#wounded ardyn

I'm always down for writing about Ardyn, nonny 💯

The warmth of his blood trickled through his fingers like soft touches as Ardyn leaned his head back against the cushions and exhaled a long, heavy sigh he'd been carrying all day. His daemonic eyes had long faded, leaving behind exhausted amber irises that fluttered open and closed as he took stock of his surroundings.

He was in his chambers within the Imperial Palace. Empty wine bottles cluttered the coffee table beside him, alongside Verstael's stack of unsigned paperwork. The lights were low, shadows long. Beyond the rattle of the city outside, there was relative peace.

He had nothing to fear; death couldn't touch him.

But gods be damned, he was in pain.

Swallowing, Ardyn shifted—only to wince and collapse back. His hand crept under the layers of his coat and shirt to the left side of his abdomen, fingers pressing gently against the site where the blade had sunk. His brow furrowed. It was deeper than he'd hoped; his pinky slid in farther than it should've, pressing well past the outer layer of flesh.

He'd heal in time. At least, that's what he thought.

Pulling his hand away, Ardyn rubbed the blood between his fingers. A viscous blue substance shimmered faintly under the light. He brought it to his nose, and the smell hit immediately: rancid. His face twisted with recognition.

"Modified poison," he muttered. "I'd stake my life it's derived from a Voretooth."

He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. It was the oldest trick in the book: poison the blade. If the strike failed, let the toxin finish the job.

"Joke's on them," he said aloud, though the words landed flat. Immortality had its perks, and the scourge wouldn't let him wither away, but he wasn't immune to everything. Few things in the world could make Ardyn Izunia truly sick—unfortunately, this was one of them.

He could already feel the muscle aches setting in, nerve endings lighting up with pinprick pain. His body spasmed gently beneath the layers of cloth, and he breathed through it, focusing hard, recalling the techniques from his healing days when he used to treat similar cases.

He was concentrating so intensely, he didn't even hear the chamber doors open. Didn't notice the hurried footsteps until he caught movement from the corner of his eye.

Y/N.

They rushed across the room, nearly dropping to their knees beside him.

"I guess assassination attempts don't make the rounds as quickly these days," Ardyn drawled weakly, tone debased with sarcasm. "Not enough theatrical flair for one's Personal Counsel, I presume?"

"They wouldn't let anyone through without vetting," Y/N panted, brushing their hair from their face. "It took forever, but I'm here now."

Their eyes dropped to the blood on his shirt and widened.

"Oh shit," they whispered, formalities forgotten. "Ardyn, that looks bad. What were you attacked with?"

"Nothing serious. A small blade, a little nick," he said, brushing it off with a lopsided grin. "A Lucian impersonating a foot soldier took a stab at me during Verstael's little victory speech and vanished into the screaming crowd before I could finish him off. Not my finest moment—that, and limping home like a wounded animal."

"You call this a nick?!" Y/N exclaimed while watching Ardyn gesture vaguely toward the injury, his lips curling upward into a chuckle. "You're bleeding all over!"

"And you call yourself a medical professional?" Ardyn countered, a wry smile still lingering as he tried to force himself upright. The concern and maybe even care on Y/N's face puzzled him, at least until their hands reached for his body. He promptly swatted them away.

"Quit fretting on my behalf. I'll be fine."

"No, no, we need to get this treated. You could be poisoned or—" Y/N swallowed, eyes catching the pallor in his skin. "Hell, you are poisoned. Ardyn, you need to lie down. Let me—"

"I am lying down," he snapped, not wanting to entertain this further. "Don't fuss over me. I'm not some thin-skinned man. I only summoned you here to ensure you weren't a target. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You're bleeding through your clothes, Ardyn."

"And I've bled worse," he said flatly. "Do you think this is my first time facing grave injury?"

"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt," Y/N said firmly.

"I'm used to pain."

"That's not the same as deserving it, and you know that."

He froze, just for a second, then scoffed, forcing a pained, bitter laugh.

"Don't you dare pity me. I've been alive too long to fall for false sentiment."

"I'm not pitying you," Y/N snapped. "And I'm not just Counsel making sure my boss doesn't kick the bucket. I care about what happens to you. I'm trying to help."

"I don't need help!" Ardyn shouted. "I've lived through centuries of hells, and this—" he gestured to the blood, to his trembling hands. "This is nothing but a damn blemish in the grand scheme of things!"

"You're shaking," Y/N said, voice low. "You can barely sit upright, and you're still trying to act like you're fine because you think letting someone take care of you makes you frail and helpless."

They paused, breath catching. Gods be damned, why did he have to be so challenging at this time? The thought lingered in Y/N until they saw the whimper Ardyn tried to hide, and frowning, they continued their plight.

"I'm not going to pretend I understand everything about you. I don't. But I know one thing: you're letting your pride get in the way."

Ardyn's jaw clenched, looking away. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd hit a nerve.

Afterward, the silence stretched for a while, filled with tension neither wanted to address, then softly—

"Remember what you said to me?" Y/N whispered. "After that incident with the guard—when I got hurt? 'You're not a burden. Not to me.'"

He scoffed, still not looking at them. "How could I forget?"

"I know you don't need help. I know you've survived worse, but let me take care of you this time," Y/N said gently. "Please. Can you give me that?"

Y/N didn't wait for permission. Gently, they reached for the hem of his bloodied shirt, moving slower now, giving Ardyn the chance to stop them.

He didn't.

With his eyes distant, Ardyn remained quiet, allowing them to peel the fabric back from the wound. The skin around it had turned an ugly shade of red, bluish veins spidering outward. Y/N muttered a curse under their breath, reaching into their satchel for salves, distilled water, and cloth.

Ardyn just watched.

His body still shook—though whether it was from the pain, or the strange rush in his chest, he couldn't say. All other noise fell away, save for Y/N's quiet instructions, the clink of their salve jar, the damp cloth dabbing at fevered skin. Every time Y/N's fingers brushed against him, it flared something. Ardyn knew it was neither desire nor dread, but it was something familiar.

Human.

As Y/N continued to clean the wound, gently pressing a salve pad to burning flesh, Ardyn found himself staring at their face, watching how their skin folded and creased with every expression—focused, worried, so attentive.

Aside from his Aera, he couldn't recall the last time someone had tended to him like this with no expectation. He saw it in Y/N's eyes, in the tentativeness of their movements: no hidden motive, no conquest against kin. Just one person looking after another. Just one human returning the favor.

He knew he should stop it. Snuff this out before it manifests into something else—compassion, loyalty, care. He nearly gagged at the thought, as did the daemons that called his body home. But in that moment, Ardyn realized he didn't have the strength to push it away. He didn't want to push Y/N away.

Maybe—just this once—he wanted to lean into it, whatever this damned feeling was.

"Don't expect any favors or gains after this," he managed to say, remaining as stoic as ever.

Y/N smiled up at him, not seeing the surprised look on his face as they went back to patching him up. "You don't have to pretend you hate this, y'know."

"Must you ruin the moment?" he asked dryly, though the slight smile on his face suggested otherwise.

Yeah...