The Princess and the Blade

[Emora Deen]

“He does,” she said, glancing to Havitharon. “When he wishes to.”

She turned for the house, carrying the plant gathered in the bundle of her slip skirt while her injured hand hung stiff at her side. “Is he contagious? What kind of fever?”

[Soran Nightblade]

"No, not contagious. He gets fevers like this occasionally on long trips. The traveling stresses him," Thomas said. Behind him, Blaine made a pained sound as Jacob lifted him down from his horse. The man's legs gave out immediately, and Thomas ducked under his other arm to help Jacob carry him.

Havitharon stood close behind Tenara as she guided them into their temporary dwelling. His fierce eyes never left Thomas as the men entered - a fact the man definitely noticed.

The men were sweating for more than one reason by the time they finally got Blaine down onto the bed. With the hood back from his face, it was clear the man was legitimately ill. He was sweating, and white as a sheet. "Thank you again for having us. We'll be out of your hair first thing tomorrow," Thomas said to Tenara while trying his best to ignore Havitharon's disapproving stare.

[Emora Deen]

Tenara had serious doubts Blaine would be right enough to travel by morning but they knew him better than her. While they settled Blaine onto the bed, she snatched a thin linen dress from the closet and walked back into the kitchen where she’d left the plant on the table.

Tenara took a moment to lean against the table, wincing at her throbbing hand. She’d done well to pretend it wasn’t near blinding agony, but now she had to deal with it and treating their guest. She took a deep breath and struggled into the dress, dragging it over her head with one hand with considerable difficulty. Eventually she worked her arms and head through, but buttoning it with one hand proved almost impossible, so she abandon the task halfway through. They’d already seen her in the slip, so a few loose buttons weren’t a big deal.

Tenara smeared the back of her hand across her sweating brow. The air was hot and thick with humidity, even with all the windows open. Blaine’s fever was likely exacerbated by the weather.

She went to the sink and pumped cool well water into a bucket, grabbed a rag, and carried it back into the bedroom—doing it all while she favored her bandaged hand. She set the bucket near the bed. “Put the cloth on his forehead. When it gets hot, dip it and apply again. I’ll see if I can’t find something to help, but I need to tend to my own before I can help him.” She held up her hand before turning her gaze on Havitharon. “Would you mind helping me grind up the plant? I can’t do it with one hand.”

[Soran Nightblade]

Havitharon didn't take her eyes off their guests while Tenara was out of the room. Jacob sat at Blaine's side, while Thomas kept finding reasons to look out the window. They looked relieved for more than one reason when Tenara finally came back.

"Thank you," Jacob said as she set the bucket down. "I don't know how to repay you." He reached for her other hand with both of his, meaning to shake it. Instead, something moved too fast for him to see in the corner of his eye. A second later, he was flat on his back on the floor. Havitharon stood over him, neither following up with another attack nor signaling the fight was over. Jacob winced up at him, trying to get his breath back. "Understood," he wheezed, making a peaceful gesture at Havitharon. "No touching?"

Havitharon rolled his eyes and left him on the floor as he turned to Tenara. The sight of her seemed to sour his mood even further. It was easy to tell her pain had gotten worse, probably from helping these strangers. "I will grind it," he agreed shortly, turning for the kitchen.

[Emora Deen]

As Havitharon left for the kitchen, Tenara hovered over Jacob. "I'm sorry," she said. "He's... a little rough around the edges."

She was a little surprised by Havitharon's overprotectiveness. Perhaps he didn't know what handshakes were... and while she was shocked to find Jacob on the floor after trying to touch her, even innocently, there was this warmth that filled her. She felt safe.

"I'll be back in a minute." She left to meet Havitharon in the kitchen, sliding the grinding bowl across the table to him. She eyed him as she pinched the tiny yellow flowers from the plant and dropped them into the bowl until it was half full. "What's going on in that head of yours? Do you think they're trouble?"

[Soran Nightblade]

Havitharon sat across from her and began using the pestle in a quick, experienced rhythm. He was somehow expecting her to chastise him for being violent toward her guests, or perhaps say nothing at all. He definitely didn't expect her to consult him for his opinion, but he recovered quickly and answered.

"They're hiding something. That man isn't sick; he's injured. So are you. I don't understand why you brought them here."

[Emora Deen]

Tenara frowned, feeling a twinge of hurt at his disappointment. She cradled her hand in her lap, turning her gaze to the bandages he'd carefully wrapped the day before.

"I don't know," she said softly. "He seemed worried. I thought about sending them away, wanted to, but it felt wrong. When we were in Arken, I was so ill and tired and we'd just had the encounter with the... the man in the bar. If that woman hadn't shown us kindness, if she hadn't given us a place to rest, and food... What would have happened?" She glanced up at him. "We can send them away in the morning. Then, whatever they are hiding will leave with them."

[Soran Nightblade]

He shook his head, but his expression was more curious than upset. She was so strange. Was this world really such a gentle place? He had to acknowledge that the woman in Arken had helped her. So, apparently, had the people who lived in this cabin before. He felt slightly calmer at the assertion that she would turn them out in the morning. "Yes," he assented without further argument. His attention turned to her hand. He upturned his hands on the table, wordlessly inviting her to surrender her palm to him for treatment.

[Emora Deen]

Tenara slid her hand across the table, placing it in his palm. “I could… I could try to heal the injured one. They might leave sooner if he was well. But…” Tenara pursed her lips together. She had only ever healed one person, Havitharon. She wasn’t certain if that power was only for him, because of the sword, or if it worked for others. She was also uncertain if the side effects of her magic—overwhelming desire and threads of want and pleasure—were only his to experience because of their connection. She wasn’t certain how comfortable she felt imparting those feelings onto another man, especially one without Havitharon’s restraint where females were concerned.

[Soran Nightblade]

"No. You are wounded," he snarled, although his feather-light grip on her hand didn't fluctuate in the slightest. He used the water to dampen her bandage so it would stick less as he unwound it. "You've been using the hand," he mused as he evaluated the wear on the wrapping. This time, the words were less a condemnation; more simply an assessment.

[Emora Deen]

Tenara smirked. “Well, it is hard to do things with one hand.” She glanced at the bedroom and doorway, keeping her eye there as Havitharon worked. She wanted to hide the wound away if someone stepped out. It was better if no one knew what she was.

[Soran Nightblade]

Havitharon cleaned her hand and assessed the wound. It only looked slightly less angry than the day before. He pondered whether he should lick it again, but he'd just expressed his venom the day before. It wouldn't be strong enough to offset the pain of the contact. His expression was deep in concentration as he applied the herbal salve and re-covered the wound. When he finished, he stared at her hand in his. He was tired, and his conversation was starting to wander. She knew the men could be dangerous. So she was taking them in not because she was naive, but because her moral code was forcing her to take the risk. He was relieved that she was no fool, but he would need to stay vigilant to be sure this risk didn't bite her. What could the men be up to that would make them hide their injuries?

His fingertips floated over the edge of the bandage while his sleep-deprived brain thought through different options.

[Emora Deen]

No matter how gentle Havitharon was, it did not stop the treatment and bandaging from being agonizing. She felt nauseated by the end of it, and laid her head on her outstretched arm as he finished.

He seemed deep in thought, and as the salve began to numb the wound, feeling cool and tingling, she found herself admiring how beautiful he was when he seemed thoughtful. He also, she realized, looked very tired.

“Thank you,” she said after several seconds of him simply holding her hand, his fingertips grazing the skin at the edges of the bandage. She lifted her head from her arm, still looking a bit green but less tense from pain, and stretched her other arm out, laying her good hand over his. She gave him a gentle squeeze.

[Soran Nightblade]

Havitharon's gaze flicked up to hers, a little surprised. They didn't usually touch each other without a reason like this. But he was the one who'd had a fleeting moment of disappointment when she'd first drawn her other hand away. And even now, he couldn't bring himself to let go of the hand she'd offered. His long fingers folded slowly over hers. It felt right to be in her hands. Gods help him.

It was only temporary, he told himself. Until they found out how to break the bond and send him back. They would be allies until then. He studied the shadows on her face, evidence of the pain she was tolerating. "You should rest."

[Emora Deen]

Tenara glanced once more at the door to their room which, inconveniently, now belonged to their guests. She nodded, because he was right. She was tired. She wasn’t sure why, feeling as if she hadn’t really done much other than hunt for a plant and invite strangers into their home.

Their home? She did need rest.

Tenara nodded and pulled her hands gently from his. She rose from the table and went to a cabinet tucked into the wall where she’d found a few folded blankets several nights ago. She didn’t need a blanket, it was far too hot, but the floor was too hard to rest on and she wasn’t going to make their guests move an injured man for her comfort. She dragged out a few and made a pallet on the floor, one just barely wide enough for Havitharon to rest on with her, if he chose. She left two blankets folded for pillows, and climbed down to lie in front of the dead fireplace.

“We’ll send them away in the morning,” she reminded him, curling onto her side with her back to the wall. She thought about grabbing a kitchen knife to tuck under her “pillow” but, remembering how Havitharon had thrown down Jacob like a sack of wheat, she didn’t think she needed one.