#also haven't had a chance to proofread this yet so my apologies for any errors

[chronurgy]

Gortash Week Day 4 - Relax/Work

He needs to work. There is more that needs to be done and not enough hours in the day with which to do it. His agents have brought in reports on the latest movements within the undercity, there are design notes to be compiled on the latest version of the Steel Watch, some minor Dreadmaster has been flouting his reporting requirements and must have his punishment for it, his current “paramour” has written some dreadfully soppy letter that requires a response in kind, and the claw rings he has made for Vesper require more polishing. But he is tired. He is so, so tired. It has been… days, perhaps, since he last slept. But there is more to be done, always more, new schemes and ideas to set in motion and returning plans to be leveraged into yet more ploys. It is perpetual motion and he must keep up. Even the stimulants have started to do nothing more than increase his heartrate without touching his exhaustion.

He resents the limitations of his flesh.

But he does acknowledge them. He used to ignore them, back in his younger and more impetuous days, but experience has been a keen teacher. This body will have its due, whether he wishes it or not. He can only choose how that due will find him. A decade ago he would have kept at it until the last moment, sought to squeeze every last second of work from the damned thing until he collapsed at his desk. A decade ago he might have been able to survive that. These days, for all it galls him, he must pay heed to the changes the passage of time has worked upon him. Passing out at his desk now means he can expect his neck to stiffen for days, the delicate and important tendons in his hands to tighten near snapping, and the old injury in his leg to ache like hellfire (not exactly, but close enough to bring its sting to mind). He can push through it all if he must, of course. Never let it be said that Lord Enver Gortash does not keep mastery over his own body. But he must admit that it is easier if he does not need to.

So he sets all his work aside. Distributes orders to his lieutenants, triages what can wait and what he must be notified of immediately. And then he sets out for his Upper City manor home. His servants are well trained - a bath already awaits him. The water is hot but not scalding, and he groans as he sinks down into it. The heat slithers into his joints as he soaks, soothing overtaxed muscles and old aches. It is so easy to habituate to the pain. There are always more important things to be done, more important concerns to ponder. It is so easy to section off a piece of his mind, drag his focus onto other things, that he sometimes does not notice the weight of it until it is lifted. There are exercises, he knows, that help limit the worst of it, but they require time and he is a busy man. He manages well enough, besides.

He climbs from the water once it begins to cool. He longs to climb straight into his bed and the blissful embrace of sleep, but he cuts that nonsense off with a sharp thought. Those who do not properly tend to their weapons are like to watch them fail, and his appearance has always been one of his most useful weapons. He sits at the vanity, in front of the neat, long row of pots and bottles. He starts at the left and works right, mechanically applying each cream, serum, and unguent in the proper amount and order. Once that is finished, he runs a comb through his hair, carefully unworking even the smallest knots and tangles, then follows it up with a balm to keep his hair soft, smooth, and shiny. He ensures things, he does not leave them to chance.

Routine completed, he is free at last to retreat to his bedchamber. He examines it for signs of Vesper’s passage and finds none. They have not been here. Or they have, and have disguised their tracks for some reason knowable to them and them alone. That would be their sort of game, a fun little challenge for the both of them. A smile tugs at his lips at the thought of it. Perhaps, when he wakes, he shall look a little closer. Either way, he is sure that no one else is in here for the moment. He is alone.

He crawls into his featherbed, curling beneath silken sheets. His mind races still, even here, presenting him with plots and ploys and projects aplenty. He breaths slowly, in and out, allowing it all to flow over and through him but grasping for nothing. It will all be there on the morrow, he reminds himself. And at last the currents of sleep begin to lap upon the shores of his mind and, bit by bit, he allows them to bear him into the depths of slumber.