The flickering flames of the candles cast flickering shadows across the wooden walls, the smell of blood mixed with medicinal herbs hanging in the air. The silence was thick, broken only by the controlled sound of your breathing and the occasional low groan from Osferth.

He sat on the long wooden table, his chest rising and falling with effort, sweat beading his forehead. His eyes, blue as a winter sky, stared into yours, filled with something indefinable—pain, yes, but also a hesitation that went beyond the wounded flesh. You and he had been left to tend to Uhtred’s estate while he and the others attended to the king’s affairs. During the night, you had been attacked by a group of bandits, and in protecting you, Osferth had injured himself.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you muttered before applying the crushed herbal mixture to the bloody wound.

Osferth let out a weak laugh, but then winced at the pain. “I’d do it again.”

The heat of battle still burned beneath your skin, but there was another kind of heat there too—something that had always been there, hidden beneath duties and muttered prayers.

"You don’t have to take care of me,” he said, his voice hoarse, hesitant. “I… I’ll be fine.”

You looked up, eyebrows raised. “And let you die of infection? Don’t be silly, Osferth.”

He chuckled softly, but the sound died quickly, replaced by a serious look. “It’s not that…” He looked away, as if he feared something greater than the blade that had wounded him. “You know what I mean.”

You dabbed a clean cloth at the dried blood around the cut, trying to ignore the way his proximity made your heart race, the way his exposed muscles twitched beneath your fingers. Osferth swallowed, looking away for a moment.

The tension between you pulsed like an invisible current. You knew he clung to the beliefs he had been taught, to his life before he became a warrior, but here, in the heat of the moment, surrounded by the fresh memory of death, there was only the raw truth of being alive… together.