In the towering castle belonging to the wicked creature Maeve was, malice poured out of the cracks in the walls, and screams occasionally leaked out and up from the dungeons, and the odd droplet of crimson on the floors wasn’t so odd.

Lorcan Salvaterre, a close member of Maeve’s circle, cadre even, was stood, stone faced, eyes burning onyx flames that most dismissed as resting, however the flames burned a little brighter, more wild and susceptible to catching flame on nearby things. Objects. People.

Such as the guards who merely stood, rooted, before the prison cells and the haggardly appearances of the prisoners inside them, those who ever did Maeve wrong. This one, on the other hand, had landed a blow it, a swipe of some talon from under its navy silk sleeve and poison had entered his bloodstream, slowly ebbing its way to his heart. He wouldn’t die. But it hurt like a bitch.

Hence, one of Maeve’s treasured healers sent to help him.

This one was barely past her maiden hood, not nearly enough of a woman for Lorcan to appreciate, but he was a male. A Demi-fae one at that. What was he supposed to do?

When into his silent room, hearth crackling and heating the room in slow tendrils of heat, nuzzling close then snatching away, he sat, as the healer stepped in.

The same as the others, in the sense she wore cream layers fixed into a neat dress, and her hair was pinned back in a low, neat bun. Footsteps silent, she bowed her head, awaiting his permission to come a step closer. A grunt, then a nod.

A clatter of metal on the table, as she knelt before him, eyes bowed low, rosebud lips drawn between her teeth in an absentminded motion as she threaded the needle, and placed it in a clear glass bowl, before adding a generous amount of cloudy liquid into the bowl. Lorcan frowned.

“It sterilises the needle. When the liquid goes clear it’s safe to use.” She explained quietly, softly.

He said nothing. Normally, the healers didn’t speak. Only blushed when Fenrys would send them a wink, or remain in their hordes when giggling or gossiping. Never speak to their patients, though. She dabbed the open wound, carefully removing the small bubbles from the poison, eyes trained on the tear of skin, and endless seeping of blood coupled with the bane.

“Would you like a pain duller?” She looked up at him, at the fierce onyx eyes, the tension on his jaw, the cleaning had been a deep one, and the firm press of his lips. She suddenly felt that she shouldn’t have asked.

“No.” Yes, he should’ve said, for the sewing of the stitches into his already sensitive skin was utter agony, not to mention the lingering traces of venom.

Once she stood, dusting off her skirts, she placed five vials on the table before him. “I, or another healer shall return, and re wrap these once a day. This tonic is to be taken with it. Not a minute before or after.”

“Thank you.” He rasped, then stilled. He'd never thanked a healer. But he studied the way her porcelain skin flushed at the begrudging time of his gratitude, and the way her smile softened. “It is my pleasure.”

She returned the next day and the next, and the next. But not the next. He questioned the new healer where she was.

“I’ll ask her tonight.” They’d promised.

But when she arrived the next day, Lorcan didn’t let the silence he usually nestled in settle - “Where were you yesterday?”