He had called himOsianin the Great Hall, a world-tilting impossibility he would have clung to into death. Part of a universe of other impossibilities, stolen conversations and glances. Meilyr’s taste in the folly. That forbidden kiss, which Osian would have recalled to his tongue even in dying.
If Meilyr needed the shield of formality, so be it.
He let Osian eat, then provided him with another impossibility. ‘I could sleep by the fire?’ Meilyr suggested. ‘That way I could remain close, should you need anything.’
‘That does not sound particularly comfortable.’
‘It can be, with blankets and cushions. Celyn and I used to do it all the time in the winter…’ The fondness quavered, offering a glimpse of the vast pain Meilyr kept carefully enclosed beneath his skin. He swallowed it with heart-aching practice. ‘It will be more than fine, if you would not mind.’
‘Not at all.’The furthest thing from it.‘If you are certain, take anything you need from the bed as well.’ Osian let the bowl slump. Meilyr set it aside. ‘Aldreda and I used to do the same. She would tell ghost stories, and I would lie awake all night, terrified of the shadows in the corners.’
Meilyr’s smile returned, brighter. ‘That sounds familiar. Except I was the one telling ghost stories.’
‘No wonder she is so fond of you. Kindred menaces, both.’
Sparks of amusement.
Osian ruined it by coughing, a shuddering peel that left him shivering.
‘Your fever is being stubborn.’ Meilyr’s cool fingers tested the side and back of his neck.
‘Stubbornness runs… family.’
‘I had no idea.’
Gods, let him savour theeaseof this.
‘You need sleep,’ Meilyr told him, no longer a suggestion.
It was the last thing Osian wanted, except for Meilyr to be further than this. His poison-addled flesh made him lightly capture Meilyr’s hand as he withdrew, and Meilyr stilled, letting him. Waiting.
Osian let go.
Meilyr retrieved the cloth that had bled onto the pillow, refreshed it and laid it with care across Osian’s forehead. ‘Sleep, My Prince.’
He changed into sleep-clothes in the parlour, gathered blankets and cushions from the divan and the oak chest at the foot of the bed, and settled by the fire to arrange them.
Osian’s exhausted heart yearned whilst watching him, the fall of his wavy hair, glistening from the bath, tumbling loose save the two small braids. The firelight brought out the sunset in it and warmed his skin to moonlight and gold.
Osian ached for him in a way as constant and familiar as his own breath, his own heartbeat.
Unconsciousness tugged at him, his eyes losing their battle to stay open.
Selfishly, he allowed himself to look until nothingness took him.
Vicious, thorn-edged coughing tore Osian awake, his insides a rattledthicket of dry brambles.
Hands touched his shoulder, his arm. ‘Here, drink this.’
Meilyr.
Osian drank, the tart liquid balmed by a wave of honey. ‘What… is this?’
‘Golden henbane, dandelion, elderberry, rosehip, cleavers and honey. The golden henbane is particularly important over the next days, though it may feel as though you are being mildly poisoned all over again.’ A light flush, as though Meilyr was embarrassed he had spoken so much. ‘It will hopefully help your throat, though.’
‘It already has.’ Osian cleared it, quietly. ‘When did you make this?’
A sheepish lift to Meilyr’s mouth in the near dark. ‘I had some trouble sleeping. It was not the fireplace—’