Characters: Martyn InTheLittleWood, Ren (red king), mentioned Grian and Scar
Wc: 114
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 220, “Blood is Thicker than Water”.
AO3: Here!
King’s blood, metallic and crimson in hue
His Hand, aware of what he has just done
An axe, forever it’s covered in rue
A doubt, on whether the winter will come
Atop the altar a new bond has formed
With new vigour have the partners come close
And now, together, the desert’ll be stormed
A war will start, to test both of the oaths
The coldness seeps in, his bones at unrest
Unguided may be the Hand of the Red
The battle finishes, done with the Pest
Yet there it still is, a war with no end
Against the Grey, the King loses his crown
The Hand will follow, both laid in the ground
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial 220 prompt.
“It shows,” she says, staring at the new baby. He frowns.
“What?”
“Blood shows. You know who he really belongs to.” The queen continues, “no matter how the princess tries to hide it.”
Her husband studies his ‘grandson’ again. She is right as much as he hates to admit it. This child isn’t a true heir.
“What is wrong with our son.” He turns away from the newborn. He will join all the others in being cared for away from the castle.
Her laugh is harsh. “A very good question, my Lord. This is the fifth child born looking like…”
“Don’t speak it.” He orders. Behind him the baby let’s out a cry. He is soothed by his nurse. “It is known but shouldn’t be spoken.”
They go to their daughter -in -law. She reclines on her bed recovering from childbirth. At seeing the look on her in laws faces, she sits up.
“Another to be sent away.” His Majesty reports .
“You cannot keep sending my children away.”
“As long as they remain just yours and not our son’s, yes we can.” The Queen coldly says.
They turn and leave her weeping.
“Blood is thicker then water, my child.” The king speaks with the prince, “I am sorry that the princess isn’t who you want, but you must do your duty and produce a heir.”
“Father, I swore to love her forever. How am I to lay with another?” He paces about the garden, “She doesn’t desire me either.”
“That is obvious in her children. Nevertheless, you must. Both of you close your eyes, and pretend it is your loves.”
A year later the princess welcomed a little prince. His grandmother was right. Blood tells.
Pain. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed as soon as awareness flooded back in. Well…that, and Crowley’s insistent muttering from somewhere on his left side, voice tinged with panic and breathing harsh.
“Ohshitohshitohshit” Crowley carefully picked his way down the slope as quickly as he could, though careful enough so that he wouldn’t slip like a certain angel had. “Are you alright?”
Aziraphale certainly didn’t feel very alright, sprawled out as he was at the bottom of a muddy slope; head pounding with a horrible pressure that was almost to the point of being unbearable while something that definitely wasn’t rain—it was too warm and viscous for that—trickled down from his temple.
Blood, his hazy mind provided at the same time Crowley gently started probing around the area, causing him to involuntarily hiss in pain.
Oh, bugger, did that smart.
“Right, sorry.” Crowley soothed, carefully combing Aziraphale’s hair back to get a better look at the wound, and winced at what he found. Fuck…that didn’t look great at all. Even though it definitely wasn’t the worst head wound he’d ever seen (or had), it still looked like a nasty one nonetheless. “Wow, you hit your head pretty good on the way down, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale meant to say “I suppose you could say that,” but what came out was more of a garbled “I s’pose y’cn’shay tha.”
Oh dear, perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought. He had hit his head, right? Crowley’d said something along those lines so that must have been what happened, even if he couldn’t for the life of him remember. And while that certainly should have been alarming, his head was starting to hurt too much to rightly care.
Crowley, however, seemed to care a great deal more, his face going even more pinched with concern as it swam in front of the angel’s muzzy eyes. Oh, he looked so worried for some reason, Aziraphale wondered why that could be and how he could help. Woozily, he reached up with the intent of smoothing the wrinkle out of Crowley’s brow, but the demon caught his hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles into Aziraphale’s palm.
“Alright, I’m making the executive decision here—we’re leaving.”
Leaving? But what about completing their assignments? Wasn’t that why they were even out here in the first place?
“Angel, you just cracked your head open on a rock while trying to trek across a sodding battlefield, and you’re worried about finishing some bloody assignment on watching a bunch of humans kill and maim each other in the rain?”
Oh. Had he said that out loud?
“Yes, you did.” Crowley huffed, fondly exasperated, and gently moved to cradle Aziraphale’s head in his lap. “I’m gonna try and patch you up a bit before we get you moving, okay? Might hurt, but I promise it’ll get better.”
Demons generally didn’t perform healing miracles often, and it usually came at a cost when they did. Crowley knew this well, having saved Aziraphale and the odd human every now and then, and had long since resigned himself to experiencing the side effects that tended to come along with it—exhaustion, headache, maybe even a fever if he really went all-in and overdid it—but nothing really major, more just unpleasant.
Feather light, Crowley touched a hand to Aziraphale’s temple, apologizing when the angel flinched, and called forth a small miracle. Head injuries were always a bit of a bitch to fix—brains being more finicky than, say, the slash of a sword or any other type of flesh wound—but he’d had tons of experience in healing concussions (hell’s punishments gave him plenty of opportunities to perfect the technique). Start slow, coax the brain into accepting the healing, and then finish strong—that was the method he’d found that usually worked out the best.
Soon enough, color started returning to Aziraphale’s cheeks and the remnants of the ghastly bleeding gash melted back into pristine, unblemished skin. On the other hand, though, Crowley had gone alarmingly pale.
“How’s that?” He asked, breathless and panting from the exertion. “A bit better?”
“Very much so,” Aziraphale beamed, reaching up to rub his head. There was a ghost of a headache still, but it was so much easier to think.
“Good, I’m—” Crowley faltered, swaying from where he was knelt, and Aziraphale reached a hand out to steady him. “I’m alright. Uh, how about I miracle us back to the inn? I’ve got a room there still, think we could both use a bit of rest after this mess.”
“Yes, that would probably be for the best, but why don’t you let me—”
“No, no, I can—” Crowley swallowed thickly, now looking like he might be the one to faint, “I can get it.”
And before Aziraphale had the chance to argue any further on it, Crowley grabbed for the angel’s hand, holding on like a life-line, and snapped them into a quaint, scantly furnished room with a single straw bed taking up most of the space. Aziraphale barely had the time to reorient himself after manifesting, when Crowley crumpled against his chest, going completely limp, shivering and absolutely drenched in sweat, as he unwilling let his exhaustion win out.
He’d really pushed it, but landing against something soft and warm, with strong arms that circled around his waist and caught him just as he passed out, he found it to be totally worth the trouble. Usually he would have spent his last few seconds clinging to consciousness in fear, but, this time, he knew he was safe in the arms of an angel with a favor to return.
“Oh, you darling old serpent,” Aziraphale sighed, soft and sad at seeing Crowley suffer for his good heart, “let me take care for you now.”
