I am begging you to consider being the royal physician, called upon to tend to the ill prince.
You're led to his bedchamber for the first time, as, to your knowledge, the prince has never been sick before. The room is cool and dimly lit, and he is buried beneath opulent blankets.
The attendant introduces you as the palace doctor and takes their leave. You keep your voice low as you speak.
Your highness, I have been asked to examine you and determine the nature of your illness.
He turns in your general direction, not quite looking at you. He says nothing; the only noise breaking the silence as it drags out is his occasional cough. The prince has always been shy, but it seems his illness has caused him to withdraw more than ever.
However, you're here to analyze him physically, not mentally, so you reach for his hand resting languidly above the covers. Just as your fingers brush hot skin, he jerks away, retreating beneath the layers of covers. He's clearly not used to being touched.
Your highness, please allow me to take your pulse.
Tired eyes meet yours for a moment, and he averts his gaze before nodding. You take his wrist gently, pressing a finger to the artery that thrums there. His skin is soft. Raising your other hand to your own throat, you compare the pulses—nearly two beats of his heart for every one of yours.
Even if that's not an indication of true illness, the heat he's radiating certainly is. You can't tell exactly how hot he is simply by touching his wrist, though.
My liege, may I check your temperature?
He nods again, tilting his face towards you. His hair is plastered to his skin. You carefully sweep it away from his face (it might be nice to run your fingers through it, some other time), laying your hand across his burning forehead. It only takes a second of contact to feel how hot he is, but after that second your hand is shaken off as he turns away to cough again and again. The bout lasts too long, in your professional opinion. In your not-so-professional opinion, he needs someone to wrap their arms around his shoulders during such a coughing fit. Someone to hold a chalice to his plush lips after the spell abates.... When he finally catches his breath, you make your next request.
Your highness, may I place my ear upon your chest?
He finally looks directly at you for more than just a moment, his eyes wide in confusion.
That cough worries me, my prince. I would like to check for fluid in your lungs. I'll need to pull the bed covers back, if that's acceptable.
Your gentle explanation must reassure him. He relaxes into the cushions surrounding him and this time, he hums his assent instead of simply nodding. Pulling back the heavy blankets reveals his thin nightshirt, damp with sweat and clinging to his figure. You lean down, placing your ear above his heart as lightly as you can.
His chest rises and falls beneath your head in shaky breaths. You're relieved by how clear his lungs sound, despite the rasping in his throat. The thump of his heart, though feverishly quick, is steady. As you listen attentively, your hand comes to rest against his rib cage, and you hear his heart jump at the touch, accompanied by a soft gasp that goes directly to your—
You rush to straighten up, making the wise decision to not acknowledge what you heard. There's an interesting spot on the floor for you to examine as you tell him your diagnosis: a common cold or flu, which he should recover from within a fortnight. Your medical bag contains no tonic that can cure him sooner, you inform him regretfully, and you bid his majesty goodbye when he gestures for you to leave.
You glance at his face as you turn to be on your way, and you're certain it's a shade redder than it had been when you arrived. Is he getting better already, or could it be something else...?
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
andulkaphoto
stormborns
dailybridgerton
titsay
