The Elder Council had survived the Oblivion Crisis.

It had survived the sudden death of Emperor Uriel Septim VII, the disappearance of his heirs, the opening of the Oblivion Gates, and the near-total collapse of the Empire. It had endured the reconstruction of the Imperial City, the endless disputes between provincial representatives, and the seemingly insurmountable task of restoring order to a nation that had very nearly ceased to exist.

It had even survived Martin Septim's ascension to the throne.

What it had apparently not been prepared to survive was a common seasonal illness.

"The treasury cannot continue to sustain these expenditures without a corresponding adjustment to the provincial levies," one of the councillors was explaining, gesturing towards the documents spread across the table. "If we are to maintain the necessary garrisons throughout Cyrodiil, Your Majesty, then we must discuss the proposed—"

A knock interrupted him.

Martin looked up from the parchment he had been attempting to read.

"Enter."

The servant who appeared in the doorway bowed deeply, looking rather uncomfortable to be interrupting a meeting of such importance.

"Your Majesty. Forgive the interruption, but the physician has sent word from your chambers."

Martin's expression changed immediately.

It was not dramatic. He did not leap from his chair or demand that the entire Imperial Guard be summoned. His hand merely stilled upon the parchment, and his attention settled entirely upon the young servant.

"Is something wrong?"

"The physician says that your spouse's fever has returned, sire."

For a moment, the council chamber was perfectly silent.

Then Martin stood.

"Very well."

Ocato, seated to the Emperor's right, closed his eyes.

He had seen this coming.

"Your Majesty," the High Chancellor began carefully, "perhaps we might conclude the discussion before—"

"My spouse is unwell."

"Yes, sire. I understand that. However, the matter before the council concerns the Empire's financial stability, and several of the representatives have travelled considerable distances to attend this meeting."

Martin gathered the papers before him into a neat stack.

"And I am certain that they will be quite capable of discussing the matter amongst themselves until my return."

"Your Majesty—"

"I shall speak with the treasurer tomorrow. If the provincial representatives cannot agree upon the matter without my presence, I imagine they will find that my presence tomorrow will be no less useful than it would be today."

He offered the assembled councillors a polite, almost apologetic smile.

"Please, continue without me."

And with that, Emperor Martin Septim departed.

Ocato stared at the closed doors.

One of the councillors cleared his throat.

"Shall we adjourn, then?"

"No," Ocato replied, rising with the weary determination of a man who had spent far too many years attempting to keep the Empire from falling apart. "We shall continue. Someone must."

He gathered his own papers and followed the Emperor into the corridor.

"Martin!"

The Emperor, who had already made it halfway down the hall, glanced over his shoulder.

"Ocato?"

"You cannot simply abandon a meeting of the Elder Council because your spouse has a fever!"

Martin considered him for a moment.

"Of course I can."

"That is not what I meant, and you know it."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Martin's mouth.

"Then perhaps you should have said what you meant."

"Your Majesty, I am begging you to be serious."

"I assure you, I am."

And that was the infuriating part. Martin was entirely serious.

The former priest had never been a man particularly enamoured with the trappings of power. He had accepted the crown because the Empire needed him, because the people deserved someone willing to shoulder the burden, and because he had been given a chance to build something after a lifetime spent running from a past he had barely understood.

He loved his people. He took his responsibilities seriously. He had spent countless nights poring over petitions and reports, listening to provincial grievances, and trying to repair the damage left behind by years of turmoil.

But he had also lost too much.

He knew what it meant to stand beside a deathbed and be unable to do anything but wait. He knew what it meant to watch a life slip away while the world continued turning around him, indifferent to the grief of those left behind.

He had no intention of treating the health of the person he loved as a matter that could be postponed until the next convenient meeting.

"I will return when I am needed," Martin assured Ocato. "Until then, I trust you to keep the council occupied."

"That is not—"

"Thank you, Ocato."

"Martin!"

The Emperor continued walking.

By the time he reached his chambers, the faint amusement had faded from his expression, replaced by the quiet concern that had settled over him since the servant delivered the news.

He entered without ceremony, pausing only to exchange a few words with the guards stationed outside before making his way to the bed.

The physician was still present, checking the contents of a small collection of bottles arranged upon a nearby table.

"Your Majesty," the physician greeted him, bowing.

"How are they?"

"The fever has risen somewhat, but I have found no immediate cause for alarm. I have adjusted the treatment and recommended continued rest, plenty of fluids, and regular monitoring. It is unpleasant, certainly, but I expect they will recover with time."

Martin listened carefully, asking several questions about the fever, the prescribed remedies, and what signs might indicate that the illness was worsening.

The physician answered each one patiently.

Only when Martin was satisfied that there was nothing more to be done at present did he thank the man and allow him to depart.

Then he turned his attention to his spouse.

The bedchamber was quiet, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sunlight. A pitcher of fresh water stood upon the bedside table, alongside a cup, a clean cloth, and the medicine the physician had prescribed. Martin dipped the cloth into a basin, wrung out the excess water, and sat upon the edge of the bed.

"There," he murmured, carefully laying it across their forehead. "That ought to help."

His gaze lingered upon them.

He wished, with an intensity that would have embarrassed him had anyone else been present, that he could simply take the illness upon himself. He would have endured a hundred fevers if it meant sparing them a single uncomfortable night.

Instead, he could only sit beside them, keep them comfortable, and trust that time would do what his hands could not.

A soft sigh escaped him.

"I have apparently committed a grave offence against the Imperial Treasury," he informed them quietly, reaching for their hand. "Ocato seems to believe that my presence at a financial meeting is rather more important than my presence here."

His thumb moved gently across their knuckles.

"I disagreed."

There was a brief pause.

"Quite firmly, as it happens."

He glanced towards the door, where a servant had discreetly deposited a fresh stack of correspondence upon a small table. The pile was already beginning to resemble a minor architectural undertaking.

Martin looked at it.

Then he looked back at his spouse.

The correspondence could wait.

The Empire could wait.

For once, Martin Septim had absolutely nowhere else he would rather be.

"Now," he murmured, leaning closer to brush a kiss against their forehead, "I believe the physician recommended rest. And I have every intention of seeing that you get it."

Morning sunlight crept through the curtains of the Imperial bedchamber, spilling across the rumpled sheets and illuminating the abandoned book upon the bedside table.

Martin Septim had been awake for nearly an hour.

He had, in fact, been awake for considerably longer than he had intended.

The first time he had attempted to leave the bed, his spouse had shifted closer in their sleep. The second time, a hand had found his sleeve. The third time, Martin had managed to sit upright, only to find himself looking down at the sleeping figure beside him and wondering whether the Imperial Council could truly require his attendance quite so early.

It was a ridiculous thought.

He knew it was ridiculous.

There were petitions to review, reports awaiting his signature, and at least three matters of provincial administration that Ocato had insisted could not be postponed another day. The Empire was not going to govern itself, no matter how much Martin occasionally wished it might.

And yet.

He looked down at the hand resting against his sleeve.

Then he looked towards the door.

His clothes had been laid out for him. A servant had already delivered the morning's correspondence, and somewhere beyond the chamber walls, the palace was beginning its usual daily bustle. He could hear the muted footsteps of attendants in the corridor, the distant opening and closing of doors, and the occasional murmur of voices as the household went about its duties.

He ought to get up.

He really ought.

Martin carefully began to ease his sleeve free.

The hand holding it tightened.

He stopped.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could help it.

"Oh, come now," he whispered, looking down at his spouse. "That is hardly fair."

There was no response, save for the steady rhythm of their breathing.

Martin considered the situation with the grave deliberation of a man confronted with a difficult diplomatic negotiation.

He could summon a servant to bring his correspondence to the bedchamber. That would solve the immediate problem of the paperwork, at least. He could ask Ocato to handle the morning audiences, though the High Chancellor would almost certainly have something to say about it later.

Alternatively, he could remain exactly where he was.

It was a remarkably appealing alternative.

Martin had not always been particularly good at allowing himself such things.

For much of his life, he had believed that his existence was something to be endured rather than enjoyed. He had spent years hiding from a legacy he neither understood nor wanted, trying to make sense of the man he had been told he was supposed to become. When the world had finally demanded that he step forward, he had done so because there had been no other choice.

The Oblivion Crisis had taught him more about sacrifice than he had ever wanted to know.

It had also taught him how precious the ordinary things could be.

A quiet morning. A warm bed. The familiar presence of someone who knew him as Martin, rather than as the Emperor of Tamriel.

Someone who could reach for him without needing permission from an entire court.

Someone who wanted him there.

He looked down at his spouse again, and his expression softened.

"Five minutes," he decided.

It was a sensible compromise.

Entirely reasonable.

A perfectly acceptable delay.

He settled back against the pillows, carefully arranging the blankets so that his spouse remained comfortable, and slipped an arm around them.

Five minutes passed.

Martin did not move.

Another five minutes passed.

He glanced towards the door, where the morning's correspondence remained untouched.

"Well," he murmured to himself, "perhaps ten."

He had barely settled into the new arrangement when a knock sounded from the other side of the door.

"Your Majesty?"

Martin closed his eyes.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me, sire. The High Chancellor has sent word that the council is assembled and awaiting your attendance."

"How unfortunate for them."

A pause.

"Your Majesty?"

"I said, how unfortunate for them."

There was another silence, this one considerably longer.

"Shall I inform Lord Ocato that you will be delayed?"

Martin looked down at his spouse.

They were still comfortably settled against him, and he found that the prospect of disturbing them had become utterly intolerable.

"Yes, please."

"Of course, sire."

The footsteps retreated.

Martin smiled faintly and pressed a kiss to his spouse's hair.

There. That was settled.

He had postponed an audience, delayed a meeting, and almost certainly earned himself a lecture from the High Chancellor. He would deal with all of that later.

For now, he had something considerably more important to attend to.

He drew the blankets a little higher and settled more comfortably against the pillows, allowing himself to enjoy the rare luxury of having nowhere he needed to be.

Then, as though sensing the movement, his spouse shifted closer.

Martin's smile widened.

"Oh, you are very fortunate that I love you," he whispered.

He rested his cheek against their head.

"Because I am beginning to suspect that you have conspired with the entire Imperial Court to keep me here."

A pause.

"An excellent strategy, if so."

He was still smiling when he closed his eyes.

The Empire could have its emperor in a little while.

For now, Martin Septim was quite content to be simply a husband, held in place by the person he loved and the irresistible promise of just five more minutes.

Martin Septim had faced many difficult challenges since ascending to the Imperial Throne.

He had negotiated with stubborn provincial representatives, endured interminable meetings concerning the reconstruction of the Imperial City, and listened to more arguments about taxation than he had ever believed one man could reasonably be expected to survive.

He had even faced Mehrunes Dagon.

And yet, somehow, none of those experiences had prepared him for the particular difficulty of persuading his spouse to remain in bed.

"You are supposed to be resting," Martin observed.

He stood beside the bed, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching with considerable suspicion as his spouse attempted to convince him that their illness was no longer an impediment to their usual activities.

The physician had been quite clear in his instructions. Rest. Fluids. Medicine at the prescribed intervals. No unnecessary exertion until the fever had passed.

Martin had taken these instructions seriously.

His spouse, apparently, had taken them as a suggestion.

"I see," he said after listening to their argument. "And the physician, who has spent considerably more time studying medicine than either of us, is mistaken?"

He paused.

"How reassuring."

There was a distinct gleam of amusement in his eyes, though the concern beneath it had not entirely disappeared.

He had spent much of the morning attempting to strike a reasonable balance between his responsibilities and his desire to remain close. The council had already been informed that his attendance would be delayed, the physician had been summoned, and a tray of food had been delivered to the chambers.

Martin had even attempted to work for a time.

It had been an utter failure.

Every few minutes, his attention had drifted towards the bed. He had found himself checking the clock, listening for changes in their breathing, and wondering whether the room was too warm or the blankets too heavy. Eventually, he had abandoned the paperwork altogether and decided that his time would be better spent ensuring that his spouse was comfortable.

Now, it seemed, he had a new problem.

They were determined to resume their activities before he was prepared to allow it.

Martin sighed, though there was little real exasperation in the sound.

"Very well."

He crossed the room towards the writing desk.

He could have simply asked them to rest again. He could have repeated the physician's instructions, offered another explanation, or attempted to appeal to their better judgement.

Instead, an idea occurred to him.

A truly excellent idea.

He drew a fresh sheet of parchment towards himself, selected a quill, and began to write.

He took his time.

He was, after all, an emperor. If he was going to issue a decree, it deserved the proper attention.

When he had finished, he set down the quill, examined his work, and nodded with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had successfully resolved a matter of state.

Then he rang for a servant.

"Would you be so kind as to bring me the imperial seal?"

The servant blinked.

"The imperial seal, Your Majesty?"

"Yes."

"Is there a particular document requiring it, sire?"

Martin glanced towards his spouse.

"An exceedingly important one."

The servant, wisely, did not ask any further questions.

A few minutes later, Martin returned to the bedside carrying the parchment. The imperial seal had been pressed into the wax at the bottom, lending the document all the solemnity and authority one might expect from a formal proclamation of the Crown.

He cleared his throat.

"By the authority vested in me as Emperor of Tamriel, and in recognition of the present circumstances, I hereby issue the following decree."

His expression was perfectly serious.

"Firstly, the royal consort is to remain in bed until the attending physician has determined that they have sufficiently recovered."

He glanced up briefly.

"Secondly, the royal consort is forbidden from concerning themselves with matters of imperial administration, household management, or any other responsibility that may be safely delegated to another person."

He continued reading.

"Thirdly, any attempts to persuade His Imperial Majesty that the aforementioned royal consort is perfectly well, despite clear evidence to the contrary, shall be regarded as a rather unconvincing argument and dismissed accordingly."

Martin lowered the parchment slightly.

"I considered adding a provision concerning the consumption of medicinal broth, but I thought that might be excessive."

The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the royal consort is hereby entitled to the undivided attention of their husband for the duration of their recovery, without objection from the Imperial Council, the High Chancellor, or any other official who might consider the matter of greater importance than it truly is."

He set the decree down upon the bedside table.

"There."

He folded his hands behind his back, surveying his work with an expression of great dignity.

"I believe that settles the matter."

For approximately three seconds, he managed to maintain his composure.

Then he laughed.

It was a quiet, genuine laugh, the sort that came more easily in private than it ever did before the court. He sat down beside his spouse and reached for their hand, gently brushing his thumb over their knuckles.

"I realise that the imperial seal is intended for matters of somewhat greater consequence," he admitted, "but I daresay the situation warrants an exception."

His expression softened.

"Besides, I have always maintained that the law ought to serve the people. And at present, the person I am most concerned with is you."

He leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to their forehead.

The playful amusement in his eyes gave way to something warmer.

"Now, I believe the decree requires one final provision."

He paused, considering.

"Something about the Emperor being entitled to remain beside his spouse for as long as he pleases."

A faint smile returned.

"Though, in fairness, I suspect I should have consulted you before making that particular ruling."

He lifted their hand and pressed another kiss to their knuckles.

"Still, I am willing to hear any formal objections you might have."

His expression suggested that he was not especially concerned about the outcome.

After all, he had faced an entire council of nobles and survived.

Surely, he could withstand a little argument from the person he loved.

And if the final result happened to involve staying beside them for the remainder of the day, well—

Martin Septim had never been particularly opposed to a favourable ruling.