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.

He stood. "Well I don't know about you princess, but I am exhausted." Striding over towards the bed, all the while watching her from the corner of his eye; in a smooth, practiced motion, he pulled his shirt over his head. Out of her sight, a victorious smile spread through the Morwick’s face, when from his peripheral vision, he saw that she averted her eyes, and her pale cheeks flushed with a color that almost matched her hair.

She had never seen a half-naked man before, let alone one as finely chiseled as a Greek statue. It was like examining a prize stallion, and her breath had hitched in her throat. The Morwick was so unlike any of the male species she had seen back at home. His skin was tan and not the pale color of her Uncle or the Baron, with warm hues of gold and orange seemed to dance off the smooth skin of the bareback she had caught a glimpse of before quickly darting her eyes to the rough mulch floor.

He climbed into the bed, and once his figure was safely covered up by the silk and embroidered bed covers, she felt her courage return to her.

"And where am I to sleep?" She glanced around the tent, looking for a bedroll or some other sleeping place that she may have missed.
His dark, neat brows knit at what he thought was quite a stupid question.

"On the bed of course, where else?"

Her eyes went wide. "I will do nothing of such!" She crossed her arms, feeling an ache in her back from the uncomfortable chair. Meridian looked so comfortable in that extravagant bed of silks and swan feather pillows. She contemplated what to do. She was thoroughly exhausted, and she definitely needed to sleep; she was awake the previous night and had a long, tedious journey.

She thought about trying to sleep where she sat, but the hard, uncomfortable dining chair would definitely not allow her to do that.
She stood up and gazed intently at the open space on the floor beside the bed, it would have to do.
Something white and familiar caught her eye, and to her slight surprise, she saw that her nightdress had been folded atop a small dresser in between his armor and a changing white panel. She presumed the rest of her belongings would be found inside the small, but ornately carved wooden dresser. They really had done all they could to make this feel like a home and as little as a tent as possible.

Silently gathering her courage, and trying to relax a heartbeat that had gone completely askew at the idea that he wanted to share the bed with her, she strode over to the changing panel.
She could feel those blue eyes burning into her with every step she took. Illyria grabbed her nightdress and dashed behind the panel to exhale a breath she didn't realize that she had been keeping trapped in her lungs.

Her face felt as if it were being held too close to a flame as she changed out of her stiff, laced, tied and tightened blue dress. She debated about going to sleep in it, but the idea of laying on the harsh pieces of whalebone that lined all but the skirt seemed a fate worse than having a strange man see her, although still fully covered, in her nightdress.

She struggled to take it off on her own, as she usually had a servant or two to help her. Complicated dresses were a status symbol and the idea that she would have to dress and undress at the camp hadn't even occurred to her for once.

"Is that fancy dress of yours fighting back or are you fending off a legion back there?" he called her, amused by the sounds of frustration coming from the other side of the folding panel.
"From the noises, you are making, I cannot tell the difference." He continued when she didn't respond. "Do you require backup?"

"Everything is fine, just fine. I have everything under control," she lied. Finally, the dress came free, and she pulled it over her head. Instead of flinging it angrily to the ground, she remembered her composure and folded it neatly before putting on her flowing white nightdress.
The picture of grace, she stepped out from behind the panel and sat down on the bumpy, and uneven wooden mulch. He had since blown out the candles, and the only light in the room now emanated from the fireplace and peeked in from under the entrance from the torch outside.

"You are not seriously going to sleep there like a common pig farmer, are you?" He leaned over the edge of the bed to look down at her.

"I seriously am." Resolve rang in her voice as she spoke.

"Now, could you be a gentleman and spare me one of those bedspreads?"

"That I cannot do. It is against camp rules, as is what you are doing right now, and even I am not above a flogging. If you are caught, you shall be subjected to Haloai." He warned.

"Haloai?" She raised an eyebrow.

"I thought the Sovereign promised no harm would come to my people while here."

"Of course not. No physical harm shall befall any of you, you have my word on that. Punishment need not always involve physical harm though; Haloai... It’s a form of punishment using what your people would call public humiliation."

"Oh..." she grimaced.
Her disgusted, slightly fearful reaction had told him all he needed to know. The Sovereign had been right, for the woman of a nation whose proudest achievement was its etiquette, in her amber eyes he saw that she thought there could be no punishment worse than humiliation.

Despite this, she refused to move from her spot on the strategically uncomfortable floor. Illyria turned till she lay on her side feeling every piece of the lumpy mulch pressing into her, but at this point, she was too tired to care and just glad to be off her feet.
Meridian could not help but be impressed by her resolve, and with her back turned towards him, he could clearly see the curve of her hips, thighs, and legs for the first time. That bulky piece of expensive blue fabric had hidden so much, including, he noticed with a smile, the faint outline of a dagger. He turned away from her and closed his eyes to sleep, but couldn't help feeling guilty at the softness of the warm bed beneath him, and at how much better his arm had felt since she attended to it.

Turning over with a growl, he dropped a pillow beside her head.

"There, take that, you stubborn woman, but if I get flogged in the morning I hope you feel the sting of my every lash!"

Even in her sleep, she could feel the cold night’s air stinging on her skin and that hard, lumpy surface beneath her. It was so uncomfortable that she kept waking up to shift around, but to no avail, it was uncomfortable literally everywhere.

A gentle nudge awoke her, and she groggily lifted her lids to find the Morwick leaning over her.

"Illyria, the sun has yet to rise, and you look so uncomfortable. I'll be back in a few hours, and as I will be gone, I don't think I would be breaking any rules if you want to sleep in the bed now."

Through an exhausted, groggy haze, all she could do was a nod. He grabbed her gently by the elbow and helped the clearly half asleep lady into the bed.
She put up no argument as he tucked her in like a parent would do to a small child. Gripping the blankets, she curled up onto her side. The bed was still warm from his body, and it smelled just like him, but it didn't bother her. The scent wasn't unpleasant, the fabric smelled of lavender soap, horses and the forest, luckily Morwicks kept themselves clean. She welcomed the soft and warm relief from the cold, hard floor as she fell fully back asleep.

Hours later she was awoken by what she swore had been the rustling of the canvas entrance, but upon sitting up, she saw that she was alone in the tent.

The sweat beading on her skin made her realize just how hot it had become. Throwing the blankets off herself, she stood up and went to peek out the canvas entrance. The familiar sound of blade clinking against blade could be heard as she lifted the flap. Lined all around the Sovereign’s tent in the center of the encampment, she saw dozens of young, handsome Morwick officers lined around the tent, training with those large swords in perfect unison.

She could feel the heat of the torch next to her. It was still burning despite the morning sun's light, which was odd. She took a closer look, and she saw something even stranger, instead of being put out like torches were supposed to be when there was no need for light, it appeared as if it had actually been replaced.

She chalked it up to another odd Morwick custom before turning her attention back to the training exercises. While watching the precise and accurate movements performed so skillfully, it occurred to her that her uncle had been wrong to label them as crude barbarians because the drill performed before her was that of a highly trained army.

The men looked so incredibly alike, but each with some minor varying differences. They were all tall, youthful, and well built. Muscles rippled underneath the tan skin, and they all wore strange red and gold colored, sleeveless practice uniforms. Their heads were not the wide variety of colored hair like in her home nation. Instead, they were all dark shades, ranging from browns to raven blacks.

She caught sight of Meridian, he was sharing blows with a younger man who looked noticeably similar to him.
As usual, her host had a glowing smirk splashed across his face as he expertly parried and deflected. “Does that man even have another facial expression?” She thought to herself.

How strange? She contemplated, taking another glance around the display. For someone who is supposedly a General, why is he training alongside his subordinates? She had never seen any General do such. What strange customs these Morwicks had.

He caught her watching and gave her a smile. The man he was mock fighting with noticed and let out a chuckle. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she hurriedly shut the canvas, sealing them from her view.

Glancing down, another strange thing caught her eye; a set of footprints entering the tent lay on the ground. She hadn't been dreaming, someone had indeed entered the tent while she slept.
They were small, belonging to a woman or a child, clearly not the heavy boot prints of Meridian.
They led to the dresser, and then back out again, so suspiciously, she followed them. She realized in horror that the dress she laid left folded neatly atop it was now gone. Her shoes, her petticoat, everything was also gone! In a panic, she searched, behind the panel and even under a flap of the tent but it was really gone. Fear took hold of her. She thought that a thief had looted her belongings and frantically she pulled open the drawers of the chest. Inside, she couldn’t find her gowns, as she had expected, the chest was empty except a small bundle of reddish cotton fabric.

The canvas rustled, and Meridian entered the tent. 

"Good morning... Again," he greeted cheerfully. She turned on her bare heels and glared at him venomously. 

"A thief has taken all my belongings!" She seethed.

"Your clothing was not stolen Illyria, only confiscated. It shall be returned to you at the closing of camp," he answered. Frozen slightly in place because the angry look in her eyes showed that she could kill a man. Her brows furrowed, her anger subsided and was replaced by puzzlement. 

"Confiscated? On what grounds?" That confused look on her face was actually quite adorable.

"I'm sorry but dresses your people wear..." he started. 

“My people find them quite... Uh, inappropriate."

"Oh..." her voice immediately humbled. She should have thought of that. Her attire was obviously much too revealing. It was not a custom of Rowland to cover up the hair and hands, but she had heard of other cultures, in far off places, where it was. 

"You have my most sincere apologies for my feminine nakedness, I shall wear gloves, and if my hair that offends your customs, I shall cover that too." Her eyes flickered, downcast, as she apologized.

"You... You think we want to cover you up even more?" he laughed. 

"Is that even possible?"

"I don't understand?" She raised her gaze to see him clutching his stomach in laughter.

"Oh heavens no, it’s how much you already wear that is the problem. Covered up how you were when you arrived, you will die of heatstroke out here within an hour. Did you not find the proper attire provided?" He walked closer.

"Proper attire?" She repeated. 

"This chest contains no such thing."

"Yes, it does. Your camp dress is right there." He pointed to the piece of red cloth at the bottom of the drawer. Pulling it out, she saw that it was a dress if you could call it that. It was missing sleeves, and even a collar, instead of the fabric at the chest just seemed to plummet into a V shape. On the skirt were 3 large white horizontal stripes that went all the way around, all several inches apart, with the first one at the ankles, the next at the knee, and the last one just several inches below where the thigh of the wearer would be. The fabric was flimsy and thin, and it contained no corset or even simple petticoat. It was a piece scandalous clothing that not even the lowliest of Rowland’s peasant girls would be caught dead in.

"This?! You call this a dress?" she exclaimed, holding it out in front of him with a clenched fist.

"Of course. What would you call it?" He shrugged.

"A rag. I refuse to wear this." She shoved it into his arms and then planted her hands on her hips.

"It’s either that or the nightdress. Which I’d like to mention is clinging to your body with sweat in several ways I rather appreciate." He allowed his eyes to roam her body.

"Fine..." she grumbled, snatching the red cloth back from him.

"I see you have been provided with a basin and a brush also." He pointed towards the objects that weren't in the tent the night before. 

"I'll wait for you right here." He plopped down in the chair facing away from the changing panel.

With his back to her, she took a deep breath; cringing again at the so-called dress slung over her arm.
She took another deep breath and reminded herself that this whole horrid ordeal would be worth it once she was given command of the army.

Stepping behind the panel, she peeled off the nightdress, which indeed was clinging to her body with sweat. After donning the dress from hell, she dipped the washcloth into the basin and cleansed her face and neck. The cold water felt incredible on her hot, sticky, bare skin. Next, she pulled down her hair and brushed out the knots and bits of mulch from it. She finished and stepped out from behind the white privacy panel with her entire body flushed with shame.

When the crimson-haired woman stepped out from behind the panel, Meridian could not help but do a double take. Her hair, which had been pulled and piled high atop her head, cascaded in loose, luscious, and flowing waves over her back and shoulders. The way it streamed across her body, and the color, reminded him of a bleeding head wound, but in the most breathtakingly beautiful way possible.

He followed the direction of the waves to her torso, where to his surprise he found heavenly curves. The stiff dress, which had suited its purpose in concealing and flattening all signs of femininity, had been replaced by the loose, single layered, curve-hugging marking dress.

"Wow. You look... much better." Illyria avoided his gaze, which she knew to be examining her body. How could she blame him though? There was just so much exposed, so much to look at. For a lady who had never exposed more than her hands and head, she felt virtually naked. Everything on her body that had spent its life properly tucked, pulled in and held back, was now unbound and jutting out freely. She had never exposed more than an inch of her neck, and here she stood wearing a sleeveless fabric, cut straight down to her clavicle.
She crossed her arms over her chest, trembling in shame.

"Oh come on, it can't be that bad?" he chided.
She took a deep breath and let her arms fall to her side. She did not want him to see her being afraid.

"I will make you all pay for this humiliation when my people win whatever this little game is you are trying to play."

"There we go. There she is. That's better." Meridian teased, amused by her threat, lifting up the flap so they could exit the tent.

Her breath hitched, she dreaded her people seeing her like this. She shaded her eyes from the harsh brightness of the sun. The bright sun hit her harshly, but once her eyes adjusted, she saw several other women exiting from the tents in a slow, and steady stream. Migrating towards the other side of the Sovereign’s tent where she had not yet been; the side of camp she had not yet been to. Walking away from the dark haired man at her side, she took hasty steps to join the mass of Rowland women. Each of them wearing the exact same dress she had on.
So that's why he had referred to it as a uniform. She thought.

Far ahead she saw nothing but red cotton with those strange, white stripes on the skirts. As she rounded the camp, something out of place caught her eye; one of the torches was out, taking a quick closer look, she noted that it had been doused by the bucket, as the wooden vessel now hung tipped above it. The ground beneath was dry, indicating this wasn't recent and had happened a few hours before.

The Sovereign exited the large tent from a smaller flap on that side. Illyria watched as the still masked figure stepped onto the platform directly in front of it, the platform was about 15 paces in length and about 10 wide. In the dead center of the raised platform stood a tall, sturdy post, about the height of a horse. Curled up neatly beside the round wooden pole was a good length of new rope.

"Good Morning ladies, I hope you are well rested and have gotten to know your spouses better. I also hope that you are now reassured that no harm will come to you from sharing a tent with one of my men," the Sovereign’s gruff voice addressed them, gloved hands clasped tightly behind the leader’s back.

"Though from tired and weary eyes, I can see that for most of you, that was not the case." The intense, almost unnatural blue eyes of the masked man glanced in her direction, she held their gaze, determined not to let this mongrel know just how rattled she was.

"99 I see. That's actually a record high." Stated the Sovereign.

“99?” Illyria puzzled. 

“99 what?”

"I'm actually impressed ladies, you do live up to your reputations."
The masked face bobbed up and down approvingly.

"Your kind will be indeed a hard nut to crack. No worries though, my people love a challenge, and as I can see from the number left standing in front of me, it is not impossible." The voice chuckled almost sadistically. Illyria's stomach lurched, turning on her heel, she began frantically scanning the crowd of women wearing red, trying to see if someone was missing.
In a sea of familiar faces, her gaze flitted from woman to woman, she let out a sigh of relief when she found Rosaline, and both of her cousins. Each woman in the group appeared to be doing the same thing, heads bobbing around with panic.

"The Graim girl....," She mumbled under her breath. That's who was missing. Penelope Graim, she had no title but was the daughter of Elizabeth Graim the trade master general, and owner of the largest non-military wagon fleet in Rowland, a loyal and respected subject of the kingdom. 

How could she have failed so soon?

Illyria had met the tall brunette only several times, as she was often busy helping her mother manage the trading business, along with her 3 younger brothers. She seemed an honorable, intelligent and headstrong woman. If she had failed already, perhaps this test wouldn't be as easy as her uncle had led her to believe.

The redhead clenched her fists to her side to stop her hands from shaking. 

Illyria felt as if her stomach had been turned inside out. The testing had already begun, and somebody had already failed.

"Where is madam Graim?" Illyria addressed the Sovereign directly, something she would have never done back in Rowland, as it was quite disrespectful and out of turn, but she wasn't in Rowland now was she?

"What have you done with her?!"

"Oh, Princess Illyria, how lovely you look this morning. All of you do. So much better, much more natural."
Complimented the Sovereign, his eyes didn't roam her body from behind that mask like she expected. Instead, the compliment seemed genuine.

"Perhaps to your culture, Your Grace, but with all due respect, it's not to ours." She held his gaze as she spoke, which impressed the leader.

"I kindly reiterate, where is Madam Graim?"

"She was marked, but worry not your highness, she is safe and unharmed. I promise you. She had been moved to another, secure location on the main side of camp, a place set up for those who have been marked. You shall all be reunited at dawn on the final day when your King arrives to view the total marked."