Aram’s brows pulled together slightly as Anastasia extended her wrist toward him. He took it gently, careful not to squeeze or press too firmly as he turned her forearm in his hands and studied the bruises coiled around her pale skin like the marks of some vile serpent. The faint purple-blue shadows, the flush of red beneath them -- it all spoke of a grip far too tight, far too cruel. He tsked softly, a quiet sound of disapproval and disgust in the back of his throat.

Aram still remembered all of it far too vividly, and a satisfying note hummed through him at the thought of the man’s broken form lying somewhere in the bramble. He didn't deserve a grave.

"Filthy bastard,” Aram muttered under his breath. “He's lucky he’s dead. If he wasn’t, I’d gut him for leaving a mark like this.”

There was no jest in his voice. Just a flat promise of what would have happened. His thumb brushed lightly over the outer edge of the bruising, not enough to hurt, but enough to test how deep it went. She didn’t flinch, but he could feel the tension in her fingers. She was trying not to show it.

“I don’t have much in the way of treating bruises,” he admitted. “Nothing that'll take the pain out, at least. I could wrap it, if you think it’ll help. But cold will do more for the swelling.”

He gave her wrist one last look before gently releasing it, not failing to notice how small her hand looked against his own. The thought twisted something protective in his chest, and he pushed it away. When she accepted his offer to train her, Aram’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and the corners of his mouth pulled slightly upwards into a semblance of a smirk.

“Good,” he said, nodding once. “It’ll be at least a week before I can spar properly without tearing the stitches. But we don’t need sparring to get started. We can still start you on form, footwork, and balance. That’s where it begins.”

He stood and walked back toward Marruk, the big stallion snorting and pawing lightly at the riverbank as Aram approached. From a saddlebag, he drew a simple dagger in a well-used leather sheath. He turned it once in his palm, inspecting the edge before walking it back over to her and offering it hilt-first.

“The quality is quite decent. I sharpened it this morning, too. It should serve you fine if we run into trouble again,” he said, eyes scanning the treeline for a moment before returning to her. “Just don’t go trying to juggle it.”

His gaze didn’t settle on her for long. He stared off into the woods, his expression tightening slightly. “Our blood will draw attention. Might not see another bandit today, but animals? They catch the scent fast. They know a fresh kill when they smell one, and while the corpses will gain their attention first, those won't last forever.”

He shifted his stance, glancing at her again, more measured now. “We’ll need to stay alert for both. Animals don’t care about politics, but they’re just as lethal.”

“Never trained,” she had said. Tried, but never had someone follow through. That stung a little more than it should’ve. Why hadn't anyone bothered teaching the bloody heir to the kingdom how to throw a knife? He had seen firsthand what happened to the untrained when the world sank its claws in. And yet, she’d held her own. She’d kept her head. He wasn’t sure many nobles -- hell, not many mercenaries -- would’ve done the same.

She had offered her wrist to him willingly and tended his own wounds with care. She had not looked away when he bled or swore or flinched. She’d done what she could, despite fear. That was worth quite a bit.

“You won’t always need me,” he said suddenly, telling himself that the words were for her rather than the one speaking them. “One day, maybe not far off, you’ll be able to defend yourself.”

He looked up, watching the clouds shift above the treeline, then turned his head slightly to her, not smiling, but not distant either. “And I’ll help you get there. If you’re willing to put in the work.”

There was no challenge in the words, only truth. He meant them. She had a blade now -- two, if he could count himself, but Aram was a passing figure in her life. Nothing more. It was always best to only count the ones who could stay.

Anastasia couldn't lie and say that her wrist and arm being touched didn't hurt. She didn't want to alarm him or make him worry when she knew she'd be perfectly fine and that the bruising would fade within a few days. Not only that, but she was becoming hyper aware of the feeling of his rough hands so gently caressing her skin. She was thankful for the colder weather, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to explain the chill bumps that bloomed across her skin following his touch. The way he cursed the man for having harmed her still managed to cause surprise. Yes, no man should ever put his hands on a woman, but the way he seemed to feel about it as much more passionate than simple chivalry.

It had taken a bit of restraint not to flinch and pull away when he thumbed over a part of the bruise. “I'm not too worried about it. I'm sure it'll fade within a few days and all will be fine,” she responded, her tone appreciative to the insight and offer to help. As he released her wrist, her hand lingered a moment within his own before withdrawing, the warmth of his hand fading from her skin. Ana fixed her sleeve, banishing the ugly bruise from sight once more.

Raising a brow with a small smirk of her own, Ana crossed her arms over her chest. “It sounds as though you'll be teaching me to dance with that talk,” she teased warmly, the image of little Anastasia with dance instructions coming to mind. She was well versed on courtly things, and given her status, knowing how to dance and balance properly were a large part of her learning. It was horrible, truly. Women were expected to be delicate little nothings, even if they were destined to be queens. For years she had been drilled on dancing, embroidery, music, and being a wife when she should have been learning to rule.

Standing when Aram began to return, Ana looked at the dagger he offered out to her, nodding to his words. “I'll be careful with it,” she murmured, but her mind had began to drift else where. She reached out and took the weapon, her hand wrapping around the hilt. The blade gleamed, the pristine, shining grey iron glinting in the sunlight. Except, the blade that Ana saw was not clean. It was drenched in crimson, dripping onto her fingers and coating her hands. While Aram stared into the woods, speaking of animals and potiental dangers, Anastasia was frozen, her breath held and heart beat quickening in her chest. She almost felt sick to her stomach, but she swallowed down the bile rising in her throat, shaking it off the best she could as she snapped out of her daze. The blood was gone and she had slid the dagger back into its sheath, but her face had paled from what she had imagined.

“R-Right, alert..” she managed out breathlessly when he glanced at her, not wanting to draw attention to herself by being silent. She had looked away, praying and begging for her stomach to settle. She knew she had no choice but to learn to protect herself, and Aram's words all but solidified that knowledge.

“You won’t always need me,” he said suddenly, the words a surprising punch to the gut that nearly prompted the bile to rise again, but she managed to keep her head about her. He must have been sensing the things she was feeling, the attachment slowly but surely growing. She was being too comfortable again, but she couldn't stop herself. It was a stark reminder that not only would she not need him at some point, but that he wouldn't be there for her to have. Their time together would be fleeting, and that was okay. It was okay.

There was something deep stirring in her eyes as he looked to her, reiterating that he'd get her there so long she was willing to work for it. A part of her wished to stay reliant upon Aram just to ensure his company longer, but that was stupid and selfish, and Anastasia was almost appalled that she'd even had such a thought. Yet, regardless of the conflicted feelings stirring inside of her mind, she smiled that small, warm smile and nodded in agreement.

“In that case, one day, possibly soon, I'll be able to defend myself. And then all will be well...”

“All will be well,” Aram echoed, repeating her words with a conviction he didn’t quite feel but made sure sounded like he did. The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth, something like a half-smile, but it didn’t last long. He glanced down at her bruised wrist one final time before turning away to retrieve his bow from where it had fallen earlier during the skirmish.

Four bags of gold, he reminded himself firmly. That’s what this is. Not a rescue, not a friendship, and certainly not anything more than business. It was a helpful mantra, one that he repeated often when her eyes lingered too long or her words landed a little too softly. He was not a romantic. He didn’t attach. The only loyalty worth having was the kind that could be measured by steel and coin.

After a few moments away from the riverbank, he returned, stringing his bow with practiced ease and brushing off a few dried flecks of blood that had crusted on the grip. It was still in working order. Thankfully. A man without his bow was just a sword for hire. A man with a bow was a hunter, and Aram much preferred the latter.

He glanced toward Anastasia. She still looked a bit pale, but her shoulders were squared, her eyes more focused. The dagger he’d given her was now at her hip, resting awkwardly against the fine cut of her dress, which made him pause for just a breath of a second. It was such a strange contrast, the lady and the blade. But perhaps it was not so strange anymore.

“We should get back to the road,” he said, breaking the silence gently, though his tone had edged back toward something more pragmatic.

He led Marruk by the reins, walking rather than riding for the stallion’s sake. Marruk had taken a nasty hit, and while the beast was still proud and irritable as ever, Aram wasn’t about to ride him with that limp, not until it eased. He didn’t say anything as he slipped the reins over his arm and adjusted his cowl, pulling the fabric up over the bruising and shallow cuts on his jaw and temple. His pride hated the thought of strangers seeing him in such a state. There was no weakness to be shown -- not in the face, not in posture, and certainly not in voice.

The road looked different now. The trees cast longer shadows. Every birdcall and squirrel rustle made his hand twitch toward his sword hilt. A single fight would have been bad luck, but fights never came in ones. They always came in twos. Or threes. Especially when word traveled, and word always did. Robbers didn’t just act alone these days. They passed information like tradesmen passed wares, even after they were dead; if their earlier assailants had been in a band, then Aram expected there would be a hound set on them soon enough. That worried him, considering the king himself would likely be sending out his own search parties.

He walked silently for a time, eyes constantly scanning the treeline, the low brush, the way the wind moved the grass. The only sounds were their steps, the occasional snort from Marruk or Balius, and the creaking of leather and tack. He stayed close, his shoulder occasionally brushing the saddle as he walked, his grip loose but ready on the reins.

For now, he would lead. He would guard. He would keep the line between what was and what could be etched sharp in his mind, because when the road ended -- and it always ended -- four bags of gold had to be worth walking away with nothing else.

(crying. Lost my first reply to the refresh, so I'm so sorry if this sucks ToT)

Ana followed Aram back to the road, her guard up out of distant fear. Each rustled bush or snapped twig had her head swiveling on her neck, searching for the robber or ruffian that might jump out next. At her side Balius was solid as steel, unbothered by any noise. His muscles and ears were relaxed, only flicking occasionally as he listened to birds gleefully chirping or other animals squealing and squeaking. The silence between Anastasia and Aram persisted this time, as on top of her fear of there being robbers, was her fear of distracting them both again with questions better left unasked. It was her first time ever out in the world, and she was finding herself becoming attached to a man she had no business becoming attached to. For whatever reason, her heart and mind had softened, the walls around her heart slowly crumbling down whenever Aram looked at her with that gentle expression. It was a business deal and nothing more. It couldn't be anything more, as when she reached Ravaryn, she and Aram would part. She'd be on to a new life, far away from her father and Aram... well, she'd likely never see Aram again, but she hoped he'd live a better life.

After a while longer of the pair walking, it finally came time to stop and rest for a while. Ana was thankful for that, as she was beginning to grow a bit tired from their constant movement. She had walked until her feet hurt before getting back on Balius, but she wasn't so used to riding in the saddle for as long as they had been. Her body was bound to end up sore, but she wouldn't dare to complain to Aram about it. Making their way off the path, they came upon the small meadow-y area off the river's edge.

The river meandered lazily, its surface reflecting the bright light of the afternoon sun. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of wildflowers that bloomed in vibrant colors along the water’s edge. In the distance, the sky is a mix of hazy blue and white clouds, some of which carry the promise of a light rain. A few butterflies fluttered through the air, their wings painted in shades of orange and black, slowly drifting from flower to flower. The only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves, the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface, and the distant chirping of birds nestled in the trees.

The stillness of the place was rather soothing, as if time itself has slowed down to match the river. The warm sunlight bathed the landscape in a golden glow, but the cool shade beneath the trees offered the pair a comfortable reprieve should they wish for it. Anastasia dismounted from Balius, giving the old boy a good pat before letting him go off and graze and drink near by. She sighed, her back popping as she stretched her body out. They still had a long way to go before the day was over, but she was at least content to have a moment to sit and break the vow of silence she'd taken.

Anastasia turned towards Aram, her gaze running over the man she was becoming oddly attached to. She couldn't stop thinking about earlier and all the emotions that had began to build up, but she pushed them down further, extinguishing such things for the time being. “How are your stitches holding up?” She asked, hoping that all of the movement hadn't stretched or torn anything. She was sure he still felt stiff after such a time, but she couldn't help but check on him after being quiet for so long.

I hate when that happens ;-;))

Aram moved with steady resolve, each step toward the river chosen with the kind of measured calm that belied the thoughts beneath it. The birds were still singing, and that was good; a singing forest was a safe forest. When the chirping stopped and the branches stilled, then there was danger. But for now, the woodland prey suggested they remained alone, or at least free of the larger forest predators.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the horses, then to Anastasia, and gave a curt nod to her question. “Stitches are holding,” he answered, his tone clipped and efficient. His determination to abandon emotion wavered, and he added, “They were well done.”

He tethered Marruk and Balius loosely to a tree at the edge of the clearing, giving them enough room to drink and graze without wandering. Then, without another word, he crouched low, running his hand along the dirt and dry underbrush. His gaze was sharper now, fixated on the details most wouldn’t notice with a passing glance -- what plants hadn’t been crushed, what roots had grown near water, and what leaf edges looked soft enough to chew or use. He gathered several low-growing herbs and a fistful of wiry greens, tsking softly when he passed a bush stripped bare of berries. “Someone beat us to these,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Lunch was never meant to be a feast, at least not to him, and certainly not on the road with places to be. He pulled dried jerky from one of the saddlebags, a pouch of raisins and sun-dried pears, and knelt at the river to rinse the foraged greens. The water was brisk and icy on his hands -- another small comfort despite the autumn weather. Cold water kept him more alert.

He said nothing while he assembled the light meal, just nodded toward a spot in the grass when he laid the food down between them, jerky torn into bite-sized bits and scattered over a crude salad of forest greens and dried fruit. A traveler's meal, sparse, but functional.

He crossed his arms, eyes narrowing at the dry kindling near the tree line. It was practically inviting him to ignite it. The wind was still. But still wasn’t safe. Fire produced a scent and a signal. He stood there for a moment longer, staring as if weighing invisible numbers, then shook his head. “No fire. I’ll hunt us something tonight and cook it then,” he said. “No reason to let smoke tell someone we’re here.”

Everything about him had stiffened again -- not with injury, but discipline. Whatever warmth had bloomed at the river, between the touches and the glances, had been rolled back beneath a mercenary's layer of ice.

After they’d eaten, Aram drank deeply from his canteen, finishing what was left before refilling it at the stream’s edge. He swished a mint stalk through the water before biting it off at the stem and sitting back on a flat stone near the riverbank. The taste was sharp, fresh, grounding.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke next. “Show me your stance.”

It was a question, sort of, but his tone didn’t allow for the kind of softness he’d shown her earlier. It wasn't irritable, but it was distant. He wasn’t going to linger in the place where he’d found himself slipping. No matter how the sunlight hit her face or how sincere her voice sounded when she asked about his injuries, he wasn’t going to drown in the comfort of her concern. This was work and for her protection. Nothing more. The thought hurt him, but he pretended it was just his ribs acting up.

Aram chewed absently on the mint as he finally looked up at her, his eyes hard again, clear and distant like stone under running water. He gave a short nod toward the dagger at her side. “Draw it. Show me how you’d hold it, assuming you see someone coming straight at your front. And be mindful of where your feet are.”

The first time Aram used that firm, clipped tone with her, she brushed it off as nothing. “Very well...” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear the hesitancy in her voice. She was sure he was tired and still trying to ensure that the area was safe, so she left him alone. She didn't want to over think anything, considering how shy he'd been to let her mend him in the first place. Everything was fine, and all would be perfectly well. It had to be. There was no other choice.

While looked at the brush, she filled her canteen back up, as she'd sipped from it often during their travel. Her hands had been itching to do something the entire time they were silent, and the best she could do was drink her water. And what did she get out of it? A full bladder and anxiety. So, to avoid the awkward tension she felt brewing on her end, Anastasia excused herself to the tree line behind some bushes. She kept an ear out for anything, though she allowed her mind to drift. Was Aram keeping her at arms length a bad thing? They had both let things slip that shouldn't have, and if they continued down that road then it would only lead to more hurt and accidents.

She grumbled to herself as she finished tending to herself before returning, washing her hands quickly in the cold water. She shook the water from them before wiping them off, her skin sufficiently chilled, much to her dismay, and just when she was about to ask Aram if he'd like any help with lunch, she received that nod to sit. It took everything in the woman not to visibly deflate before she sat down, keeping her silence. She picked at the skin of her fingers, her mind much too busy to be so idle, even with lunch between them. She glanced up, her gaze brushing icily over Aram when he spoke of hunting and fires. Her jaw tightened at how formal he was being, her teeth creaking at the pressure she added to them as she hummed in acknowledgement. It was fine. No fire was fine, and they had food right between them, so it was all fine.

Anastasia was uninterested in eating, but she did it anyways. There was no sense in making herself feel sick later on because she decided to pout now. She finished quickly before downing a little more water, her gaze cast out to the river, watching the ripples as fish played at the surface, creating rings that spread outward before disappearing again. The next time he spoke, addressing her in that cold, distant manner, Anastasia flinched. She wasn't imagining it all or taking it the wrong way. He was putting up a clear boundary between them, and good heavens did it create a painful aching in her chest. So much so, she hesitated, staring at him silently for a good few moments before finally standing to her feet and taking a few steps back.

She looked awkward, even as she thought hard about how she'd stand when it came to protecting herself. Her shoulders were somewhat slouched, her feet too close together. Her dominant foot was positioned more forward than her other, but even then it just looked all wrong. She didn't fight, she ran. In the face of danger, she always ran until she was caught. Fighting had never been in the equation, and now with everything on her mind, it was just all wrong.

“I feel stupid,” she muttered, breaking her silence as she looked at him. Her expression was still hard, her jaw tense. Why the hell did things have to be like this now?

Ana only spent a second looking into those hard crystalline eyes before looking away, fighting a scowl from her face. She took a deep breath, not bothering to hide it as her chest expanded before heaving as the breath left her lungs. It cooled her insides, burning and freezing her organs, numbing her if only a little. “I don't know where my feet even should be,” she sighed, shuffling around before pulling the dagger into her right hand. She stood a little bit straighter, but not by much, and her feet hadn't been positioned any better either, even when she changed her stance up. Her legs were too stiff, much like how the rest of her was becoming with the weapon in hand. Her hand was wrapped firmly around the hilt, her grip unwavering. If anything, at least she wouldn't drop the dagger.

Anastasia brandished the weapon, holding it in an underhanded manner that was well suited for slashing rather than stabbing. Her occupied hand was chest level while her other was at the ready at her side, fingers trembling slightly. Now was not the time to be scared. Now was not the time to care. Now was not the time to feel.

Get. It. Together.

Anastasia despised how his change was making her feel. What had she expected? There was nothing between them, and thinking that there was would only hurt her more. They had their own lives to live, own paths to take, and they simply couldn't just be whatever it was they were being. No matter how bad she wanted it to be... She knew that. He was a mercenary, hard and ice cold, and she was a runaway, running away from all of her problems.

It was better like this. She couldn't just be soft and sweet on the first man to show her true kindness. Except... It was deeper than that, wasn't it? It wasn't just because he was nice. She had never quite figured out how to control what she was feeling. With her, it had always been all or nothing, and now that she didn't know where they stood, she didn't know how to act. Did she lie to herself, as well as Aram by acting as if she didn't care? Or did she allow herself to openly be hurt, welcoming in a whole new realm of distraction and liability? Or, did she just leave to avoid causing more trouble than she was worth? She couldn't do that. She had made a deal with him. Four bags of gold and she was safe. Leaving would be death, and then everything would have been for nothing.

So, she stood, steeling herself so that she could learn and not be bothered by the "little" things. She didn't miss the way his tone had seemed to soften or how willingly he came to show her how to do the most simple of things. If she had been male, Anastasia would have already known how to fight. She would know how to wield weapons instead of needles, and she likely would have never underwent the torment that she did back home. She would have true worth outside of her breeding abilities. Instead, she was learning to protect herself by a man who should have always been a stranger, had it not been for her daft father.

Ana copied how he adjusted his stance, her feet moving to stand a bit wider, about shoulder's length apart, with her knees slightly bent as if she'd be ready to spring into action at his command. She took a good look at him again before angling her body as he had his own, her brows furrowed as she strove to concentrate on his teachings and nothing more. She straightened her shoulders, but she left them relaxed, understanding that stiffness would see her hurt or dead.

The dagger was likely to be her biggest enemy, the item of her most recent nightmares plaguing her even then in her waking moments. “It feels much.. easier to think of it that way,” she admitted in regards to imagining as if she wasn't holding a dagger. She had never imagined the impact that night would have had on her would be so bad. She repeated the motions he made in her mind, jabbing the dagger outwards with her weight behind it or swinging it in the direction that she might try to slap someone. The more she did it, even though only in the comfort of her mind, the less she imagined that she was pulling a bloody dagger from a body. Eventually she found herself practicing the motion with the dagger just as Aram had shown her, though she lacked a bit of confidence.

“Small, quick strikes. Aim for soft parts -- neck, inner thigh, under the ribs. If you’re forced to go for the face, then pick the eyes and mouth.”

Anastasia shuddered faintly at that, her head nodding. “Right, I know that,” she admitted to him, her voice a bit quieter, a bit more broken than she would have liked. Those were the most vulnerable areas of the body, and she had experience with the main three. That guard, the man who had been a part of her tormenting- She'd gone for his neck with his own dagger and succeeded. Her stepmother had been stabbed beneath or maybe between the ribs, and the angle of the blade had been just right enough to pierce her heart. As for the inner thigh? Unfortunately, that had been a wound she bore at one time or another.

“Alright,” she nodded, taking a deep breath as she readied herself again. At his word, Anastasia moved into position once more, this time her body more relaxing and knowledgeable about what it needed to do. Her feet were spaced, her dominant foot angled forward and her knees soft. She angled her body again, shoulders relaxed with her grip on the hilt firm but not too tight like before. Then, once she was ready, she did an underhanded jab with the dagger in hand as if she was punching someone in the gut. She practiced it a couple of times, adjusting her stance and strike until it felt more comfortable and less like it was forced.

Once she had his nod, she stopped, ready to watch once more as he showed her another demonstration to help her along her way. She nodded to his words before observing his arm and the way it moved, ingraining the motion in her brain alongside the teaching. She watched him for a few moments as the silence settled, his teachings along with it, and when he spoke again, she felt that pained thumping in her chest resuming.

“Running is the only thing I've ever been good at,” she shook her head, her gaze lingering on the way he didn't quite meet hers before she finally looked away, the slight breeze picking up and swirling pieces of her dark hair. “At least now it doesn't have to be my only option. Thank you.”

Though she shouldn't have been, Anastasia was very familiar with running. More often than not, she had found herself racing through the palace halls in the dead of night, running from the devil herself or her hounds. Usually returning from a midnight stroll or a trip to the library, if Ana was to be caught, she'd be punished cruelly for her "nefarious intentions." The late queen enjoyed calling the princess's chastity into question, saying that she had no business being out and about at night visiting God knows who. She always threatened to tell her father that she had been up to immoral things, and Anastasia never wished for that. The woman had the king wrapped around her finger, believing every little lie and dastardly tale the witch had to tell, and her father could be a wicked man when he had a snake in his ear. But, Ana perfected the art of running over the years, of keeping her breathing light and her steps lighter. In the best cases, she was never caught, but in the worst.. she was left a little more broken and hollowed.

Anastasia nodded, biting harshly at the inside of her cheek. “I'll keep that in mind,” she murmured, sighing softly as she released the flesh between her teeth, the slight tang of copper reaching her tongue. Running came easy to her, naturally even, but would it be enough when she needed it most?

She got quiet again for a bit, wringing her hands together in thought as he spoke, offering up his bow for her to learn to use. Even as he tried not to care, it was so obvious that he could see right through her. He could see her struggling with things she'd yet to tell him, and still he tried to help and cater to her needs without doing so quite as openly. It was endearing and he was making it so hard to remain indifferent.