The basin trembled faintly when Lirael dipped the cloth into it. Ripples spread like sighs through the water, turning the reflection of his face into pale, broken light.
He lifted the soaked cloth, the scent of herbs rising — cool and metallic, mingling with faint traces of incense that still lingered in the air. When he pressed the damp fabric to his shoulder, a quiet hiss escaped him. The sting felt strange — real.
The immortal frowned, watching crimson bloom through the linen. The blood looked almost human — too vivid, too alive. It startled him. He had forgotten what it meant to bleed.
With deliberate care, he cleaned the wound, his golden hair sliding over one bare shoulder like spilled sunlight. The mirror across from him caught the moment — an ethereal being, robe fallen loose, tending to his own fragile flesh. The faint half-moon sigil on his upper forehead it glimmered in the morning light, no longer hidden by his hair.
Lirael's gaze fell on the bandage beside the basin. The long strip of white cloth looked absurdly complicated. He tilted his head, studying it like some strange mortal invention. Then, with misplaced confidence, he lifted it and began to wrap it around his shoulder.
By the time he was finished, he looked like he had been embraced by an overenthusiastic spider. The bandage hung loose around his ribs, tangled across his back, and had somehow trapped one of his sleeves.
He blinked at his own reflection, unimpressed. "How… peculiar."
A knock echoed on the door.
Lirael froze. For a heartbeat, his mind went perfectly still. He hadn't expected company — not like this, half-robed and half-mummified.
"Come in," he called softly, though part of him wanted to vanish.
The door creaked open, sunlight pouring around the figure that entered. It was Martin — dressed in the regal weight of gold and red, the morning crown of authority upon his brow. His garments caught the light like flame.
Lirael's first instinct was to lower his gaze. He looked down, cheeks warming, unsure if he should speak. Perhaps Martin had sent a servant — perhaps he could ask for help with the strange mortal art of binding wounds—
But no. It was Martin himself.
"Ah," Lirael murmured, uncertain. "I was… trying to…"
Martin's eyes swept over him — the immortal wrapped in an absurd web of linen, sitting before the mirror with a wounded shoulder bared to the light. For one blessed second, Martin's composure cracked. His lips twitched.
"I didn't know how to wrap this cloth," Lirael said softly.
But it was too late.
A strangled laugh burst from the king, warm and uncontrollable. He tried to suppress it — failed — and ended up half doubled over, clutching his side.
"Oh, saints— Lirael— what have you done to yourself?"
Lirael looked miserably at the tangled bandage, his pale hair falling forward like a curtain. "I… do not know," he admitted in quiet defeat.
That only made Martin laugh harder. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as he waved a hand helplessly. "Oh, gods. You really are some old time creature?"
"well I know that, but how to wrap this cloth," Lirael replied flatly, which only sent Martin into another fit of laughter.
When the mortal finally caught his breath, he stepped forward, still smiling. "Come, let me help you before you strangle yourself in royal linen."
Lirael's gaze darted to the floor. "Thank you."
Martin came around behind him, his hands deft yet gentle as he began unwrapping the hopeless tangle. The air between them grew quieter.
"You really don't know how to dress a wound, do you?"
Lirael hesitated. "I have never needed to."
When Martin peeled away the last of the bandage, the wound came into view — a thick line of red along that unearthly skin. It looked too human, too alive.
"Did you at least use the ointment?" Martin asked, reaching for the small pot of herbs.
"I only… cleaned the blood," Lirael confessed.
"Tch. You really are hopeless." Martin dipped two fingers into the mixture and, with the care of someone tending to a priceless artifact, spread it across the wound.
Lirael winced, breath catching.
"It will sting," Martin murmured. "But it will heal."
The immortal said nothing. His eyes found the mirror again. Behind him, Martin's reflection worked with calm precision — the mortal king, steady and composed, binding the wound of something divine. Lirael caught his own gaze in the glass and quickly looked down, afraid of what it revealed.
Martin's hands moved with practiced ease as he wound the fresh bandage around Lirael's shoulder, the fabric whispering against skin. When he tied the knot, he exhaled softly, satisfied. "There. Perfect."
Lirael looked up. His reflection seemed unfamiliar — the bandaged shoulder, the loosened hair, the faint tremor beneath his ribs. He lifted his hand and touched the fabric. "Thank… you."
"There's nothing to thank me for," Martin said, smiling.
"May I ask something?"
Martin paused, mid-motion. "Of course."
"What does 'Your Highness' mean?"
The king blinked. "You don't—?" Then, despite himself, he began to laugh again. "Ah, you really are new to this world, aren't you?"
Lirael frowned faintly. "Very well."
Martin folded his arms loosely, still smiling. "Your Highness is a title," he said, voice gentle but teasing. "It's how people address the one who rules the kingdom — the king."
Lirael blinked, tilting his head slightly, as though trying to decode a language made of air and ritual. His fingers brushed against the edge of his robe, drawing it closer across his bare chest. "So," he murmured slowly, "that means… you are a god of this mortal world?"
For a heartbeat, Martin simply stared — and then laughter broke out of him, sudden and uncontrollable. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath between fits of mirth.
Lirael froze, startled by the sound. He blinked again, utterly lost. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked quietly.
Martin waved a hand, still grinning through his laughter. "No— no, not wrong," he managed between breaths. "Just— gods, that's not what it means at all!"
Lirael's brows drew together, confusion softening his face. "Then… what does it mean?"
Martin straighten himself, his smile gentling into something tender. "It means I'm only human," he said. "Nothing divine about me."
Then A knock echoed through the chamber — gentle, but certain.
Martin turned toward the sound, the faintest curve of recognition softening his features. "It's him," he murmured beneath his breath. He reached for a cloth, wiping the faint traces of ointment from his fingers before crossing the chamber. His steps were unhurried yet sure — the measured stride of a man who already knew who waited beyond.
When he opened the door, the light from the corridor poured in like morning gold.
Dorian stood there — framed in light. Morning spilled around him like molten gold, catching in his hair and along the pale folds of his robe. His expression was composed now, his gaze steady — as though the long night had forged something resolute within him.
The moment Dorian's green eyes fell upon Lirael, the air seemed to draw taut. Lirael lowered his gaze at once, unable to meet the eyes that belonged to Martin's beloved — the one whose very presence turned warmth into ache.
"How is he?" Dorian asked softly, his voice carrying the gentleness of sunlight after storm. His eyes flickered past Martin's shoulder toward the quiet figure within.
Martin's expression softened. He reached out almost unconsciously, his arm slipping around Dorian's waist with a familiarity both tender and possessive. Leaning close, he murmured near his beloved's ear, his tone tinged with amused affection,
"You wouldn't believe how he wrapped the bandages over his whole body."
"Don't breathe too deeply, my dear," he said. "The scent of blood still lingers in the air."
Dorian's cheeks flushed a shade of rose. "Martin…" he whispered, a protest and a plea tangled in one breath. "Wait a little longer. He's hurt. Let me see him — just for a moment."
Martin sighed, half a laugh, half surrender. "Just as you wish, my love." He stepped aside with courtly grace, his arm loosening but never leaving Dorian's waist.
Inside, Lirael had heard every word. He did not lift his head. His fingers tightened slightly over the robe at his chest — as though he could press the warmth of his composure back into place. The laughter, the affection, the easy rhythm of mortal love — it all felt distant and unbearably close at once.
Dorian stepped forward, quiet as dawn. His eyes softened when they met Lirael's bowed form. "How are you feeling now?" he asked, his tone carrying that same boundless gentleness that had once silenced an entire room.
Lirael looked up only briefly. "It doesn't hurt anymore," he said. His voice was calm, almost careful.
Martin, watching from beside the door, cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should let him rest, dear."
But Dorian turned to him, frowning ever so slightly — that small crease Martin could never resist. "How can you leave him alone?" he asked. "He's new to this kingdom. He knows no one here."
Martin hesitated, then smiled — that helpless, disarming smile that only Dorian could draw from him. "Forgive me dear," he murmured. "I was so worried about you that I nearly forgot the world itself ever existed or not."
Dorian blinked, caught off guard, his lips parting in surprise. "Martin…"
The king's laughter was quiet but radiant. "You'll see, my dear," he said, turning toward his beloved as if the very air around them were a throne room. "Today, I'll make an announcement. The kingdom shall know that my beloved Dorian carries our child."
Dorian's eyes widened — and the color that bloomed across his cheeks rivaled dawn itself. "Martin, that's— that's too sudden," he stammered.
He said it with that fierce, fearless joy that only mortals seemed to possess — that defiance of time and fate, of illness and death itself.
Lirael, silent still, watched them from across the room. The warmth that flickered between them was almost painful to witness. Dorian's hand resting gently over his abdomen, Martin's eyes full of that impossible devotion — it was a light that burned even the immortal heart.
He lowered his gaze again, the robe slipping a little beneath his trembling fingers. The wound at his shoulder pulsed — not from its own ache, but from the unbearable heaviness that had taken root the moment Martin used the elixir.
The man who had risked everything, who had poured his life into another's without hesitation — and yet he stood there, laughing as though death had wouldn't brushed his shadow.
That kind of devotion — reckless, radiant, ruinous — was something Lirael had never known, and it tore through him more sharply than any blade.
Lirael's eyes lifted once more — just long enough to see Martin laugh, truly laugh, as Dorian scolded him softly for his boldness. The sound filled the room, bright and human.
And in that sound, Lirael felt something ache — not envy, not longing, but a quiet grief for what he could never have.
Lirael's gaze lingered on them for a moment longer — the mortal king and his beloved, bound so tightly in light that even the air around them seemed to shimmer. A faint smile touched his lips, soft and fleeting, like moonlight trembling over still water.
Then, almost shyly, he spoke. "Forgive me," he murmured, his voice low and uncertain. "Are there… any clothes I may wear?"
Dorian, ever gentle, stepped forward without hesitation. "Of course—"
But before he could take another step, Martin's arm swept around him. The movement was subtle yet decisive, drawing Dorian back against his chest. His voice carried the careful warmth of concern, though his eyes betrayed something far sharper.
"You're with child," he said softly. "You can't go near him. The scent of blood still lingers."
Dorian's expression faltered. The faint smile that had been forming slipped away, replaced by quiet disappointment. His gaze fell to the floor, then lifted toward Lirael once more, as though unwilling to leave him so abruptly.
"I'll tell the maids to prepare new clothes," Dorian said at last. His tone was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it — a trace of regret he could not hide.
Martin's mouth curved, amused and adoring all at once. "So my beloved now commands the palace," he teased, brushing his thumb over Dorian's shoulder.
Dorian turned pink, his composure unraveling. "Martin— don't say things like that," he said, though his voice lacked even the ghost of reprimand. It was too serene, too tender — more plea than protest.
His gaze drifted back to Lirael. "What is your name?"
Lirael blinked, startled for a breath. His magenta eyes caught the afternoon light, glinting like glass before he lowered them again. "My name is Lirael," he said quietly.
"And from which kingdom do you come?"
The question struck like a bell through the still chamber. Martin stiffened. His hand tightened faintly over Dorian's shoulder.
"My love," he interrupted, his tone light but urgent, "standing too long will tire you. Come— I'll take you back to your room."
Dorian hesitated, lips parting in silent protest, but said nothing.
Lirael only lowered his gaze once more, the robe drawn higher against his chest. He could not let the truth spill. The only one who knew what he truly was… is Martin.