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Slipping. Falling.
Was that just the wet grass? Or… something else?
Early morning light was breaking through the clouds as Stan stumbled up the hill.
His vision was blurry, too blurry. He couldn’t hear anything other than his own rapid breathing, half drowned out by the blood rushing in his veins. The castle grounds would be eerily still at this hour, he knew. No one would be awake save for those who rose early anyway, or those who had let the time get away from them. One knight, as he often did when sleep didn’t come easily, had taken to the woods while the sky was still black.
Stanley Marshwalker was regretting his early morning walk more and more with each agonizing step.
He was regretting going out without his armor, he was regretting not staying in bed, and he was definitely regretting his carelessness in making the acquaintance of the two little bear cubs. The mother, as mothers are oft to be, had not been far from her den and had rewarded his efforts at friendship with a protective *swipe* of her claws, effectively RIPPING Stan’s back open and sending him scrambling away from the territorial bear.
Of course he couldn’t blame her, even as the castle walls drifted in and out of focus in his pain addled vision. Stan understood protectiveness. That mama bear had simply been defending her own. He had just foolishly gotten too close, and was now suffering the consequences.
Suffering was absolutely the right word. How much blood could a man lose before he dropped dead? Stan didn’t want to find out; what he DID want to find was his North Star.
Kyle.
Kyle would know what to do. He would spring from the bed, put him back together in the way that only HE could. He would murmur soothing words and chastise Stan for getting hurt in the first place, but all would be well. He just had to get to Kyle.
His limbs moved sluggishly as he staggered up the steps; there was no guard at the front gate, he noticed, but that was doubtlessly for the best. There was no need to wake the entire damned world with alarm bells over one bloodied man stumbling from the forest that some half crazed creature.
The blood. He was no stranger to blood, to pain, but the crimson handprint left on the door as he made his way into the main hall was unnerving. He was losing too much of it, hot, sticky, leaving a trail on the tile behind him.
Stan clung to the railing for dear life, willing his vision to clear long enough to make it up the stairs. Why did the palace have to be so massive? It was difficult enough to make the trek to the room he shared with the king, never mind that he was slipping on his own blood.
Consciousness was slipping too. He didn’t have much time left. Kyle. He had to get to Kyle.
The ghost of logic drifted by in his mind; it would have been a better idea to get to the infirmary, rather than ooze bodily fluids across half the castle. But he was almost there. The big oak door at the end of the hall was in his line of sight. Behind that door was the love of his life, who would NOT let that life end.
If Stan didn’t know much, he knew that much at least.
He all but collapsed at the door, forcing himself to stay upright and pound a scarlet painted fist against the wood, croaking out a broken “Help”.
The door swung open, and green eyes widened in TERROR at the blood soaked form sagging into his king’s arms.
All the fight had melted out of him, survival mode replaced with pure, unadulterated relief at the fiery hair, forest eyes, long, pale arms holding him up. Kyle was speaking to him, trying to support his drooping head and get him to the bed, obviously panicked but always, always steady and beautiful and HIS.
Safe.
——-
He was going to be alright. Stan was going to be fine. But that didn’t stop the icy talons of fear the clenched around Kyle’s heart as his beloved lay unconscious.
The pallor of his skin was so gut wrenchingly WRONG, even as Tolkien cast a healing spell to stem the flow of blood. Kyle had sent for the cleric immediately, frantically praying and keeping pressure on the wound until his friend arrived. By the grace of the gods, Stan hadn’t bled out, though by all rights that gash could have been a death sentence to a lesser man.
“What do you think did this?” Kyle murmured, assisting Tolkien in removing the remains of Stan’s ruined shirt.
The healer shook his head. “Could be he had a run in with an animal. Mountain lion, perhaps?”
Kyle swallowed dryly. Those were unquestionably claw marks. The wounds were deep, horribly so, down through the muscle in some places and wide, gaping slashes across Stan’s back and shoulder. If he had been wearing his armor he’d be unharmed, but Stan did not go about fully armed unless he deemed it necessary. Kyle sincerely wished he had deemed it necessary.
Tolkien was doing his best to stitch up the mess that was Stan, magic blessed hands helping to close the shredded skin. Kyle’s own hands were trembling, shakily brushing his husband’s hair off of his still too pale face.
“He’ll sleep for a while.” Tolkien was saying. “We could take him down to the infirmary, if you think that would be best.”
Kyle shook his head. “Better that we don’t move him. He’s likely going to be confused when he comes to; he’ll be more at ease in our room.”
Work done and freshly sutured wounds clean and covered, Tolkien stood.
“Call me when he wakes?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Hours passed, and Kyle never once left Stan’s side. His breathing was growing stronger, some warmth returning to the hand in Kyle’s grasp. His brave one had always been one to bounce back quickly from injury and illness, but the blood… there had been so much of it. The image was seared into Kyle’s mind, even as the man before him slept, cleaned up and on the mend.
“…she didn’t mean to.” Stan muttered weakly.
Kyle’s head shot up. “Melmë! You’ve come back to me!”
“…hurts.”
“I know, my brave one. You’re alright.”
Stan was, thankfully, more lucid after a pain potion and plenty of water, and didn’t object to being sentenced to bed rest. He was in a bad way if he wasn’t protesting, but Kyle was just overjoyed to see him awake and slightly more vibrant. The aura that had been so terribly dim just hours before was significantly brighter, though still wavering and tinged with pain.
“So.” Kyle began, pressing a kiss to Stan’s temple. “What was it that wounded you, my love?”
Stan cringed. “I tried making friends with some bear cubs. Their mother wasn’t exactly pleased.”
Of COURSE. There wasn’t a creature alive that his husband didn’t want to befriend, his own safety be damned.
“Oh, Stanley…”
“She didn’t mean to hurt me!” He said quickly. “She was only protecting her babies; it was my fault for not thinking things through.”
Kyle traced Stan’s knuckles with his thumb. He didn’t blame the bear, of course, but those claws could have easily taken his beloved from him. He pushed the memory of the rivers of blood flowing from Stan aside. He was going to be JUST like that mother bear, fiercely protective of his own, especially while Stan’s body recovered what had seemed to be GALLONS of blood lost.
“It’s alright, dearest. You’re okay now. I’m not going to let you out of my sight for a good long while.”
Stan cracked a weary smile. “I have no objections to that, my darling.”