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Aymeric sighs, placing his sword against the wall in his office. His armour is more ceremonial than functional, and as such he is relatively sure he looks appalling, hair matted with sweat to his brow and beginning to curl as it dries.
“Did I miss all the fun? How terribly disappointing.”
Aymeric turns to see Thancred leaning against the doorway. He’s a little worse for wear too; scuffed and bruised, but smiling - well, smirking - at Aymeric.
“It would seem to me that you found fun aplenty on your own.”
Thancred laughs, stepping into Aymeric’s office and nearer the fire. Something doesn’t sit right with Aymeric about the way he walks, and he schools his expression before his brow can begin to furrow.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, although I’m told our fair Warrior rather stole the spotlight at the grand melee.”
Aymeric smiles, loosening the hidden straps of his armour. Now that he’s indoors, the heavy woolen undershirt is becoming stifling, and he’s somewhat desperate to be relieved of it.
“Do you mind?” He indicated towards his own sweaty, snow and soot dusted attire.
“No, not at all. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Thancred.” Aymeric levels the rogue with a stern look, which softens when Thancred chuckles and turns his back.
“I jest, go ahead. I will endeavour to not peek.”
Aymeric takes advantage of Thancred’s acquiescence to look him up and down. Something about the way he holds himself feels distinctly wrong to Aymeric, but from a distance he can’t spot any causes for concern.
He strips hastily, trying not to test Thancred’s patience or curiosity by lingering overlong, and throws on a tunic from the bottom drawer in the bureau. On a second thought, he grabs another one for Thancred.
He clears his throat, tossing the shirt to Thancred as he turns. Aymeric isn’t sure if it was his reaching out to catch the shirt, or simply the motion of turning around, but something throws Thancred’s balance off and he lands hard on one knee.
The pained groan he can’t suppress is audible from across the room, and Aymeric rushes to his side.
“Thancred?!” Aymeric skids to his knees, pressing his shoulder against Thancred’s side to take some of his weight.
“‘Tis nothing, it’s-” Thancred cuts himself off with a hiss, clutching at his abdomen where Aymeric has pushed his way under his arm.
“Nothing you couldn’t handle? I beg to differ, ser.”
Thancred lets his head drop, sighing heavily.
“I may have been ...overeager in my approach and earned myself a few bruises for my complacency.”
Up close, Aymeric can also see the dark shadow along one side of Thancred’s face, like a ghostly touch along the tanned skin of his temple and cheekbone.
“A few bruises and a concussion, perhaps?”
The way Thancred avoids his eye is answer enough.
Aymeric sighs and closes his eyes, drawing on his remaining reserves of aether and encouraging the flow of healing energy to his fingertips. He trails them up Thancred’s abdomen and chest first, glossing over his side. His hand finally settles on Thancred’s face, holding his cheek and allowing the green glow of his magic to suffuse his skin.
“Does that help?”
“Mmm, significantly. Thank you.” Thancred lets his head rest against Aymeric’s shoulder, breathing steadily as the glow under his skin settles and fades.
“I have a clean shirt for you, and I believe I have been furnished with a basin of what is hopefully not yet tepid water. Do you feel able to stand and make it to that chair?” Aymeric looks at the chaise in front of the fire.
“I suppose I should try.” Thancred pulls away, planting one hand on the floor to steady himself while Aymeric gets to his feet, and using the other to take the hand Aymeric offers him.
Their walk is slow, but not painfully slow. Given the limits of his healing magicks, Aymeric imagines he has been able to do little more than accelerate the healing of his bruises and ensure Thancred is through the worst of his concussion symptoms.
Finally, they reach the chaise, and although Thancred makes to drop himself heavily onto the furniture, Aymeric knows how firm it is, and tightens his grip to lower Thancred more gently. He leans back, wincing when he finds himself too tall to rest his head on the back of the chaise.
Aymeric steps away to collect the basin and a pair of washcloths, placing the basin on the floor and offering Thancred a cloth, soaked and wrung out, to clean himself up with.
Unconcerned with modesty, Thancred begins to shove himself out of his shirt. It’s part clumsiness and part simply being too tired to care about how gracefully he is undressing, but for a man who appears like every movement is crafted with purpose - for speed, for strength, for pleasure - it is concerning for Aymeric to see him behave otherwise.
He wipes his face, neck, chest and arms with the cloth before handing it back to Aymeric. It takes him some manoeuvring to shrug the tunic over his head with the blackened state of his abdomen - Aymeric winces at the bruises, still dark and swollen even with his assistance. The tunic reaches Thancred’s knees, and after a moment of consideration, he toes off his boots and adds his trousers to the pile of clothes on the floor.
By the time Aymeric has wiped himself down - awkwardly fumbling around his own tunic - Thancred has tipped himself over onto his side, using a pillow to cushion the unbruised side of his face as he curls up on the end of the chaise nearest the fire. Aymeric takes the basin back to the dresser and collects his coat from the hook by the door before he returns. The ceremonial garb is heavy and dense, made of a high quality material that Aymeric knows traps heat extraordinarily well.
Such a coat, made with an elezen Lord Commander in mind, would suffice as an ideal blanket for a midlander rogue, Aymeric theorises, draping the coat over Thancred. Indeed, it covers him almost entirely, curled up as he is.
As he tucks the collar in around Thancred’s shoulders, one sleepy eye opens.
“How are you faring?”
“Tired,” Thancred grumbles, “Magic always makes me tired, now.”
“I imagine a concussion would make you tired too.” Aymeric argues with a faint laugh, brushing the tangled white hair away from Thancred’s face. He hums, clearing his throat.
“Y’ hafta tell Kipih about this?”
“I’m afraid I do, it wouldn’t do to withhold information of this nature, even if you were able to hide it. You’re going to be recovering for a few days yet.”
Thancred’s lip turns down at the corner, and Aymeric feels guilty but he knows even repeated treatments from his mediocre healing wouldn’t be enough to rid Thancred of his concussion in time to keep it between the two of them. And moreover, he doesn’t want to keep this secret from their shared love. Even if Thancred’s fragile ego suffers for it.