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?”
