“My brother was clinging to you with all his might. As though you were... I don’t know what...” Prince Baldair shifted, as if the memory made him uncomfortable. Vhalla stared him in shock, and he chuckled uneasily. “Jaw open, eyes wide,” Baldair summarized at the expression she was giving him. “That must’ve been my face when I saw him holding you like that.”
Vhalla looked down at her bruised hands and wondered if Aldrik would ever want to touch her again. “Why are you here?” she asked. The prince hadn’t come only to tell her all this. Another cleric could just as easily have tended to her.
“Because I owed my brother, and he called in a favor,” Baldair answered honestly. A frown crossed her face; she was a burden to them. The prince shook his head, as if reading her mind. “Because I was worried about the beautiful, charming woman I had danced with.”
“Why didn’t he come?” She tried to keep the pain from sneaking into her voice.
“There’s a war council occurring right now to discuss the safety of the city. He had to be there.” Vhalla nodded mutely. The prince wrapped some clean gauze around the fresh wound at the back of her head. “Why didn’t you fight them off with your magic?”
“I tried...” She choked on nothing in her throat, suddenly overwhelmed. She felt more deserted by her sorcery than by anyone else failing her. “But my magic... it isn’t... I don’t know why it didn’t work.”
“That’s okay, Vhalla. You’ll be safe now.” He mumbled, knowing that words were not about to fix it. Prince Baldair shifted her burlap to inspect her shoulder. “This one is bad. It’s going to hurt,” the prince said apologetically.
Vhalla laughed and he looked at her queerly. “What doesn’t hurt?” she asked bitterly.
His brow furrowed again. “Lie down,” he instructed.
Vhalla obliged. She stared at the ceiling as the prince found a tall bottle of clear liquid.
“Do you want something to bite on?”
Vhalla shook her head.
He uncorked the bottle and poured its contents through the wound. She hissed and arched her back. Vhalla gripped at her clothes, forcing herself to stay still with slow deep breaths.
“You’re a lot tougher than you look.” The prince put the bottle aside.
“Am I?” she asked, looking back at the ceiling as he changed to a jar of creamy salve. “I don’t feel tough.”
The prince shrugged and dipped his fingers into the salve, applying it liberally to the wound. She winced at the pressure.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
Vhalla shook her head. “You and Aldrik.” She noted her use of Aldrik’s name made him glance at her weirdly. “Do you get along?” Talking kept her mind away from the pain.
“We—” the prince sighed, “—we have a strange relationship.”
Vhalla glanced at him; she could gather that much on her own.
Before she could follow up, he turned the conversation on her. “And you? You and Aldrik clearly get along. What’s your relationship exactly?”
Vhalla stiffened and not from his fingers probing her wound. She stared at nothing. The funny part was Vhalla didn’t know how to classify her relationship with the crown prince.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully.
He glanced at her as he threaded a needle before leaning over her. Golden hair fell in front of the prince’s face, and his eyes had none of the laughter she’d seen in them before. Vhalla wasn’t sure if she’d ever met this Prince Baldair. He looked exhausted.
“That’s it? You don’t know?” he mumbled, stitching up her wound.
“That’s it.” She kept from shrugging. “How often do you know what your brother is thinking?” The corner of Vhalla’s mouth tugged upward by a fraction, and the prince actually chuckled.
“I just knew you were going to be amusing.” He shook his head and motioned for her to sit so he could stich up the back.
“How did you learn how to do this?” she asked, finding conversation easier than expected, given the circumstances. It was something about Prince Baldair, the same easiness she felt in his room.
“My brother played with spell-books, I played with swords. One gives you paper cuts, the other removes your fingers. I saw so many clerics that I learned the basics.” Baldair held out her arm and wrapped the wound closed. “Careful. Don’t rip your stitches.”
“Tell that to my guards,” she bit out.
The prince didn’t even try to hide a grimace. He pulled out a rag and another large leather bladder from the bottom of the box. Wetting the cloth, he handed it to her.
“Here, it’s only water.” He took a small sip, as if to encourage her. Vhalla didn’t think he’d spend so much time patching her up if he was about to poison her. She took the rag and wiped her face, pausing a moment to look at the mix of black and red that smeared it.
“I must look like death itself,” she mused at the soiled fabric.
“Worse than death.” He did not even try to flatter her. “After seeing you in the courtroom, my brother broke a mirror and a vase, and set a chair on fire on his way to the council rooms. I couldn’t get a cleric’s box fast enough.”
Vhalla laughed faintly and smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. He pulled out a different cream and ran a thumb down her cheek. She stiffened slightly but she didn’t find his touch unsettling anymore, at least in this limited capacity.
“There we go. You’re prettier when you smile.” The prince reflected her expression on his face but the moment was short-lived. She had no reason to be happy.
“They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?” Vhalla asked calmly.
His smile faded. “They’re going to try,” he replied with a nod.
She respected him more for not lying to her. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Baldair shook his head. “Egmun was calling for it before Aldrik had even carried you back to the palace.”
Vhalla was distracted a moment, trying to imagine Aldrik carrying her anywhere. Prince Baldair cleaned up his box, leaving her the bladder of water, a group of clean rags, the jar of cream he’d used on her face, and a small vial of green looking syrup. She returned her attention to him as he stood.
“I figure, you have more you’d like to scrub off without me here. The salve you can use on any other cuts.” The prince motioned toward the items.
Vhalla glanced at the gash running up her thigh that disappeared under the sack dress and nodded. “Thank you,” she said honestly.
“The green stuff, Deepsleep, it’ll ease the pain and help you sleep.”
Vhalla looked at it uncertainly; she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be in a drug-induced slumber around Rat and Mole. “Please, don’t go,” she begged faintly.
“I’m not really supposed to be here.” He sighed and picked up the box.
“Then lock me in and take the key with you. Give it back to Mole tomorrow,” she pleaded with him. “Lock them away from me. If I have to be here all night with them, I’ll...” A shiver ran through her.
“Mole?” The prince asked. Vhalla put a finger on her cheek where Mole had his unfortunate facial feature. “Ah.” Prince Baldair considered her request for a moment and then locked the door with the key Mole had left in the lock earlier. He showed it to her before slipping it into his coat pocket. She nodded.
“My prince,” she said quickly. He looked at her, “Tell Aldrik...”
He glanced down the hall. Tell Aldrik, what? She hadn’t thought that far ahead. That she’d never forget their dance, for however long the rest of her short life was? That she enjoyed his company more than she ever expected? That she had yet to still sort through all the complex feelings surrounding him? In the end, she simply had to hope he knew.
“Please tell him, thank you, and I’m sorry.” The prince gave her a strange look and nodded. “And thank you too, Prince Baldair, for whatever reason you did this.”
“Be careful,” the golden prince cautioned. “You seem sweet, Vhalla. Clearly you have something magical about you, and while I don’t really understand it all, I do understand that Aldrik has fire in his veins.”