Work Text:
The sound of a quill scratching against parchment roused me from my post-coital doze, and it was no surprise when I reached out to find the bed empty beside me. It was certainly common enough for Aymeric to work late into the night, but the scratching had an odd quality to it, the rhythm of it not the familiar cadence of his writing, but what sounded like much longer, smooth strokes along the page.
I opened my eyes to find Aymeric half way across the room, shrouded in the dim light of a lamp and focussed intently on the parchment before him, quill in hand and knees drawn up to provide himself a surface to work on. He must have carried the armchair in from the sitting room outside, and I was mildly surprised he'd managed to arrange himself thus without waking me.
"What are you doing?" I asked softly, voice roughened by sleep.
He looked up, startled, but his expression smoothed quickly into fond affection. "Sketching you. I hope you don't mind; you just looked so beautiful, relaxed in slumber as you were, and I was struck by the desire to record it."
"I didn't know you could draw," I said, rising to prop myself up on an elbow and rubbing sleep from my eyes.
"I'm not much good at it, really." He glanced away, a bashful blush dusting his cheeks. "But all young nobles are encouraged to practice an art of some kind, and I never had much talent for music." The quill rasped as he added another line, short, quick strokes against the parchment.
"Can I see it?" No doubt he was selling himself short; the man was perfect at everything he set out to do, from the battlefield to the ballroom to the bedroom.
"I'm not finished yet," he protested, glancing up to take my measure before adding another mark. "But I suppose I wouldn't mind showing you once I am." He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip as he focussed, before he added softly, "I could never capture your full beauty, but I couldn't help wanting to try."
Heat bloomed in my own face, fluster making me stumble over my words as I asked, "Would you like me to... to pose for you?"
"No, just stay as you are," he said without looking up, a small smile curving his lips. "In fact, you can go back to sleep, if you wish."
Humming noncommittally, I lowered myself back down to curl up on my side, watching Aymeric as he drew. The light of the lamp cast a golden halo over his messy black curls, throwing whispy shadows over his face that moved with the flicker of the glow, a haunting dance played over his soft features. The gem at his ear caught the light, glinting a blue as bright as his eyes as he tilted his head to better follow his work, teeth sunk into his lip as his graceful fingers sketched across the page. I had not the skill to even attempt to recreate the visage he painted, but if I could, I would have wished to draw him as he drew me, recording his crepuscular beauty for all to see. Or perhaps to keep to myself, to carry with me and gaze upon when duty drew me from his side.
I couldn't have said how long he worked, eyes flicking from his drawing up to me and back down again every so often as I watched him in turn, content to sit in silence and drink in this moment. It was strange: moments like these had become practically commonplace over the past few moons together, and yet each one felt just as special as the first, and I clung to them, storing them away in my memory like an emperor would his precious jewels - or perhaps like a nutkin its nuts before the first frost.
"Alright," he said at last, the persistent scratching of quill on parchment falling silent. His eyes met mine, mild surprise filling their crystal depths to find me still awake and watching him. "Did you still wish to see?"
"If you will permit it," I said, rising from my repose to pad over to him. His eyes lingered upon me rather than his reproduction as he turned the page to me, his lip tucked nervously between his teeth as he sought to gauge my reaction.
Ink splashed across the page in dark lines, as bold as the sentiment that guided his hand. I knew little and less about art - all I could do was paint splashes of red upon the Coerthan snows - yet even my plebeian eye could see the care in the lines, the gentle strokes that formed my side, my hip, the messy flow of my hair, his hand guiding each line like a caress along my skin. It was me upon that page, of that there was no doubt, but it was not the reflection I saw in the mirror, but myself as Aymeric saw me, the love that softened his gaze clear in his sketch. His depiction was remarkably faithful and almost frightfully detailed: though the lines were chaotic in places, he had captured the gentle fall of shadow over the planes of my body, mapped every scar that traced my torso, and hid no curve or slope to my form. Even my nudity did not seem erotic or out of place, but natural and fitting, as if the image would not have been the same was I not bare. My face looked more peaceful than I had imagined it could, and there was a vulnerability to my expression that I was unused to seeing. Was he taking creative liberties there, or did I really look so at ease when I was with him? Perhaps I did.
"What do you think?" he asked anxiously, the feather fluttering between his fidgeting fingers.
"Often enough do I refrain from unnecessary speech, but rarely because I am rendered speechless. This is... I have no words."
His breath slipped free in a relieved sigh so quiet it almost went unheard. "I'm glad you like it. Mayhap you'd be willing to let me draw you again at some point?"
"Any time you'd like," I answered, leaning in to brush my lips against his. "Perhaps I should take up drawing; I should like very much to have a portrait of you that I can carry with me, so that even when we are apart I might still gaze upon you."
He smiled, setting aside the sketch and his supplies to follow me back to bed. "I think I could offer you something to that effect."
I curled an arm over him, drawing him into me until not so much as a breath of space remained between us. "There's nothing I'd like more than to always have a piece of you by my side."