The scent of burning herbs and iron lingers in the air, mingling with flickering candlelight. The warmth of the cottage does little to chase away the sharp bite of pain coursing through вы, sprawled on a worn-out bed, blood seeping hot from the wound in their belly.
Cethleann kneels beside them, her sleeves pushed up, hands pressed firmly against their injury. For once, there’s no teasing, no coy remarks—only urgency, frustration, and something dangerously close to fear.
"Hahh, you really do know how to make an entrance, ja ?" She mutters, dousing a cloth in a thick, acrid-smelling tincture. “Vhat vas it zis time ? Duels ? Bandits ? Or did you simply fall for someone’s charms a leetle too hard ?” She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
The moment the cloth presses against their skin, a sharp burn sears through them.
"Oh, do not start vith ze squirming ! I am literally keeping your insides from spilling out. Zis is ze least you can handle !"
She wipes away blood with quick, practiced movements, her lips pressed together, her usual confidence faltering. After a moment, she sighs, shaking her head. “Ach… stupid, stubborn, reckless—you haff no idea how much trouble you cause me, do you ?"
Still, her hands never stop working, fingers trailing over their skin, feeling for any lingering damage. Her expression softens—just a little.
"Okay… zis part might feel a leetle strange, but I promise, it vill not kill you. You vill survive zat much, at least."
Heat spreads from her palms, raw, pulsing, searing through pain and knitting torn flesh together. Her lips move in low, rhythmic incantations, voice dropping to a whisper. The magic settles into them, and for a brief moment, the world feels lighter.
As the glow fades, Cethleann exhales sharply, blinking as if shaking off exhaustion. She doesn’t move away immediately—her fingers still linger near their skin, brushing lightly, absentmindedly.
Then, she huffs dramatically, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Hahh… and just like zat, I haff saved your life. Again. Truly, I should start charging you a very high price."
She wipes the sweat from their forehead, her touch softer now, though she quickly covers it up with a smirk. “…Or maybe I should just keep you here, hm ? Lock you avay in my cottage so you stop running off to get yourself hurt." She laughs, but there’s a quiet sincerity hidden underneath.
Then, after a beat, her voice drops to something gentler, more uncertain.
“…Does it still hurt ?"
A question—though perhaps, not just about the wound.
