For What is Bought in Blood

Far From Home

I will never doubt the wise words of a healer again. Without the sling my shoulder is on fire again, feeling as if the sun itself was seated between the bones. I shift again in my seat against the pain, knowing that I cannot change positions too drastically.

"Do you need a break?" Reagan speaks up, causing the painter's head to peek around his easel. The scornful look he gives us over the rim of his glasses makes me shift again, the scrutiny making the pain feel secondary.

"I'm fine." I respond, keeping my chin high as I was instructed. The sooner this portrait is completed the better, and no matter how long the break would be, resting my arm across my lap in this position will be uncomfortable until I am fully healed.

I tighten my grip on the ripe apple placed in my left hand, a signal of my fertility despite my accelerated age at marriage. I had tried to argue against it, that twenty-three summers is not late for marriage, but mother reminded me that her and father married when she was only sixteen. Reagan holds the hilt of his sword, blood from Finnigan's men long washed away. He has been given a crown to match my small circlet, found in the recesses of our coffers, likely having belonged to a Prince of old. Paired with the richly dyed fabric he dons, he appears truly royal.

"Finish The Princess first. She tires of this." Reagan demands in a cool tone, already adapting to how royals speak to their subjects. My head whips to him but he continues facing forward at the painter, unwilling to hear my objections. His hair lacks its natural waves as it rests gently atop his shoulders, the silky blackness mixing with the deep green of his overcoat. He stares forward in complete boredom, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the pommel of his sword. I want to find the words to ask him if something troubles him, but I know he would not answer with an audience.

"She may go if she pleases." Terran quips up from his station by the door. He has watched over the shoulder of the painter for hours, scowling at the depiction from the beginning sketch. Sometimes he even turns his head in perplexity, causing me to break into a smile. He would smile back at me, gracing me with winks that make me blush.

"Well if she's so busy, I can work with what I have." The painter remarks, put off by my need to take leave. Reagan scoffs beside me, likely forming a retort, but I cut the interaction short by rising from my chair and peeking around the easel.

I am taken aback by the largely completed portrait. He has captured my face in a light I have never seen myself. The dip in my top lip seems sensual, the cut of my jaw diplomatic, and the height of my cheekbones cunning. Terran walks up behind me, placing a hand on the small of my back. I can see that the painting is of me, but it doesn't feel like me. She seems forceful and sure, pride exuded with each brushstroke. Just as I thought Reagan appeared royal, this illustration is of the most royal likeness. I smile at it, pleased to not have been caught in a grimace or scowl.

"Come," Terran coaxes me gently. "Let's wrap that arm." I mutter a small thanks to the painter, who only dips his brush in oil to begin blending the colors of Reagan's hair, which shines almost blue in the direct light.

Terran walks me into the hallway and picks up the two discarded squares of cotton fabric. I reach my arm as forward as I can against the pain as he loops the fabric beneath it, tying it off at the opposite side of my neck. The second square he doubles over to secure my arm against my body, and the weight of the arm leaving my shoulder makes me heave a sigh of relief.

"I cannot believe this is the last day I will see you," Terran says, smoothing the fabric across my middle. I give him a weak smile, feeling the dread pool in my stomach. I hadn't been able to keep it to myself after all we shared last night. Despite how delicately I explained the situation to him, I still feared he would not respond kindly. I know how he fears for me, especially in Reagan's presence.