The afternoon sunlight came through the tall windows of Aveloria's study in strips. The room smelled slightly of the medicinal ointment she was currently applying to Galen.
Galen sat on a chair in front of her, leaning slightly forward to give her access to his right eye. The skin around it was still swollen and discolored, a mottled purple and black that had spread to his cheekbone. He winced as she gently applied ointment to it with her fingers against the edge of the bruise.
"Hold still," she said.
"I am holding still," Galen replied, though his jaw tightened.
She dipped her fingers carefully into the salve again and spread it along the bruised skin. "Did you drink the herbs the physician recommended?" Aveloria asked. Her voice was low, focused on her task.
"Yes. My father brewed it then and served it himself. He wouldn't let me leave the table until that cup was empty." Galen answered.
