To properly thrive in their life, the courtier had long since learned to dismiss their own emotion beneath a knowing smile and an obscene limerick. Here, at the court, it had been different. They didn’t want it to end. There was a deep woe in Wyman’s gaze as they glanced up at the taller woman, shaking their head to dismiss the laugh.
“I do try to keep my base Morleysian parlance away from the court. I meant if you needed to vent -- express your frustrations. Regarding the court, about -- Karnaca. We’ve...not spoken, about it. And I understand that, for the things that happened? You might not ever want to speak of. I would never presume to be the salve to every woe, though I’d so vehemently like to be. But a wound won’t heal unless you take care of it, Emily. A burden shared is a burden halved.”
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