Buuuuhhh

And yet he himself was wet. Leaking out of every part of his face. Snot and tears that had no reason or cause.

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The world was hot and dry. Even now, Istvan could hear the heavy footsteps over hardened soil outside his tent. The rustle of dry grass against it. And, he could have sworn he could hear the quiet heat closing in on him like a baker's oven.

He was in a suffocating prison of his own misery until something interrupted him. A small, pale hand placing an even paler cloth on the table where he sat.

"What's this, dear boy," he sniffed. "To wipe my face with?"

He had a beautifully embroidered handkerchief already which he lifted lazily to show.

Erik shook his head and unfolded the cloth.

"Nettles?" Istvan asked.

He was rewarded only with a measly nod and sighed.

"And what is it for?"

The boy took his hand and tugged the glove off, the only person in the world with the unspoken permission to do so, and placed the nettles in his palm almost reverently.

And then frowned.

He closed Istvan's palm over the leaves before taking them himself, surprised.

"They lose their sting when you pick them," Istvan told him. "Could you please explain why you are trying to sting me?"

Leaves now discarded on the table, Erik took Istvan's hand in his own and tried to tug him up from his chair.

"My boy," Istvan said, irritably, "remember that you have a voice and use it. What do you want?"

"To cure you."

"With stinging nettles?"

Erik nodded before quickly fumbling out, "Yes, sir."

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