Chapter Text
After Namjoon lapsed into shocked silence, Yoongi, the prince mistook it as fatigue, allowing no further questions as he made sure the injured shifter drank a little more water, ate some sort of herb that soothed his aches, and eased him back down. Perhaps the prince had been on to something, because despite his racing thoughts, Namjoon was out cold seconds after his head was back on the pillows.
-
When he woke again, his first thought was ‘fever dream’. But opening his eyes revealed the same shadowy room, soft bed and quiet calmness that hung over the place. Namjoon stared up at the ceiling, mulling over what he knew while experimentally flexing his fingers.
There wasn’t a lot of choice in current events. His liege had ordered him to kill prince Yoongi, so he must obey. But he had been attacked, incapacitated, and could barely move even though he had found his target. Well, his target had found him he reminded himself. It turned his stomach. He owed this prince his life now, no matter the man’s intentions. But his duty was to his king.
At least he was spared this decision for the moment, rendered immobile by his weakened body. He would need to bide his time until he was strong enough to make his move, which judging by the prince’s archery and demeanor, might require Namjoon being able to fully function. Whatever Yoongi’s loyalties, he was strong.
The shifter was abruptly distracted as his stomach let out a loud rumbling growl, and he glanced down at himself. He was... thin. Thinner than when he set out on this journey. Thinner than when he’d fallen to the goblin pack. He frowned... how long had he been unconscious...?
As if answering some unspoken prayer, the heavy wooden door to the room swung open, revealing the prince. He bore another tray, though this one contained a steaming bowl and mug. Yoongi’s robes were different from last time, so at least a day had passed since the shifter fell asleep. He frowned as the prince strode in, the other setting the tray down and glancing at Namjoon. He looked vaguely pleased to see his eyes already open.
“Ah, good. You’re awake. Hungry?”
Namjoon opened his mouth to voice protest, somehow loathed to show any more vulnerability in front of the person he was supposed to kill. However, before he could get any words out the scent of whatever was inside the bowl reached him, light and savory. His stomach let out another gurgle, and Namjoon’s mouth closed into an indignant line.
The corners of the prince’s mouth twitched, and he sat on the edge of the bed to lift the shifter as he had before. Namjoon’s gut twisted at having to be helped with even such a little action, though this time he found his arms responded enough for him to help the process. Once he was sat upright, Yoongi retrieved the mug first, eyeing his patient.
“Think you can hold it?” He asked, dark brow arched.
“Yes.” Namjoon immediately replied, lifting his achingly stiff arms to take the vessel. His fingers twitched and moved, coming around to grip the warm cup, as the prince eased his own back. For a split second, it worked, and the shifter was about to let out a sigh when his wrists locked and spasmed, the mug dropping from nerveless fingers. Namjoon winced, both from pain and the expectancy of hot liquid over his legs, but it never came.
Yoongi must have seen this coming, or at least guessed, his hands shooting out to catch the cup before it could tip. He let out a relieved sound, adjusting as he looked back at Namjoon.
“Not yet, perhaps.” He murmured.
Namjoon scowled, refusing to meet his target’s eyes as the other raised the mug to him. When he didn’t move to accept, he heard a low sigh.
“The faster you drink and eat, the faster you will recover, skin changer. There is no shame in it.” He stated calmly. Somehow the reassurance only served to make Namjoon’s stubbornness rear its head, but his logic and common sense fought it back as he looked up. The prince was watching him.
Namjoon averted his gaze as he accepted the drink, draining half of the contents, a brisk tea, before it was set aside and the bowl took its place. Broth. Without moving his glare from the wall, Namjoon asked a new question.
“Why?”
The movement beside him paused, and he felt prince Yoongi’s gaze on him.
“Why what?” He replied. Namjoon’s mouth turned down.
“Why help me.” He gritted, reluctant, but overwhelmingly baffled and curious.
There was silence for a moment.
“Why not?” The other finally hummed, proffering the bowl of broth. Namjoon made no move to accept it, glancing reproachfully at the man for the ambiguous answer. The prince rolled his eyes. He seemed to do that a lot.
“I’m not about to let travelers, however foolish, die on my doorstep.” He huffed, and some of Namjoon’s confusion must have shown on his face, as the prince elaborated. “You were attacked fair within sight of this place, skin changer. It may not be completely mine to claim, but as I live here I could hardly sit back and do nothing.”
He could have.
Most would have.
The further explanation only left Namjoon with more questions, and by the time Yoongi left the room, bowl and mug empty, he was feeling extremely disoriented. The prince was nothing like Namjoon imagined. In all his time as his King’s subject, he’d never laid eyes on this prince, only heard the rumors. It was said the son of the king never came out of his rooms, a recluse and scholar. Some had heard gossip that perhaps he was too hideous to be allowed in public, speaking of some accident in his youth. It must have left him horribly disfigured, they said, and that tapestry in the hall was fake.
Namjoon didn’t interact with the royal family much to begin with, despite living in the palace. His orders came by a runner boy the king sent to his quarters in the castle’s underground corridors. His travels took him out through back streets and secret passages, away from the bustling court. Nor had he ever had much inclination to socialize with nobles after watching them during his quests. Needless to say the only direct experience he had with them was the orders from his King, and the people his King told him to assassinate.
Thus, when he’d been told by the King that the prince had tried to kill his father to usurp the throne, before failing and fleeing, Namjoon really hadn’t given it much thought. He had no reason to doubt the story, nor desire to question his liege.
He’d had only vague imaginings for this target. He knew what he looked like, or at least he remembered now. The man’s demeanor however was odd. Namjoon knew nobles to be self absorbed, standoffish, and in general rude to those beneath their station. Were he being honest, it wasn’t as if he had much to go on with the prince’s brief visits. But he had been nothing but practical and patient thus far.
It all seemed so confusing that Namjoon’s mind went on a little rabbit chase, wondering if this man was in fact not the prince. That perhaps the prince really had been disfigured and this strange man was the one the painter for the royal family had used in his place when illustrating the prince’s portrait. Maybe the fact his name was the same as the royal heir’s really was just a crazy coincidence.
It was plausible, he supposed.
Abruptly Namjoon let out a disgruntled huff into the silence. His brain must still be addled by pain or whatever herb the prince gave him to dull it. Tiredly, he willed his thoughts and breathing to slow, closing his eyes to let the blissful void of sleep overtake him.
-
The next time Namjoon woke, the rosy hues of evening were coming in through his window. He turned his head as the door closed behind the prince. His tray was more full than usual, an odd box placed beside the bowl and cup.
The man sat down the same as before, and tried giving Namjoon the mug again. This time he could hold it, if shakily. The prince watched the shifter for a moment, then grasped the box and opened it. White linen strips were rolled neatly within, and Namjoon realized they were bandages. He sipped mutely at the tea until the prince unceremoniously threw off his covers. A surprised grunt left the shifter as his legs were bared, and he was acutely thankful for the breechcloth that saved some small fraction of his dignity.
Prince Yoongi paid him no mind, setting to work lifting one leg and undoing the bandage wrapped around the shifter’s calf, half stained with blood. Upon closer inspection, Namjoon realized most of his bindings were stained red and uncomfortably crusty. He grimaced into the cup as the last bit of the one on his leg was pulled free, taking a few hairs with it.
The prince didn’t seem phased by the ugly gashes left exposed to the air, idly handing Namjoon the bowl of broth as he went about cleaning the wound, smoothing on a strange green paste and rewrapping it. His work was deft, almost gentle. The shifter watched him curiously, wincing faintly as the bindings tightened.
“Why does a pri- a hunter know the healing arts?” He asked, catching himself midway through. It was half to distract himself as the prince moved to his other leg, where a knife had slashed the shifter’s lower thigh. Few nobles in his experience took the time for such things, and it was clear the man had practice.
“Necessity.” Was all the reply he got, and his brows arched. What reason could a sheltered prince have that would require him to learn medicine? Now that he thought about it, why was the other so adept at archery? His shots had been aimed truer than some of the realm’s best marksmen.
Prince Yoongi didn’t look keen on elaborating, finishing the leg and taking the now empty bowl from Namjoon, signaling the shifter to move his arms aside so he could get at the bandages around his middle. This one took longer to undo, and required the shifter to hold himself away from the pillows to let the prince unwind the linen strips. It throbbed, but he managed.
“This is so much easier when you’re awake.” The prince commented, smearing the cool salve over several more ragged knife wounds and an unpleasant set of fang marks. When Namjoon shot him a bemused look, prince Yoongi’s nose scrunched.
“You’re heavy.” Was all he said, setting to rewrapping the shifter’s chest. This involved him extending around several times, arms near encircling Namjoon as he reached about him, and the shifter really didn’t know where to look when the royal’s cheek was near pressed against his bare chest. It distracted enough that he had no response for the other man’s lighthearted statement.
It was bizarre in the extreme, being cared for like this. And unsettling, he thought, trying to subtly observe as prince Yoongi moved to finish with his arms and head till all his wounds were freshly bandages, the strange salve doing wonders to ease the pain of them. Just sitting here, knowing his intent was to kill this individual who currently strived to help him had begun to turn Namjoon’s stomach.
Feeling oddly ashamed, the shifter could not bring himself to offer any thanks as the prince left, laying back with a huff and letting the soft pillows claim him.
-
Perhaps trying to get up after only two meals and being intermittently conscious for three days wasn’t his best idea. Namjoon hadn’t exactly been on a streak of intelligent decisions recently, but this one somehow struck him as the most humiliating. After all, it had landed him on the goddamn floor, curled on his side in pain as his body let its outrage at his actions be known.
He allowed himself to let out a low whine at the sharp reports from his muscles and wounds, beginning to wonder how he was going to be able to get back /on/ the bed before he was found like this. Too late, he heard the door open with a little more force than usual, and a sharp intake of breath.
Footsteps came closer and prince Yoongi was kneeling into his field of vision.
“What- did you try to get up?” The royal asked, hesitating as he reached out. Namjoon made a sound in the affirmative and prince Yoongi’s expression morphed from concern to exasperation.
“Dumbarse.” He stated, and despite everything, Namjoon felt his eyebrows shoot up in indignation. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he might have been insulted. He didn’t need some upstart prince telling him that. He was miserable enough already.
Prince Yoongi let out a sigh, then held up his hands.
“This will hurt, but it’ll be worse to leave you on the floor.” He said coolly. The shifter felt confused, struggling to catch up until he felt the royal slide his arms under Namjoon, before his consciousness kicked into high alert. Oh no- wait-
He let out a surprised, pained growl as he was abruptly lifted, the shorter man supporting him behind his back and under his knees. Really, the shifter was half shocked prince Yoongi could even scoop him up like that. Before he had time to register what had happened fully, he was deposited back on the plush bed. A gusty breath escaped him as he sank gratefully into it, willing his limbs to relax one by one.
Then he looked up to see prince Yoongi eying him reproachfully, and he froze, like a child caught doing they weren’t supposed to.
“Do you realize the condition you’re in?” The prince grumbled, arms folded and his mouth turned down. Namjoon felt his ire rise to match the royal’s, and his jaw set.
“Aye,” he snapped, “it’s rather hard to forget.”
“Well you’re not going to improve any faster if you pull stunts like that.” Yoongi retorted, eyes flashing. Strangely enough, Namjoon got the impression that the man’s anger wasn’t exactly at him, he just seemed frustrated. It was a feeling Namjoon was growing more and more familiar with.
“I hate being this helpless!” He burst out, grinding his teeth. It was useless, perhaps even foolhardy to let so much show to the aim of his mission. But the shifter had never felt so out of control, and with his fighting ability being the only thing that had given him value and kept him alive this long, it’s sudden absence sent him reeling into uncertainty.
The royal’s features relaxed, and he let his arms unwind, running a hand through his dark hair. Then he met Namjoon’s eyes.
“You must have patience, skin changer. Rest, and your strength will return.” Yoongi murmured, the harsh edge gone as he stepped closer, idly rearranging the bed covers over the shifter. Heat crept into Namjoon’s cheeks, and he turned his head away, overwhelmingly chagrined all at once.
The prince took his silence in stride, finishing his task, telling the shifter he’d be back soon with something for the pain and exiting the room without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind him.