A tale of song, swords, and flowers

Chapter 12

To say Tristan was uncomfortable would have been an understatement. He was nauseated and dizzy from the tremendous crack to the head he had endured, not to mention a bit mortified by the ridiculousness of the entire situation. He had survived relatively unscathed from crossing swords with a cursed blade, yet a triad of simple village men had quite thoroughly kicked his ass. To make matters worse Florian was sitting behind him, chest warm and breath ticklish on the back of his neck. The bard worked to carefully clean and bandage The nasty cut the water pitcher had left upon impact with the back of his head, humming a soft little tune under his breath. If it wasn't for the general sting of the spirits cleansing his wounds, The contact would've felt nice. Physical closeness that didn't involve sparring, fighting, or the occasional bed partner was rare for Tristan, after all his amulet wasn't full proof. Could Florian see or feel the cloth binding him through the light blue silk of his shirt? Or did he notice the way the wet fabric clung to the slight curve of his torso in ways it normally wouldn't?

"Please don't let him notice anything!" He thought frantically, hissing in pain as a Stone faced Rosamund extracted what seemed the thousandth pottery shard from his left foot. "Please don't let any of them notice!"

"Have another one?" Kellin asked, smiling and holding out The wooden bowl he held toward his love.

Rosamund deftly dropped the shard in, before giving him a chased peck on the cheek. "I think that might be the last one. Just have to clean it one more time to make sure."

Tristan had to fight to choke back a wine as she switched out tweezers for a cloth doused in spirits. This part bloody well hurt and the next part tickled something fierce. With care she cleaned away the blood, poking and prodding here and there in order to check her very thorough handiwork. "Do you feel anymore Sir Tristan?"

"No good lady thank you!" He murmured, resisting the urge to grit his teeth, pain in his head be damned. "Your work is commendable!"

Rosamund giggled blushing a fetching shade of pink  as she dipped her fingers in the jar of salve held by her sweetheart, smoothing fingers carefully over the injuries and making Tristan jerk. He skillfully cursed out the gods in his native tongue, digging his fingers hard into Florian's velvet clad legs in order to keep from laughing.

"Damn!" The bard chuckled, lips perilously close to Tristan's ear as he tied off the bandage wrapping around his head. "That was perhaps the most beautiful and filthy string of expletives I have ever heard! Bravo,  The accent was perfect."

"You can understand me?" Tristan felt his face flame. "Where could you have possibly learned to speak pascalian?"

Florian replied in the same language, flowing syllables slipping off of his tongue like water. "I am a bard whom graduated from the Evondale Academy of the arts and I have a knack for pretty languages."

Tristan found himself chuckling uneasily, enjoying a chance to speak in his native tongue and hoping against all odds that the bard wouldn't ask any questions. He was saved from any further worrying though, when Florian slipped out from behind him. "Now good fellow I do think it's time you let me help you out of those clothes."

At this Tristan felt his blood turn to ice. "no! I mean that is a kind offer but not necessary... I can do it myself.

"I highly doubt that!" Florian protested, planting hands firmly on his hips. "You can barely sit up straight as it is!"

In an effort to prove his words, Tristan swung his now bandaged feet over the side of the bed and would've fallen to the floor if not for Florians surprisingly quick reflexes. " enough of that! It's not like I've never seen a naked man before, and you my friend are in no condition to go stumbling about."