In The House Of The Enemy
Light is slapping your face. The last thing you remember is staring into the maw of a hungry Hypogean. They are not exactly fond of light, so you must have escaped. Though you were bleeding out and disoriented at the moment of impact, so escape seems less likely compared to rescue. The question is, who?
A face blurs into sight through your fluttering blinks. Something grassy wafts into your lungs. Itβs the smell of a recovery potion you refined to speed up the process of knitting torn flesh together once more. The figure holding the vial leans over you.
Youβd recognize them anywhere.
Then Cyran has an arm around you, and it is tight enough to pull you up into a half sitting position. His dark hair tickles your cheeks. You could never forget the smell of rosemary and lavender from the hair oil he personally blended himself. Nor the way his mouth curls in an enigmatic smile whenever he is secretly pleased about something.Β
βFinally. I thought I might have to confess to the murder of the Magister Supreme.β
His hand cradles the back of your head as he brings the potion to your dry lips. It is strangely sweet-you donβt remember adding anything else to your refined recipe to alter the taste. But the way it sends warmth through your veins tells you that it is working. Some of the potion dribbles down your chin, and Cyranβs grip on you tightens. You lean back into his touch. Protests can come later.Β
He dabs at the dribbling with a silk handkerchief. Funny, you donβt remember him having that particular one.Β
βWhere is this?β Your voice is scratchy.
There is nothing humble about velvet curtains and handcarved wood and marble flooring, but far be it from you to quip about comfort when you just escaped severe injury. True, the large bed with feather pillows and silk blankets was overkill, but you do not want to be thrown onto the marble floor all because you could not keep your mouth shut.Β
βYouβve been out for days.β Cyran sits with perfect posture next to you. βAll yourβ¦friends think I have murdered you and replaced you with a fake Merlin.β
βPossibly, if youβve mastered that particular gravecalling spellβ¦β
βWhich we both know does not work when the soul still lingers.βΒ
Ugh, details. Not a time to think about those. Cyran is pushing your clothing aside, his slender fingers probing at a bloodied bandage around your midriff. Must have been quite the wound, if it still needs bandages. Cyranβs healing magic was nearly on par with yours. Nearly. You winced as his fingers hit something that stung.
A flicker in his eyes, and then it was gone.
βWell, itβs an honour to have the Chief Court Mage tend to me personally.β You watched his probing.
βIt would have been derelict of duty to not offer assisstance to the great Merlin when everyone witnessed it.β
βEveryone, huh. What are the court mages doing there?β
Of course. The court mages and their secrets were not for public ears, not even the Arcane Council. Fair enough, considering that you donβt invite Cyran to your meetings either. It had been many years since you last lay with Cyran in his bed and shared all your knowledge with him. That time was long gone.Β
Cyran was still sitting by your side. The last time it happened was before he mocked your love of Starshower. Before he grew cold and distant and looked at you like you were a disease he could not get rid of. As if sensing your thoughts, his lip curled.Β
βPerhaps you should endeavour to rest and recover, so that you may heal quicker.βΒ
His hand presses sharply on your shoulder as you try to sit up. βI know you have difficulty understanding instructions, but I would think the great Merlin should know that getting up is no part of recovery.β
βI can make it home.β A bit of a stretch when he could hold you down with one hand.
βAnd allow myself to stand trial for attempted murder when you collapse on the way back? I think not.β
Cyranβs other hand comes down on the other side of you as you try again. He leans in, and suddenly you can feel his breath on your face. His hair forms a curtain around you, cutting you off from the outside world.Β
βMust I tie you down to this bed with a restraining spell?β His voice is soft.
The lack of fresh air is making you dizzy. Or the mint drifting gently into your nose. Or the smell of bergamot and sandalwood washing over you like a tide.Β
βIβd feel safer at home.β
βNeed I remind you that if I were to attempt anything, the best timing would have been while you were still unconscious?β
Logic, yes. But you were finding it a bit hard to think at the moment. It must be the heavy bleeding from before. Or perhaps hunger and thirst doing its thing to cloud your mind. Nothing to do with Cyran above you. Or the way he feels warm where you press against each other.
It explains your jerk when he grips your chin. βYouβre not listening.β
βI donβt feel too good.β
βI would imagine so.β Suddenly heβs gone, and the air is cold. Cyran straightens his perfectly ironed robes. βIf I were you, I would stay right here.β
You watch him pick up the empty vial and rise to leave. Come to think about it, you have never seen Cyran do any kind of work that can be done with magic, and certainly not in service to others. You didnβt think he had it in him to feed someone a potion personally.
Thereβs something in the dratted potion. Sleep tugs at your eyes, and there is nowhere better to sleep in a luxurious bed while someone watches over you.
Your head droops against the pillow.Β
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