It did not take long and was certainly easier with the two of them; her steady, un-cut hands followed his instructions carefully. Her focus reminded him of Heulwen.
Heulwen. How was she? Had she heard about Mister Bevan?
About Celyn…?
He pushed that aside, to ambush him with the rest of his thoughts later. At the door, Blythe made another face, but had the physician fetched.
‘Please, humour me,’ Meilyr said after he explained to them. ‘I in no way mean to overstep.’
‘Ser Pedr needs all the aid they can get.’ The physician took the poultice without pause for ego. ‘Thank you, Highness. I’d pray, as well, if you feel inclined.’
They left, as did Deryn. As did Blythe.
Meilyr floated to Osian’s bed and slumped on its edge, the last of his strength poured into that poultice. He stared at the wall, unseeing, pulse still pitched towards panic.
After what felt like an age, the far door opened.
Osian strode inside.
Meilyr stumbled, Osian ran, and they came together outside the bedchamber.
Or almost: Osian reached, but stopped, pain in his eyes. ‘Did they…’ He was stricken. Furious, his voice barely above a low whisper. ‘Meilyr, what did they do to you?’
Gods, he was afraid to touch him.
Meilyr understood with staggering certainty and took hold of his fingers, his arm. ‘No – no, My Prince, they did not. I’m all right.’
‘Swear it to me. Please. Do not keep it from me, if…’
Meilyr touched his chest, his cheek, and exhaled it like an oath. ‘I swear it. I swear, I’m all right.’
Some great, knotted beast left Osian’s flesh. He drew a shaking breath and lifted his fingers once more. ‘May I…?’
Meilyr nodded, dazed.
Osian took Meilyr’s face in his hands, oh-so gently. Something twisted in the prince, so close to breaking. ‘I thought…’ He could not finish it.
Meilyr’s hands were on the front of his tunics, on the fine beading there, Osian’s life blazing through what remained of the chill. ‘No,’ Meilyr assured him. ‘No, they did not.’
Osian ghosted a thumb over his lips, burning away Terrell’s cruel pressure. His other fingers were lightly at Meilyr’s jaw, his neck, his gaze mapping him back into reality.
He must have been able to feel Meilyr’s heart hammering.
‘Osian…’
The very edge of the cliff waited at their feet, so close Meilyr could taste the salt of Osian’s skin.
‘Forgive me,’ Osian whispered. ‘Forgive me…’
Something in him gave way, and he pulled Meilyr against him, lifted him with the same motion. Several fierce, stumbled steps and he pitched them both onto the bed.
The air rushed from Meilyr’s lungs, desire igniting.
‘Forgive me,’ Osian repeated against his ear. He did not move other than to hold Meilyr there, beneath him on the sheets.
Meilyr clung to him. He was so warm, so present, it made his head spin. More than the other night. More than when he had kissed him. Here was Osian so utterlybared– so earnest. The press of his body, the weight Meilyr wanted to fix him here, to the prince and to the world.
After a long, dizzying moment, Osian pulled back to meet his gaze.