@komposisi sent in you were injured. have you allowed someone to heal them or are you too stubborn to let them ?
the heavy, metallic scent of iron clung to the air of the tent, thick enough to taste. it wasn’t the smell of a battlefield, not anymore but the stifling, intimate aroma of a man bleeding out in a space too small for his pride.
aelfric sat stiffly on the edge of the field cot, his teeth ground together so tightly his jaw ached. his royal crimson tunic, the fine silk now ruined and sodden with a deep, encroaching plum-darkness, hung open. he looked less like a prince of valelyeon and more like a fallen idol, marble skin smudged with the soot of the north and the grime of a retreat he hadn't authorized.
when arslan entered, the air shifted. it always did. arslan brought with them the scent of pine needles and the stubborn, irritating resilience of the common folk, a smell aelfric had spent years pretending to despise.
❛ don't, ❜ aelfric rasped, his voice a dry friction against the silence. he didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the way his own blood polled in the grooves of his palm. ❛ i’ve told the surgeons to focus on the vanguard. a scratch from a northern rebel isn't going to be the end of the valelyeon bloodline, arslan. i don't need your charity, nor your pity. ❜
but he was lying. every breath felt like a serrated blade was being dragged across his ribs. the spear-tip had found the gap in his ceremonial plate, a vanity he now deeply regretted and had bitten deep.
arslan didn't listen. he never did. that was the problem with commoners who grew up in the shadow of exiled princes like beornmod ; they lacked the refined sense of when to bow and when to back away. as arslan stepped closer, the flickering candlelight caught the hard line of aelfric’s shoulders. the general in him wanted to bark an order, to have this man thrown from the command tent for insubordination. but the man in him, the one who had spent the last three months watching arslan’s back in the heat of a fray, simply felt cold.
❛ i said stay back, ❜ aelfric hissed, finally lifting his head. his silver hair was matted with sweat, sticking to his forehead in damp clumps. his eyes, usually as sharp and cold as polished sapphire, were hazy with the onset of shock. ❛ you should be with him. with your northman. beornmod needs his loyal shadow more than i need a nursemaid. ❜
the bitterness felt good. it was a familiar armor. he had spent his life being the secondary jewel in the valelyeon crown, the dependable blade that cleared the path for the ruling house. and then arslan had arrived, a chaotic variable in a world of rigid protocol. they had fought over beornmod, over the politics of the north, over the right to lead, over the very ground they stood upon. but somewhere between the clashing of steel and the desperate midnight rides, the hatred had curdled into something far more dangerous.
arslan moved into his space, kneeling between aelfric’s boots. the audacity of it should have been enough to make aelfric strike them, but as arslan’s hands reached for the hem of the blood-soaked silk, aelfric’s protest died in a sharp, hissed intake of air.
❛ you're a fool, ❜ aelfric whispered, his hand trembling as it hovered over arslan’s shoulder, unsure whether to push them away or pull them closer. ❛ i am the general of the southern host. i am a prince of the realm. i am not... i am not some project for you to fix. ❜
the touch of arslan’s fingers against the raw, torn skin of his side was an agony that felt like a homecoming. aelfric let out a shuddering breath, his head dropping forward until his forehead almost brushed arslan’s. the stubbornness was still there, a rigid cord in his neck, but the strength to maintain the facade was bleeding out onto the floorboards.
❛ why do you bother ? ❜ aelfric asked, his voice losing its regal edge, becoming something terrifyingly human. ❛ you hate everything i stand for. you’ve told me as much across a dozen campfires. i am the oppressor, the high-born crow. let the wound fester. it would be one less valelyeon for your friend to worry about. ❜
he winced as the cleaning cloth bit into the wound, his fingers finally sinking into the fabric of arslan’s tunic, bunching the rough wool with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. he wasn't just letting arslan heal him, he was letting arslan see him. the vulnerability was worse than the spear-thrust.
❛ fine, ❜ aelfric choked out, his eyes closing as he finally stopped fighting the hands that were trying to save him. ❛ do your worst, you insufferable peasant. but if you tell beornmod i made a sound, i'll have you in the stocks by sunrise. ❜
he leaned into the touch then, a silent surrender. the general was gone, replaced by a man who was simply tired of being made of stone. as arslan worked, aelfric didn't pull away. he stayed anchored to the only person who looked at him and saw a man instead of a title, even if that man was currently a bloody, stubborn mess.
