Aramis looked up, his eyes accented by purpling rings beneath them, bruises from a head injury and lack of sleep. He lowered his head now, feeling somehow beneath her again. He had thought he was beyond this, this feeling of servile worthlessness. As he ran his fingers through his now healthy hair, thick browns locks that curled gently around his fingertips, he realized he was for once, ashamed. Aramis had never questioned his life. Everyone did what they needed to survive, no one else's opinion had ever mattered to him, he did what he had to as well.
Aramis was ready to lash out, angry with this woman for making him feel such guilt when he realized the reason why, a dangerous reason at that. He cared what she thought. Lifting his head again, Aramis attempted to smile in his familiar suave manner.
"Of course I'm fine, no knight worth his salt would lose a drop of bblood to the likes of those men."
Aramis gently rubbed his head as he did so. Pyre would never have thrown him, nor was he thrown for being a bad horseman. There are very few reactions one's horse will have to its legs being slashed at with swords. Aramis had been leading the procession og Giraheed when a group of the rebellion struck. Aramis, first in line, had attempted to stay his horse. It was the mark of his horsemanship that he was still alive, managing to keep his horse calm enough that he was not thrown and trampled. Another mark, if you looked at it, of his sword mastery. While Giraheed had stayed at the back, protected by men, his arm, the knight Aramis, had fought off three men while concussed. Aramis felt no pride, though he had never felt guilt for that day before. Pride in such an act was vulgar, he had ran them through, but because they had tried to harm him and his way of life.
"Are you willing to head back now?" he asked delicately, arching a brow.