I wrote this as an exercise to get over my writing block. I've been away too long but now I'm back. I'm writing this as a one-shot vignette, at least, for now. No copyright infringement is intended. This work is unbeta'd. Reviews/comments/follows/faves are always welcome! Please be kind. XOXO

"Tommy!" Oliver shouted as his friend tumbled to the ground, gasping for breath. He had heard of children being felled by nothing more than a bee sting but never big, strong men just like his friend, Thomas, Prince of Arkham. They had been part of a sortie on a hunt celebrating Tommy's betrothal to the Lady Laurel. They, together with their fathers and a contingent of the Royal Legion, were guests of her native Blüdhaven, one of the less inhospitable domains that bordered the Realm. The betrothal was but a prelude to the accord that would bring peace to the Realm of the Four Kings and at least, part of the Outlands.

Oliver, who was recently returned from one of the Realm's bloodiest crusades, was present not because he was Master Knight Commander of the Royal Legion's Army or High Prince of the Realm, but because he was Tommy's most trusted friend. He had been drafted into a friendly competition that pitted their fathers against them but, alas, as was his luck, there was never just an easy way of it. He was trained to rule his people, to lead his men, to slay dragons, but not this, never this. There was no enemy here but time.

The other knights, who had fallen behind as he and Tommy sprinted away from the buzzing insects, now hastened towards the commotion. Tommy was struggling to breathe, his face and tongue having swollen up after being stung by the bees they had unwittingly disturbed from their hive.

"The physician! At once!" Oliver commanded as he hastily loosened Tommy's clothing. He had become too busy pulling the stingers out from his friend's face and neck to hear a couple of horses galloping away, or the sound of one thundering towards them.

The leaves on the forest floor rustled as the others parted to give way to the raging white destrier everyone called Drago. In all of the Realm's four kingdoms, the ornery beast had yielded to one rider alone, and that same one had dismounted from the still charging horse.

He had heard the thud of boots landing forcefully on the ground, and then the hurried strides towards where his friend had lain.

"There is no time for the physician," a voice behind him said.

Oliver turned then and identified the voice as hers – the one many called the "Lady in Breeches" or "The Lady Drago", but whom he knew to be Tommy's younger sister, the Princess Felicity. He was not aware that she had joined the hunt but the raven-haired hoyden had apparently made her way to them from her white stallion and had assessed the situation with her all-too-knowing eyes.

And then she did what she was wont to do in situations where everyone but her seemed rattled – she took charge.

"A flagon of wine! Quickly!" she shouted as she knelt beside her brother. "You will be fine, brother," she whispered as she got rid of her gloves to retrieve her dagger from its sheathe on her belt. As she tore part of her tunic with it, she commanded Oliver to lay Tommy flat on his back. Her voice was terse and absolute. Many nobles, both lord and lady, would not have dared speak to the High Prince as she did. But then again she was unlike any other.

A servant came running with a pewter vessel that was brimming with the liquid. She held out the cloth she had torn and had the servant generously douse one end of it with wine.

"Keep him still," she instructed Oliver as she retrieved her blowpipe from yet another notch on her belt. It was a hollow, reed-like weapon that was forged in bronze – a gift from her brother many a summer before.

Oliver secured his friend's arms and looked to Sir John, one of his most trusted knights, to hold Tommy's legs down. Once done, he faced Felicity as she wiped her blowpipe and her dagger with the cloth. He nodded at her as she looked back at him. She acknowledged his readiness with a curt nod and proceeded to lay her dagger and blowpipe atop the soaked rag she had positioned on Tommy's chest.

She then moved herself high on her brother's side and proceeded to wipe the skin of his throat with one end of the wet rag that she had extended to his neck. "This will hurt," she warned him.

And then she did the unthinkable.

With one of her fingers on the prominence of Tommy's throat and another, a short span below it, Felicity carefully brought her dagger to the space between and made a vertical incision. Despite the pain he knew his friend was feeling, Oliver could feel Tommy's strength leave with each gasping breath.

"Hang on, Thomas," she whispered as she exposed a membrane of some sort under his skin. "Just a little bit more, brother." Oliver then saw her make another incision, delicately piercing the membrane with just the tip of her dagger.

A hiss of air sounded and he felt the struggle return to his friend.

"Hold him steady or I might pierce his gullet!" The lady demanded, even as she dabbed the wound's bleeding edges with the cloth. Oliver answered by lending more of his heft.

Holding the wound open with her dagger, she used her other hand to slowly replace the knife with her blowpipe. Once the tube was in place, the air came more easily to Tommy, and Oliver could feel the recurring heaves of breath on his friend's chest. He eased his weight off the man post haste, without taking the restraint from Tommy's arms.

"Breathe, Tommy," he heard Felicity coo, "You are safe."

Oliver felt his friend cease to struggle – his breath coming evenly. It prompted him to relax his hold on Tommy's arms and finally let go. And only then did he look at Felicity again.

He never did understand Tommy's devotion to his younger sister. She was a hellion by all accounts. Left to be raised by her father – the formidable warrior, King Malcolm of Arkham – with nary a woman's touch, she had grown into another one of his soldiers.

Having been trained by the King with Tommy ever since they were boys, Oliver himself had known Malcolm to be incredibly exacting. Felicity had not been spared any of that, regardless of her sex. Some could argue that her father had even been harder on her because of it.

Malcolm, then, had seemingly cured her of any and all of her feminine sensibilities. In all the years he had spent in Arkham Tower, Oliver had seen no softness in her – that is until now, when he saw her lay a kiss on her brother's brow.

"You live yet, Merlyn," she smiled into her brother's eyes, even as she held the pipe in place. Tommy began to move his lips but what came out was a choked stertor. "Do not try to speak, brother. It may be a while yet before you can," she said as Tommy's hand came to wrap around her forearm. She was unaware or had forgotten that she had an audience as she continued to whisper soothingly at Tommy. Oliver knew that had she known just how many eyes were on her, she would not have been so gentle. After all, this was the Lady Drago, the first and only lady to have been appointed Dame Commander in her own right.

"I have to dress your wound, Tommy. It would not do to leave it like this," she said as she gently bade her brother to let go of her arm. "I need my hands, if only for a while." But Tommy would not budge. When her gentle words failed, she resorted to teasing, "Come now, Thomas Merlyn! We would not want your Lady Laurel to hear of this, would we?"

At the mention of his betrothed, Tommy swiftly let go of her arm. Oliver had to suppress his laughter in spite of his worry. He had never thought that his easygoing friend would fall for such a proper lady, but despite the betrothal being as much a political necessity as any, the rogue seemed to have done just that.

"He needs some herbs and bandages that I do not have on hand. May I borrow some of your men, Your Highness?" She asked, careful to keep a polite edge in her voice.

Oliver quirked an eyebrow. It startled him that she had addressed him directly. She rarely, if ever, spoke to him outside of his military capacity. He could tell that it grated on her, having to seek aid, and from him, nonetheless. She had always been a prickly one and ever since he returned – nay, ever since he turned his comptroller duties over to her just before he left for his latest crusade – all he did, it seemed, was raise her hackles.

"These are your men, Your Highness," she said as she lowered her gaze from his, "You have more standing with them."

Oliver contemplated her quietly for a bit. She had no compunction in ordering everyone about when they seemed lost, but now that the crisis had passed, it would seem that she remembered herself. She was not Dame Commander here – certainly not in the Outlands. She was merely Princess.

"Sir John, Sir Andrew, do as the Princess asks," Oliver yielded as he directed his most honorable knights. He was sure that they would be respectful towards her. Most of the knights of the Realm, as he heard, had taken quite a dislike to her, though they would never deign to show it. He suspected that it was not because she was truly repulsive in any way, but because she had a tendency to show up most of them when it came to a test of skills. From what he remembered, she had a prodigious ability to peeve with her sharp blade and vex with her even sharper mind.

"Thank you, Your Highness," she said gratefully. And then it didn't even take another second before she was back to her authoritative self, "Now, if you don't mind?" She stated as she took him by the wrist, wiped his hand against the wet rag and directed him to clasp the pipe that was keeping Tommy alive. "You are not to let this slip, lest you want your dearest friend to die," she stressed as she held his gaze and tightened her hand on his.

Any subject who would have ventured to command him so would have found themselves in the stocks. But all he could think about was how inexplicably soft her skin was against his pulse. Mystified by his sudden and unexpected reaction, he bobbed his head, unable to speak.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Felicity cautiously approached the knights the High Prince had allowed her. She was always wary of the lot of them. She knew most of their kind resented her to some degree or other, even if the code they swore to uphold forbade them from openly showing it. Still, she preferred their gruff dismissal to the sneering contempt and hurtful blather that most women heaped upon her. It seemed it was her lot in life to never quite belong.

"Your Highness," the knights said as she reached them. They were brothers, she thought, as she took in the resemblance.

"How could we be of service?" The taller one – Sir John – asked, as he gave her a bow that Sir Andrew was quick to mirror.

Her caution was unwarranted. Both knights were genuinely polite and obliging. She directed Sir John to a patch of chamomile she had passed and also asked him to forage for some stinging nettle and aloe. She asked Sir Andrew and a servant to find whatever clean linen they could. She showed them how to prepare the bandages without soiling them and just how long to steam the strips over a boiling cauldron of water. With a swatch done, she came back to where Tommy and Oliver were. She doused her hands with wine yet again.

"Tommy, I am to bind your wound so Oliver can move you to a cot. But first…" she said as she laid her fingers and pressed upon the pulses on her brother's neck.

It took Oliver a second to recover from the shock of his given name on her lips, before he realized just what she was doing. He was about to object when Felicity threw him a glare that could quell thunder. The blue of her eyes flashed steel: I am not killing him.

"Easy now, steady," she murmured as Tommy drifted into unconsciousness. "Sleep, brother, rest," she whispered into his ear as she slowly relieved the pressure on his neck.

"Must you do that?" Oliver grumbled. His friend almost died once that day and seeing him deviously knocked out again by none other than his sister chafed at him. If it weren't for his indignation, he would've admired just how well she did it.

She shrugged. "It would be easier to treat him now without hurting him any more as it is," she said as she retrieved a pot of salve from her satchel and started to dab it on Tommy's wound. She felt around her brother's nape and visually inspected his neck and face. "It is very well that you've seen to the stingers," she said as she began to apply the same salve on the stings. "Though you may have to undress him later and look more thoroughly," she added while she started winding the bandage around the pipe below Oliver's grip. She then made a collar out of the remaining length and secured it with a tight knot, "You may let go."

He did as she bade. Oliver flexed his fingers as she tested the pipe to see if it would hold. "Move him if you must but make sure no one disturbs this," she instructed as she swabbed her brother's breathing tube with another wine-dampened cloth.

Oliver nodded and stood to order his men about. Night would fall soon and they still had to set-up camp. He summoned his squire. "Roy, get a pallet and cot here. Then have Gambit and the other animals rounded up and secured." In all the mayhem, he had forgotten about their steed, their hounds, and their hawks. They had run to the opposite clearing when the bees had attacked.

"Yes, sire," the youth acknowledged as he hurried to obey his commander's orders.

"Help me pitch the tent," he said to the five men on his right. And then to the knights behind Felicity, he said, "The rest of you tend to the evening meal and keep watch." He began to roll his own shirtsleeves up, not seeming to catch the look Felicity leveled upon him – or more precisely, upon his neck.

He had just done up one cuff when a cool, soft hand latched upon his newly bared forearm. "Your Highness," she said.

Nobody – not even the Realm's most formidable warriors – dared to touch his person without thought for their own safety, but there she was. Oliver treated her to a deadly stare of his own. What now? She was beginning to annoy him.

"You've been stung," she said as she diverted her eyes to his neck. She may have been cowed by his glare but she did not ease her grip. "Let me tend to you," she said as she began to move him towards the cot his squire had set up. At his resistance, she said, "It won't be a minute."

He relented. In truth, he was beginning to feel the burning ache from the stings.

He huffed as he took a seat. She stood beside him and lowered his collar to inspect his neck. Her cool hands had begun to roam his skin, and loath as he was to admit it, her fingers had soothed where she touched.

The afternoon sun had caught the impression of three stingers that protruded against his neck. The area around them had begun to redden and swell. She allowed her fingers to feel around his nape and palpate the other side of his jaw to make sure there were no others. "Take deep breaths. This may hurt," she said when she was certain that there were indeed only three. "Ready?" she asked as she supported his face with one hand and poised the other on the most swollen one.

At his abrupt nod, she carefully began to scrape her finger nail against the buried appendage. His hands clenched at the cot's wooden frame as the burning pain began to sear. He felt his vision swim as she got the first one out but he concentrated instead on the soothing caress of her thumb on his other cheek. She allowed him a breath before she repeated the process once and then again.

"One last," she warned when she began to draw the third barb out. The pain had become unbearable – and this from a man who had himself survived torture. He wished she had knocked him out instead.

It was a second before the distant sound of her voice pulled him back to the present. "This is from a wasp, not a bee. You are lucky they didn't sting you to death," she said, as she held out the last barb for him to see. He blinked his eyes to focus on her fingers. He was unaware that he had leaned into her to catch his breath. He straightened up when he caught himself.

When she was convinced that he was past the pain, she let go of him to retrieve the pot of salve she had inadvertently left beside Tommy. "Who else has been stung?" she called to the knights who were working around them, as she stood at her brother's side. "Come now so I can tend to it." When no one came forward, she ordered them to carry on.

She was beside Oliver again in two steps. He winced as he felt her run a damp cloth on his wounds. It stung but not as much as it did when she was getting the stingers out. "I shall have to see to Sir John and the nettles. It seems we would need more of it now," she said as she began to rub the soothing salve on his wounds. When she realized that she did not yet have more of the bandages she had commissioned to cover his wounds, she decided to blow on the salve on his skin to set it instead.

His skin erupted in gooseflesh. What in damnation was happening?

"Are you going to be fine?" She asked as she felt him tense against her fingers.

Finding himself speechless yet again, he gave her a curt nod. He was currently fighting the heretofore unknown urge to grab her and keep her around him. His brain could not still fathom why that was.

Believing him to be recovered from his near faint, Felicity righted the collar of his jerkin. "I shall see to the nettles then," she said as she recapped the pot and placed it back inside her satchel. She turned from him and left, not waiting to be dismissed from his presence.

"Stay close to John, and stay within sight," he bit out, when he was more himself and remembered just how dangerous the Outlands were to outsiders like them. Never mind that she was a soldier who was apparently deadlier with her hands than her sword – she was still a woman – and a princess at that.

Hope you like it. I could turn it into a series of vignettes if this gets enough traction, so don't forget to let me know what you think below! Kisses!