Chapter 3: First Marked

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Dedicated to: ThinkingClearly
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Chapter Three - First Marked

Meridian let out a yawn. Her jaw tensed at his incongruous action, but she said nothing. She realized that while this may be considered rude and inappropriate table manners in the court of Rowland, perhaps it was not to this barbaric foreign race. When he stretched his arms above his head, his sleeve slipped down to expose the wound that still remained untreated on his left forearm.

"You still have not dressed that yet?" she pointed at the wound.

"Oh, that?" He brought his arms closer to his face, rolling his white sleeve up past his elbow and examining the small slice directly between his wrist and elbow.

"I had completely forgotten about this little cat scratch of yours." he chuckled, extending his arm out on the table for her to see. He hadn't forgotten at all, that was a fib. The triumphant looked on the face of the strangely beautiful woman who had initially given it to him the night before had played out in his mind every time he caught sight of the wound that day, but he was so busy with the final preparations for what was supposed to lead to the last great Bedding Camp of the Sovereign that he didn’t have the time to attend to it.

"I’d say it's a bit more than a cat scratch," she contradicted, a rueful smile toyed at the edge of her full lips, leaning over to get a closer look. Illyria had never examined damage intentionally caused by her own hand before, as most of the time she could handle any threat without bloodshed, and if she did have to spill blood, her blade’s victims were always quickly whisked away by castle guards.

"You flatter yourself," replied Meridian.
The flesh wound wasn't a pretty sight; dried crusted blood and dirt surrounded the gash.

"If you have bandages and fresh water I can dress it for you," Illyria offers.

"Now, that wouldn't be kindness I detect in your voice, would it?" He inquired, quite amused.

She shook her head.
"Not at all. This wound is on the verge of infection if left untreated." She reached out to brush it with her fingertips. Her touch felt electric on his skin.

"If it gets infected it will begin to smell, and heavens help me if I have to deal with that putrid smell for the duration of my time here," she mocked.

"How noble," Meridian joked as he pushed his chair back and walked towards the leather armor hung like a trophy in the corner. He returns with a fresh roll of bandage and his animal skin canteen. After he sat back down on the highly uncomfortable and stiff wooden dining chair, she went to work silently and skillfully cleaning out the gash, dark brows knit in concentration. For a brief moment, she forgot that she was a prisoner/guest in an enemy camp, and was just someone helping someone else who needed it. This kind of care came as second nature to Illyria because when she was younger, she spent many hours patching up herself and Rosaline after childish misadventures.

The first thing Meridian noticed when she had, for the first time, willingly laid hands on him, was that her hands were incredibly gentle. She had a caring nature to her, despite the layer of ice she obviously tried so hard to bury herself in. He could see clearly that there was so much more to this woman than even she was aware of.

"I am not teasing when I say thank you," he began, examining the fine job she had done once she had finished.

"You have an incredibly soft touch, which I find remarkable, considering how sharply you can wield a sword." That got him a small smile. Though barely there, it carried up through her cheeks and into her amber eyes, and for Meridian that was enough progress for the first night.

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