Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter 6
It was a four-day trek from Yellowhead Pass to the city of Bethmora and on the fifth day, Prince Nuada returned home. When Bacchante saw him enter the city he was still dressed for war, and looked terrible and ferocious because of it. Soldiers surrounded him – the siren gripped the balustrade with her fingertips, turning them white as she saw nurses and medics tending to Nuada's troops; the lady breathed a sigh of relief as the Prince directed the nurses, and that was all…
After what felt like a very long time, the Elvish warriors dispersed, either allowed to return home or taken to a hospital if need be; only then was the Prince of Bethmora free to leave for his Palace. He ascended the many stairs to his grand foyer alone while Bacchante waited for him in the shadows of the gallery; she wanted to approach him, to be as near to him as she had been that day in the hallway of his training room, but she didn't dare…
"Lady Bacchante," Prince Nuada called to her, seeing her standing in the shade. She stepped over to him as soon as he'd spoken her name. Without thinking, she embraced him, drinking in the warmth of his presence; the lady pulled away before he could return the gesture – a part of her wondered if he even would have.
"I missed you," she said in justification, her voice soft and sheepish...
When she withdrew, she was covered in blood, deep crimson from his clothes staining her pale skin, like a fawn slaughtered in spring snow. It took her only a moment to realize that her flesh was tainted, the white skin on her chest and neck blemished with red.
"Don't be frightened," the Ancient Prince assured with silken ease, watching her horror at the sight of the blood, "it isn't mine." He knew even as he said this that he spoke a lie – that in her welcome she reopened the wound on his chest that only in the last day had begun to heal.
Bacchante's terror came and passed in a uneasy wave. She hadn't noticed the blood staining the black fabric of his clothes, crimson hidden by the ebony he wore…
"It is yours!" Bacchante exclaimed suddenly; she touched her fingers to his shirt – the fabric was frayed beneath her hand; she parted the slit, revealing under it the deep gash that ran from the Prince's shoulder to his breastbone.
"It's nothing," he answered softly, his tone unchanged. His calmness unnerved the lady, and she withdrew her touch,
"You should see a doctor…"
"That won't be necessary." Prince Nuada's reply was quick - quick enough that Bacchante caught something in it, some intent he would not share so readily.
"You're seriously hurt."
"I've endured worse than this, I assure you," he continued almost contritely, "It's of no consequence; I've tolerated this for five days, and I've survived this long."
"You've reopened the wound – you could become seriously ill. At the very least, let the nurses stitch it…" The lady intended her reply to be firm and resolute, but when she spoke, her words came out a plea.
"As I've said, I will not need a doctor."
Bacchante scoffed, "Your refuse so adamantly – surely, you can't be afraid."
"Of doctors?" he retorted scornfully, "No, I've nothing to fear from doctors." Prince Nuada spoke with such bitterness that the siren thought the better of fighting his statement, or questioning the meaning it implied.
"Your shoulder must be tended to, regardless…" she began meekly, "if you will not seek help from a medic, I could... stitch it for you." Prince Nuada raised an elegant eyebrow at her offer,
"Would you know what you're doing?"
"It isn't difficult!" she countered sharply - defensively enough that she earned a small smirk from the Elf. So she's still proud, he thought, even now…
"Then I accept your offer. I would rather avoid the hospital, if possible; my training hall is a sufficient place for you to perform this minor surgery." He paused, and continued with slightly less propriety, "I trust you remember it." Prince Nuada caught himself smirking inwardly as he saw Bacchante flush at his statement. Perhaps ten weeks was a longer time than he'd imagined, and not only for the lady…
"I remember it."
They walked in silence from the foyer to the narrow staircase that led to the Prince's training room; Bacchante's breath caught in her throat as they passed the place in the hall where they had been so very near each other, before he'd left for war...
"Is there a chair or…" the siren began once they entered the room, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Through that door," the Ancient Prince answered, pointing to an entryway on the opposite side of the training room. "There are needles and surgical thread in that armoire," he continued, gesturing to a cabinet next to the entrance they had just come through. Silently, Bacchante walked over to the cherry-wood standing cupboard and opened the drawer – in it she found the stitching supplies as promised, as well as a bowl of cotton balls and a bottle of disinfectant. The lady wondered how often Prince Nuada tended to his own injuries… and why. Surely, he couldn't possibly be so proud that he would not see a doctor… What he'd said earlier intrigued her; he said so unflinchingly that he had nothing to fear from doctors – if not them, what did this ruthless Elvish Prince fear?
Bacchante took several items from the armoire and followed the Prince through the door into an adjoining room. It was a small chamber - not a study really, but a room with a desk, chairs and chesterfields. Before Bacchante could inquire what the room was used for, Prince Silverlance unbuttoned his shirt, letting the black garment slide off his shoulders. He caught it effortlessly in his hand before it fell to the floor, and draped it over the back of a nearby chair. The Prince stepped over to a green chase lounge and languidly reclined on it, draping his arm over its edge in a pose of confident contentment.
Seeing him this way, Lady Bacchante did not trust herself to speak. Rather, she hurried to arrange the medical supplies on a nearby coffee table. The chase was large enough for both herself and the Prince; she sat on the edge nearest the table, so that she could tend to his wound easily…
The long gash across the man's chest was deep and ugly, and immediately Bacchante set about cleaning it. She dabbed a cotton ball with antiseptic, and for an instant let her hand hover above his flesh... She could feel the heat from his chest and noticed his muscles rise and fall gently with each breath he took; despite any imperfection caused by a gash or scar, his body took her breath away.
"How did this happen?" Bacchante asked carefully, as she touched the antiseptic to the wound, disinfectant hissing angrily on contact.
"A battle, with the mercenaries on a mountainside."
"And you defeated them?"
"Yes."
"Losses?" the lady paused a moment before she asked.
"On that day, the commanding General."
"Did you know him?" Prince Silverlance shook his head,
"Not well." He paused a moment before he spoke again, "I was fighting alongside an old friend of mine – a sniper aimed at him; I pulled him from the line of fire, and that same bullet killed his General." There was a momentary pause, "I saved one man's life, and in so doing condemned another to death." Bacchante did not blink,
"That's war, is it not?" Prince Silverlance smirked with rueful acrimony,
"So it is."
The lady set the antiseptic aside and threaded the needle she would use to stitch his shoulder,
"Is there anything I could get you for the pain?" Bacchante inquired, thinking of the task that lay ahead. The Ancient Prince uttered a low, caustic laugh in response, and the lady did not ask again.
Bacchante finished in silence. She placed the last stitch, and after she did, she let her hands rest on his flesh perhaps and instant longer than necessary – absently, she brushed her forefinger over one of his scars, and the Ancient Royal felt her shiver.
"Do my scars bother you?" Prince Nuada asked, his silken voice breaking the room's long silence. The lady's heart skipped, and beat harder within her,
"No."
"Don't lie." Startled, Bacchante pulled her fingers from his skin, and rose to her feet. She drew a feeble breath - she couldn't look at him, lying languidly on the chase behind her, speaking words like silver cyanide. It was… sexual, so overtly sexual, and she was... "Do they frighten you?" He spoke to her simply, but behind his easy grace was a flicker of danger…
"The scars don't frighten me." The lady replied with some resolve, though she turned her back to him. She didn't hear the Ancient Prince move from the chase but before she could think she felt him standing behind her.
"Then what is it?" His voice was very soft, and she felt his breath, hot on her neck. Without thinking, she turned to face him and backed away, slowly, for fear she'd lose her balance and fall…
"I don't… know," Bacchante replied weakly; Prince Nuada stepped toward her as she backed away, forcing her further into the room, "I don't-" the lady stopped abruptly as her back hit the wall, cold, hard stone taking her breath away. She closed her eyes at the impact, and when she opened them again he was standing before her, as near as he had been in the hall… He lifted his hand to her black hair and buried his fingers in it, gently entwining them in her raven tresses. The lady's heart fluttered at his touch...
Before she could protest, Prince Nuada kissed her. His lips were barely a whisper against hers, a soft caress, and nothing more. Still, the lady met the Prince's affection with a single tear and cried a silent sob, even as he kissed her. After only a second's pause he pulled away…
"I'm sorry," she hurried as soon as her lips were free of his, "I'm sorry… it isn't that I don't-" The Ancient Prince took her face in his hands; his fierce golden eyes looked into hers and they alone silenced her.
"Don't cry." He spoke firmly, his statement every inch an order. Despite her will to acquiesce, the curséd memories his actions stirred within her forced another tear to stain her porcelain cheek.
"I said, don't cry." The Prince brushed the tears from her face – his touch was gentle, in spite of the command that was his consolation. "I am your Prince, you must obey me."
Bacchante held her breath, for she didn't trust herself not to weep; his words frightened her…
Without warning, Commander Adrastos entered the room,
"Your Majesty, the –" he paused noticeably, and not too subtly surveyed the situation he'd walked in on. Bacchante flushed when she saw him and didn't doubt what he must've thought; she wondered if he could tell that she'd cried.
"The… pirates you sent General Areborne after have been captured – alive, as per your request. They're being brought into the city now." Bacchante caught the flash of a vengeful grin cross Prince Nuada's sharp features as the soldier spoke.
"Take them to the dungeons." He turned to her, "Goodbye my lady," Prince Silverlance's voice was cordial and calm as he bid her farewell, though Bacchante saw wrath flash in his eyes, "I will have a… gift of sorts, for you this evening." With that and an elegant bow, the Ancient Royal left her, picking his shirt from the back of the chair as he followed the Commander from the room.
In his absence, Lady Bacchante exhaled slowly, freeing herself to breathe once more. Overwhelmed with a sudden weakness, the lady's legs gave out and she sank gently to the stone floor in a pool of soft fabric. There, stunned by the Prince's affection, terrified by his demeanour and unsure of exactly what would happen that night, the siren did not cry.