The Ring Master's Fair

PART 3

The Ring Master's Fair - Part 3

Lark simply sat there, not bothering to move, and watched as Prince Atticus struggled to stand. "You need some help there?" she asked sweetly as she coul without showing that she was truly scared to death.

Atticus stubbornly shook his head. "I'm fine," he grunted.

Lark laughed a bit. Ignoring his protests, she helped up so he was sitting against an oak tree,though she still kept her gaurd up.

He sat there rubbing his sore hip, taking the moment to examine Lark, who had moved so she was standing off to his side. "Your mine," he muttered. She gasped and quicklytried to move away. But Atticus wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her down to him. "Your. Mine," he said again, slower this time, "I bought you from those soldiers. So now you belong to me." He moved so Lark was pushed up against the tree and he was standing in front of her, blocking any paths of escape that might come to her mind.

Atticus held her wrists over her head with one hand. The other hand traced a path from her nose, across her pouted red lips, and along her firm jawline.

Lark looked him in the eye. She could smell the pungent odor of liquor in his warm breath. "That's the problem. You see, I belong to no one. I especially don't belong to you." Lark couldn't understand what brought her to act this way. She should be cowarding away like a mouse, but something inside of her made her stand tall like a lion.

Atticus sighed, "But it's true, love. You do belong to me. There's even a signed contract and everything."

"Your drunk," Lark finally pointed out, irritated enough with the fact.

"Tipsy," he corrected, "It takes a lot to get me drunk. And I only had two mugs of ale."

Lark groaned. "Like being tipsy makes it much better."

A boyish, mischievous smirk crawled its way onto his face. "Your mine, love. You belong to me." He buried his head into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent as if he was memorizing it.

"We already got that point across, multiple times." One look down at the man caused her to grimace. "Definitely drunk," she muttered trying to push him off her, but he wouldn't budge.

Atticus slowly moved away when Lark finally managed to push him off her. But he still kept a tight grip on her lower arm, just in case she decided to try and escape him. "You're hurt," he said sadly.

Lark glanced down at the wound covered with dried blood. "I'm fine," she shrugged. She was used to so much pain that once it was inflicted, she just dealt with it.

Atticus sent her a sharp glare. "Anything of mine will not be hurt."

She surprisingly found some comfort in his words, but she still sent him a glare back. "I am no ones, and definitely not yours," she snapped.

Atticus laughed at the girl. "You wish," he said. "Now come on. We need to get back to the field."

That caused Lark to suddenly turn into a wriggling worm trying to escape his grip. But Atticus just held onto her even tighter. "Let. Me. Go," she wheezed out.

Atticus enjoyed watching her struggle. Eventually she gave up and went limp in his arms. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she rested her pounding head against his upper chest. "You okay there?" he asked genuinely concerned.

Lark didn't answer. So Atticus sighed and scooped her up, ignoring her sudden protests. So she wrapped her thin arms around his neck to prevent herself from falling. Atticus grinned at her actions and tightened his grip. He carried her petite figure back to the field with ease.

Lark furrowed her eyebrows at the short journey. "I thought that I had made it a farther distance from here," she pouted sadly.

"Apparently not," Atticus said, "But it's a good thing. If you were farther, I might have never found you."

"But not finding me would be a good thing."

Atticus frowned, but he continued on walking until they reached the edge of the field. "You can set me down, you know," Lark stated as Atticus walked past multiple, brightly colored tents with her bundled up in his arms. He just shook his head stubbornly. "Please?" she pouted. But he just looked away and shook his head again.

So Lark stayed there, pouting, until Atticus finally stopped in front of a bright red and yellow tent. The color for royalty in the kingdom of Olilith. Oh right, she thought, royalty here.

Upon entering the tent, Atticus still refused to put Lark down, much to her many protests. They received many curious stares from the few servants and soldiers occupying the large tent.

Atticus finally set Lark down on a thin, but surprisingly comfortable, mattress on the hard ground in the back, right corner of the tent. But her ankles were immediately tied together, her wrists left unbound. "Really?" she whined, "I'm not going to try and run."

Atticus ignored her whines and complaint, and laid out a small set of basic medical supplies and healing herbs. "Just taking precautions. Although, you wouldn't make it very far," he said, clutching her left upper arm gently.

While Atticus was not paying much attention to her, Lark tried to unite her bound ankles. "Don't make me tie your hands together also," he muttered without looking up.

Lark crossed her arms and pouted like a little girl who didn't get her sweets. Atticus just smiled as sweetly as he possiblycould.

He eventually took her left upper arm in his large hands, and examined the already healing arrow wound. "Doesn't look to deep. All it really needs is to be cleaned up and bandaged," he stated, "This may hurt hurt a bit."

"What?" she was about to ask. But instead she let out a deafening screech due to the sharp, stinging pain coming from her left shoulder. "Y-you think that m-maybe you could've warned me when?" she stuttered.

"Nah, sorry love," he grinned devishly. "Why did your parents decide to name you Lark?" he asked trying to distract her from the continuous pain.

Lark stared at him sadly for a moment. "My father would always tell me that, when my mother was alive, she would always sing as beautifully as a lark. And when I was born, my birthplace was also my mother's death place. When my father died, his last words were 'Lark, grow up as beautiful as your mother was, as beautiful as a lark." Why was she allowing herself to tell him this?

Atticus smiled a pitiful smile. "My mother died a few weeks after my younger brother, Rylan, was born," he said sadly.

There was a silent moment between the two of them, both reminiscing the memories they had.
Atticus was the one to break the peaceful silence. "You should get some rest. We are moving to the spring palace once the sun rises higher," he said in a hard voice.

Lark looked at him curiously and saw a stone expression on his face. But his clear brown eyes were full of scattered emotions. Pain. Sympathy. Anger.

What happened to the man he was just a few moments ago, all sweet and such?

She didn't bother to question him as he moved farther away from her. But she instead frowned, and settled down, trying to get comfortable on the mattress.

Lark then blanked out into a peaceful slumber.