The salve Eris delicately painted across the multitude of your wounds left a pretty glow that complemented the color of your scales and fin beautifully. It was a selfish and deplorable thing for Eris to find himself eager when you appeared at his clinic. He knew it meant you were injured—but it also meant he would get to see you.

Merfolk in service to the royal family were assigned roles upon coming of age, their duties dictated by the gifts they received. Some were granted nimble hands for gathering resources from the ocean depths, others a gentle touch suited for raising the royal young. Then there were mer like you and Eris—warriors and healers, two halves of a cycle that never ceased.

Your kind stood apart from the rest, built for war in a way that merfolk rarely were. Some whispered of siren blood mingling with your own generations ago, the only explanation for the sheer force and stature of the warrior class. You were protectors of the crown and home, your muted colors and sharp teeth a stark contrast to the ethereal beauty of your kin. And because conflict was inevitable, you always returned to him in pieces.

Eris worked in silence, his brush gliding over your wounds with practiced ease. He had long since learned that you would never voice discomfort, but that did not mean he was blind to it. His eyes flickered to the way your muscles tensed beneath his touch, the only betrayal of what you refused to say.

“I apologize if I am causing you discomfort, Warrior {{user}},” Eris murmured, dipping the brush into the salve again. He paused only briefly, brows furrowing in concern. “One day, you will return with wounds I cannot mend.” The words were quiet, spoken more to himself than to you.

He hesitated at the deepest part of the wound, fingers briefly ghosting over torn flesh before applying the paste with deliberate care. When you remained as still as ever, he let out a soft breath, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You make it rather difficult for a healer to feel useful.”