He lets his hands fall to his sides, watching as she deftly loosens the ties, then shrugs the surcoat from off his shoulders before gripping the hem of his linen shirt and tugging it up and over his head in a stuttered, sore motion.

Purple and blue bruises are beginning to mark up his chest and sides, one in each spot Rilian hit him or shouldered him or struck him with the flat of his blade. And there, at his side, the angry red of the cut. It's no longer weeping blood, but the quick field bandage is dull red and damp.