The Crowned Captive

As Rowan reached the second-deepest layer of the dungeons, he breathed a sigh of relief. The royal suite was already prepared, likely an order from the king that day. The door swung open of its own accord as he neared it and placed Morana down on the bed. He felt a twang of guilt as he started undressing her, finally tallying the total extent of her injuries. It was no wonder that she had been in so much pain. He suspected she had broken ribs as well as the horrid bruising that covered most of her chest and turned one breast an ugly shade of purple. Even so many hours later, angry red welts covered her stomach from where the underbrush had whipped at her. He bothered not preserving the riding leathers, instead taking his dagger and cutting them from her body. Her legs were not much better, her entire left thigh a patchwork of bruises. She had come down from the horse hard thanks to the paralytic, and she suffered for it. And he had done it to her.

He could not stand idly and wait until the healers came or else he would rip himself apart. Despite his deep exhaustion, he called for a pale of water and a cloth and began cleaning her body. As he worked, he reached for the well of magic within him and started to heal the gashes and bruises on her leg. Her skin was so, so pale as the mottled bruises dissolved under his touch and he gently wiped away the blood and mud. She murmured no more as he moved his hands along her skin. He prayed she would forgive him for this pain, and for the betrayal of her trust by touching so much of her body like this. He would never forgive himself if he did not do it though, and would happily take any consequences she saw fit.

He had just finished her left leg, his magic beginning to tear deeply at his physical reserves, as the two healers came in. Both beautiful women were healers he knew, ones that had served him previously, and he was grateful for it.

“We came as soon as we could, Lord. We are pleased to be at your service,” the taller one said as she bobbed her head, her auburn hair falling over her shoulders.

“If we may ask, what is the nature of the injuries?” The brunette asked as she walked around the bed to assess Morana. Her face was a mask of calm as she assessed the state of her patient, but Rowan knew she would be furious beneath the facade.

“She attempted to run, and I shot her from her horse,” Rowan said, his voice tight with guilt. “One pierced her right thigh, which I cut out and healed. The other pierced her left chest, through one of her lungs. I also pulled that out and healed the wound as she was bleeding into her lungs. She still nearly drowned in her own blood. I repaired a broken arm, too. The arrows were dipped in a paralytic. Monk’s hood mostly, but I have the vial here. I can tell you the rest of the ingredients as needed,” Rowan told them, aware he was close to rambling.

The two healers merely nodded to him as they moved around Morana so one was on each side. Her eyelids flickered as they began their work, murmuring to each other the entire time. Every time one of their masks faltered, whether it be a tight-lipped mouth or a furrowed brow, Rowan stood. Each time, one of them would fix him with a stare to say not to do so, and he would sit again.

An hour had passed, Morana’s nightgown and been delivered, and Cordan waited idly outside before the healers finally stood back. Sweat beaded on their brow, but they did not look upset as they both turned to face Rowan.

“She will need time to rest, but she will live without any permanent damage,” the brunette said, and Rowan sagged with relief.

“Her survival is thanks to your healing in the field, although we would encourage you not to shoot her off a horse next time,” the auburn finished.

Rowan laughed then, an empty and broken sound, and waved the healers away as he moved up to look over Morana. Her eyelids were still and her breathing steady, the purple bruises finally gone from her skin, but she still looked too damned pale. Rowan sighed, merely thankful she was alive and healed. He grabbed the nightgown, intent on dressing her before she woke up and throttled him for seeing her naked, as Cordan entered the room.

“You summoned me, Lord,” the dark-haired elf mocked as Rowan began attempting to pull the gown over Morana’s legs. She did not respond to the movement.

“Continue to call me Lord, and you will be on every damned night shift watching her until she isn’t a prisoner anymore,” Rowan snapped back, causing a laugh from Cordan.

“Come on, Rowan, where is the fun in that attitude.”

Rowan dragged a hand over his face and took a deep breath, trying to push the frustration from his mind. None of this was Cordan’s fault, and he was about to ask for his help. Snapping at him would do little more than add fuel to the fire.

“This is Morana, the king’s latest prisoner. She is supposedly dangerous and is to be watched by myself or my most trusted at all times. For some idiotic reason, I thought that you may be suitable.”

“It is my honour, Lord Greenfeld,” Cordan replied with a grin, sketching a deep brow. Rowan merely glared at him. “In complete sincerity though, why are we watching her so closely? And who is she to deserve all of this? I thought the king built this to bring his wife back, and she does not quite fit the appearance.”

“I have been given no more information than you, bar that her parents were dangerous people and the king believes she has inherited that.”

“So you nearly killed her to make sure she wasn’t an issue?

Rowan levelled a withering glare at his friend. “I nearly killed her because she fled on horseback whilst I was shitting, and she nearly escaped.”

Cordan’s outburst of laughter could have woken the dead. The elf dropped to the floor, doubled over and red in the face, punctuated by gasps of “the mighty Rowan” and ”shitting“. Rowan ignored it as much as possible, finishing dressing Morana and then tucking her into the luxurious bed. With another pang of guilt, he went to the wall and took the enchanted manacles, fastening them to each wrist of the sleeping woman. He brushed the golden locks from her face then, gazing at her one more time, before turning his attention back on his cackling friend.

“The great Rowan, the King’s hand and dagger, outsmarted by a woman whilst his pants were around his ankles,” Cordan finally murmured, seeming to barely believe it despite the wide smile on his face.

“Moving past that, can I trust you Cordan? If she escapes on your watch, it will be both of our necks on the block, and I would rather keep my head attached.”

“She seems harmless, Rowan. It would be no issue taking care of her,” Cordan replied, though Rowan did not entirely like the look in his eye as he stared at the pretty elf. “What do I have to remember?”

“No, absolutely zero, information of our lands or her possible heritage is to be spoken. She thinks she is half-fae, and I would like to keep it that way for now. She is not to associate with anybody else, either.” Rowan nearly told his friend not to flirt with her but stopped himself. She had certainly promised herself to nobody, and he doubted she would want anything to do with her after he used her like a pincushion. Cordan was a good friend and respectable with his women. If he wanted to sleep with a prisoner that Rowan was beginning to fancy, that was Cordan’s problem.

Cordan studied her for another second before nodding, turning to inspect the room. Rowan sighed, thankful that he was at least going to take it semi-seriously then.

“Your watch is first, then. I need to speak with the king, then sleep. We take it in 8 hourly intervals.” Rowan said, waving lazily to his friend as he left. He prayed that he had made the right decision in choosing his closest friend, despite his tendency to think everything in the world was a joke.