They stumbled to the castle, Kurt doing his best to hold Blaine up, who was weakening fast. Kurt couldn’t tell if it was from loss of blood, as Blaine kept his vest pressed tightly to the wound on his side, or simple exhaustion.

“Blaine! Kurt!”

Mike was running forward, torch in hand. Kurt held up a hand to stop him.

“In my room,” he said, “go into my cabinet. There is a large green pouch. Inside are some medical supplies Carole gave me. Fetch it and bring it to the Prince’s chambers so I can tend his wounds.”

“You tend wounds as well,” Blaine said, stumbling a bit. “Where do your talents cease.”

Kurt ignored him, judging him to be out of his mind with strain and injury, instead staring at Mike where he stood in shock.

“Mike,” he said, and Mike appeared to snap out of it.

“Hurry." 

Blaine hissed.

“Ow.”

“Hold still and drink your potion.”

Kurt knelt next to Blaine, who sat in his high, wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace in his chambers, his right elbow rested on his knee while Kurt helped hold his forearm steady. He held Blaine’s arm more firmly, gripping his wrist and holding the arm taut as he dabbed at the bite with a wet cloth, dipping it into a bowl of warm water and herbs. Blaine sighed and grabbed the cup Kurt had prepared as soon as Mike had dropped off the supplies, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Two of these marks will need stitches,” Kurt said, wringing water and a certain amount of blood out of the cloth into a second bowl before laying it back in the herb water. “The bite wasn’t too deep, thankfully.”

Blaine nodded, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. Kurt’s heart ached as he pulled up the threaded needle, running it through the flame of the candle set aside for this very purpose.

“Keep as still as you can,” Kurt instructed, readjusting his grip on Blaine’s wrist. “This will hurt very much.”

Blaine gritted his teeth and stifled a cry as Kurt pierced the skin on the first deep wound, quickly slipping the needle through the skin on the other side and drawing it tight, tying off the stitch as quickly as possible and breaking the thread. He repeated the process once more, laying aside the needle and checking the stitches. All was done within a few minutes.

“I just need to put some of this on the wound, and then I’ll look at your side,” he said quietly, pulling a little clay jar off the table and dipping his fingers in, warming the smooth substance on his fingers before dabbing it on the wound.

“What is that?”

“Just a salve,” Kurt replied. “It’s got some yarrow in it, which will help stop the bleeding, and a touch of boxthorn so you won’t get infected. If the wound is doing well tomorrow I’ll apply some comfrey to speed the healing process.”

Kurt continued to gently apply the ointment, peeking up at Blaine’s face every time he thought he could get away with it. Seeing Blaine’s face now, Kurt couldn’t manage to keep himself from looking at it. He hadn’t been able to make out much earlier that night, when Blaine had, in his rage, thrown back his hood. But now, in firelight and calmer atmosphere, he found that he wasn’t the least bit afraid or deterred by Blaine’s appearance, as Blaine had so obviously expected.

It was natural that Kurt looked at the scars first. They were prominent—pale ridges running diagonally from around Blaine’s right eye down to the left. Five long, parallel scratches, the longest of which started on Blaine’s eyebrow and, fortunately, appeared to have missed his eye, instead slashing down his cheek, over a bit of nose, and through the right edge of his lips. Three others were similar, two across his right cheek and jaw, the inner of which touched the edge of his mouth, and one across his nose and down his left cheek to his jaw. They all cut through his thick, unruly beard, leaving strange pathways through the hair. The fifth scar was a small line just off the edge of his left eye, running down like a teardrop and stopping short.

But then, as he wiped his hands on another cloth, removing traces of the salve, he started to notice what was beneath the scars. Blaine’s face was…entirely pleasing, if Kurt was honest with himself. He had handsome features—jaw, chin, nose, and brow were all strong and attractive to Kurt. His mouth was wide and plump. The portrait had shown a handsome youth, but Blaine had obviously grown even more into his looks and was truly striking. Kurt felt himself particularly drawn to his eyes, and he decided the portrait did not do justice. They were clearest amber, large and expressive, rimmed by long, black lashes that only served to draw out the color in their stark contrast. He was pale—he probably hadn’t seen the sun directly in a long time, and he had just lost some blood—enough for it to be startling against his black curls.

Blaine’s eyes fluttered and stared right into Kurt’s. Kurt stared at him for a moment before he realized what he was doing and dropped his gaze, taking in Blaine’s ruined shirt, the white stained with red. He scooted forward a bit on his knees and looked up at Blaine again, finding the Prince still staring back at him.

“I need to remove your shirt,” Kurt whispered. He cleared his throat and continued in a less embarrassing tone, “I will need to rip it. Can you stay very still, so I don’t harm you?”

Blaine nodded again, his breathing slow and heavy. The drink he’d mixed him was working, designed to relax him and make his pain less. He’d mixed some strong spirits with tinctures of passionflower and fennel, kindly fetched by Mike from the kit Carole had packed for him. He silently thanked his stepmother for her foresight and preparation as he eyed the Prince, who seemed much calmer than when they entered.

It would help, Kurt thought, as he reached for the shirt at Blaine’s injured side. He decided not to risk a knife when they were both tired and unsteady, but the wolf had ripped the shirt thoroughly enough for Kurt to be able to continue the gashes until the shirt could be safely removed. He nudged Blaine’s arms to the side and gripped two sides of the biggest tear, grasping the material as well as he could before quickly pulling it apart. It was difficult to shred, being soaked with blood, but Kurt managed it, pulling the tatters from around Blaine’s neck and back, and slipping the rest off with the remaining sleeve, leaving Blaine shirtless before him.

Kurt sat back on his heels, carefully tilting Blaine in his chair with gentle hands, bringing his injured side closer to the edge of the seat. The gashes weren’t nearly as bad as he’d expected from the amount of blood—six or seven cuts, most of them already clotted over, swollen and angry, yes, but not nearly as deep or dire as they could have been. Blaine was lucky, and Kurt felt comfortable leaning back and taking his time in preparing the cloth for more cleanup.

As he did so, Kurt fought desperately to keep from doing something mortifying, like moaning. Blaine’s face wasn’t the only thing that was pleasing. He knew from seeing Blaine in action that he must practice the sword, but he was now seeing the results bare before him. Blaine was well muscled, lean and cut in a way that the laborers of Lima were not, being built for speed and endurance rather than strength. He was hirsute, expected if Kurt based his assumption off the wiry beard on his face, the dark hair dusting over his chest and stomach, thickening as it trailed downward. Several more scars slashed across Blaine’s neck and chest, one particularly large gash trailing across his pectorals and a rough circle of tissue and skin in a knot on the side of his throat. Kurt had an inappropriate urge to trace them, to see what they felt like.

He tried to ignore just how close to Blaine he was as he carefully cleaned the wounds, but it was difficult. He was very much aware of everything about Blaine in that moment—the warmth of his body, the scent of sweat and earth and man beneath the blood, the tightness of his muscles under the skin where Kurt grasped his side to hold him still with his free hand. It was certainly a confirmation of his attraction to his own sex.

“How bad is it?”

Blaine’s voice, slightly slurred with exhaustion and pain, startled Kurt. He jumped, unintentionally tightening his hand where it gripped Blaine’s side. Blaine hissed in a breath, and Kurt had no trouble convincing himself it was from pain.

“The good news is that you won’t have anything nearly as impressive as those,” Kurt said, nodding toward the scars on Blaine’s chest and berating himself for the blush that rose to his cheeks again. Damned fair skin. “They bled, but they don’t require stitches. Though you won’t be able to do any heavy practice with the sword until the swelling goes down and they’ve healed a little.”

Blaine simply nodded once more, his breathing heavy, a sheen of fresh sweat lingering on his skin.

“I’m almost done cleaning it,” Kurt said soothingly, dabbing away some blood that had dried stubbornly to Blaine’s skin. “When I’m done with that, I’ll put on some of the salve and wrap you up and then you can go to bed.”

“You as well,” Blaine said, and Kurt froze, a curious swooping sensation flying through his stomach. Was Blaine seriously suggesting—

“Mike said he was leaving you some hot water in your room, didn’t he?” Blaine continued. “You should return before it gets cold.”

Kurt released a breath, feeling shaky as he laid aside the cloth and picked up the jar again. No, Blaine hadn’t been suggesting anything, you moron. Why on earth would he?

“Just hold still and this will be over quickly, then,” he said, smoothing the ointment over Blaine’s side. He jumped, and Kurt looked up at him sternly.

“I said—“

“—I know what you said, but it still hurts damnably,” Blaine snapped back. “And it tickles.”

Kurt snorted out a laugh before he could help it.

“What?”

Kurt controlled himself, but his voice was tight with restrained laughter as he said, “It is simply ironic, my lord.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow at him, and Kurt felt slightly cold. Should he just be honest, and risk Blaine’s further ire? He’d already done so much to anger him in one day…

“What do you mean?” Blaine asked, when Kurt said nothing.

“I mean that you, valiant warrior, have survived not one, but two wolf attacks, and you find it unbearable that I tickled you,” Kurt replied quickly, wishing to get it out as quickly as possible.

To his utter surprise, Blaine laughed. It reminded Kurt that the first time he’d met him, the Prince had been perfectly amenable to teasing, and this calmed Kurt.

“That does sound ridiculous,” he said. “But the fact remains that I’m not sure I can stand much more of that.”

Kurt smiled shyly up at him, considering.

“Perhaps my lord would allow me to distract him?”

Blaine looked down at him, his face stony, and Kurt realized what that sounded like.

“I meant that I could sing something,” he quickly amended, cursing himself internally. “I promise that I will be done with this by the time the song is complete.”

“Sing a short song,” Blaine ordered. He settled back and closed his eyes.

Kurt smiled and sang as he finished his work.

Come heavy sleep, the image of true death…

The song was not terribly long, only a couple of minutes, so Kurt finished as quickly as he could. By the time he hit the second verse, he was gently wrapping Blaine’s arm in light gauze bandages.

O come sweet sleep; come or I die for ever,

Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never.

As the last note left his lips, he stood, having tied off the bandage on the arm.

“My apologies, my lord,” Kurt said, smiling down at Blaine as he opened his eyes. “I couldn’t finish the bandaging. I need you to stand so I can wrap your side.”

Blaine immediately lifted himself out of the chair, a bit unsteady on his feet. He turned and held onto the chair for support, leaning over a bit.

“This is the best I can do,” he groaned, his eyes clenched tightly shut.

“It will do,” Kurt replied, quickly leaning forward to wrap the bandages around Blaine. He began to hum, a nameless tune he made up on the spot, attempting to distract Blaine from his pain and himself from the fact that every time he circled the bandages around Blaine’s body he ended up pressed right against the man’s bare back.

“I used to perform as you do.”

Kurt tied off the gauze and stared. What?

“My lord?”

“Before my father died,” Blaine explained. “I used to sing and play. Quite well, if memory serves. Though I never learned the lute.”

“And you do not perform now,” Kurt clarified, tugging the bandages to be sure of their stability.

“No,” Blaine said. His voice was sad. Regretful. “Not in many years.”

“Fortunately,” Kurt said carefully, “it is often easy to regain the skill. Our bodies are good at remembering things.”

Blaine smirked a bit.

“Yes, that’s true,” he said, and Kurt winced at the bitterness as he began to pack his supplies back into the green bag Carole had provided. He felt chagrin at his tactless comment, given Blaine’s visceral reactions to the wolf attack earlier, but he couldn’t think of anything to make the situation better.

“I always wanted to learn the lute, and I fondly remember my other lessons,” Blaine said suddenly. “I would enjoy honing that skill again.”

Kurt stared for a moment before dropping his eyes.

And what use would that be against Sebastian? he thought.

“Perhaps I could assist you some time, my lord,” he said out loud. “But for now, you need rest.”

He moved forward, placing a steadying hand on Blaine’s back as Blaine shuffled to the bed. He sat heavily on the edge, breathing heavily as he fell back into the pillows.

“Do not leave this bed tomorrow,” Kurt said. “I will instruct Mike in what he needs to do to care for you while I rest as well, but tomorrow morning I’ll return and check your bandages. Your meals will be brought to you here and you are not to move unless your life is in danger, do you understand?”

Blaine looked up at Kurt incredulously.

“You are giving orders?”

Blaine sounded very serious, but a little smile quirked up the corners of his mouth. Kurt gave him a mock glare, deliberately overdoing it.

“I am your attending physician,” Kurt said stuffily, turning up his nose and sniffing haughtily. “Even Princes must answer to their doctors.”

Blaine smirked again, but this time it was warm and full of humor.

“Perhaps you missed your calling,” he said teasingly. “As far as I am aware, minstrels do not have any authority.”

“On the contrary,” Kurt said, “we are in fact the most authoritative of all. After all, it is the minstrels and the bards that truly make history.”

“So you sing of other bards, and not heroes and gods and kings?”

“Oh, we certainly sing of all those things, my lord,” Kurt said, pulling the blankets over Blaine’s body and checking to make sure everything was settled for the night. “And that is why we have the power. If we wish a king to be remembered for his kindness or his cruelty, we only need sing of it and the people will believe it and continue to sing our songs until the end of time.”

“So that is why kings have always had minstrels,” Blaine said, smiling and nodding sagely. “If we feed you, you’ll be nice to us.”

“Exactly, my lord.”

 “I shall be sure to keep you fed, then.”

“If I am to sing of the one that feeds me, my lord, Emma will be pleased at the fanfare.”

Blaine laughed again, a bit hysterical, but Kurt was warmed by it. Blaine had a beautiful smile, even touched by disfigurements.

“Rest, my lord,” Kurt said, retreating. “I will be back in the morning.”

As he closed the door behind him, he heard a faint whisper.

“Till then.”