faderift | [closed]

The trunk clatters as Wysteria starts getting to her feet. The momentary reduction in weight is immediately punctuated by several short, pained grunts from Ellis as Wysteria's knees dig into his thigh, his stomach. It's an accident, but still—

"Tilt your head back," Ellis instructs after drawing in a wheezy breath. "Pinch your nose to try and stem the bleeding."

Maker forbid she's broken it. He shoves the trunk to the side, out of range of Wysteria's blood-streaming nose. Someone's probably going to have an objection to the blood spattered across it.

"Let me catch my breath. I'll look at it."

Or reset it. One of those things is gong to be easier for Wysteria to stomach than the other, he suspects.

"It's fine," she says, which sounds more like 'Eez Fawn' as she claps her hand over her face and rocks her head back.

Getting fully to her feet is a bigger ask than she is prepared to answer just this moment, but she has at least extricated herself from Ellis and the trunk and has sat back down (hard) on the lower steps of the staircase they've just head planted down. Everything tastes like copper. Trying not to breath - in, out, or generally in any direction whatsoever -, Wysteria asks the ceiling through her fingers: "Argh yew uhlright?"

Resisting the urge to kick the offending trunk, Ellis slowly, stubbornly, pushes himself into an upright position. The movement is accompanied by a long, low groan of pain. He's very aware of how bad this could have possibly been, but his skull isn't cracked, so he's considering this a lucky turn of events.

"Nothing's broken," he ventures. "This isn't nearly painful enough for broken bones."

Ellis makes to stand, wheezes, and then abandons the idea. What a luxury, being able to sit and catch his breath without something trying to kill him.

"Are we able to bill our visitors for our injuries?"

Wysteria seems admirably calm, but Ellis feels it important to keep her attention diverted. Just in case. He makes a second try at moving, bracing one hand on the trunk as he moves to join her on the steps.

"Eh wathur doubt it."

Calm, or thinking very hard about the fact that she has ruined this bodice? How long does she have to get it down to the laundry and soaking before the blood has set? How much blood has gotten on it really? With her head tipped back, it's impossible to say and she can feel the blood flowing still from between her fingers. The urge to tighten her hold on her nose, to create an airtight seal in an attempt to staunch it might be desperately compelling if not for the pain the radiates from her face when she starts to give it a go. So instead she feels blindly in her skirt pockets - first one, then the other - until she fishes a handkerchief from it. It's one of those lovely fancy ones Sidony Rutyer had given her for Satinalia. Wysteria promptly balls it up and applies it to her flowing nose.

With her hand not muffling her mouth as well as her nose, she's slightly more clear while saying, "My cousin fell from his horse one and was convinced he was fine, only to discover later that he'd broken two rib and a finger. You should be very mindful of yourself in the coming hours, Messere. I didn't bleed on you, did I?"

Wysteria is a marvel. Not even a broken nose is really slowing her down. As he lowers himself down beside her on the step, he plucks at his shirt. There are spatters of blood. Ellis notes them, unconcern

"I've broken some ribs before," Ellis tells her. "Among other things."

That entire incident had been a lot more painful than this, but Wysteria doesn't need the gory details. There's a lot of details he never needs to share with Wysteria, who seems untouched by the worst any world has to offer. He bites back an grimace and then lifts a hand, stopping just short of touching her face.

"Let me see?"

Obediently - in the way that certain breeds of people are rather accustomed to doing as they're told when it comes to their own care and maintenance being fussed over by others -, Wysteria removes the balled handkerchief from her nose and tips her face toward him without lowering her gaze from the ceiling.

"Well? How does it look?"

"Not broken," Ellis wheezes, reassuring as one can be in this situation. "We'll need some ice."

Unfortunate that neither of them can magically conjure up some ice. He looks at the trunk, then back to Wysteria.

"If you want to go to the infirmary, I can drag that down the last few flights."

Which sounds a lot better than Ellis' present plan to kick it down the last flight and hope for the best.

"Nonsense," she says, jamming the handkerchief back under her nose. "You're in no condition to do any lifting, and Mademoiselle Rialtoblan will have a conniption if the case is at all battered when it reaches the slip. We shall press gang the person able bodies we pass on our way to the clinic together. Come now, on your feet."

It's a very nice plan, and that last bit is especially motivating. But does she actually rise herself? Not yet. Her face is beginning to ache terribly and she needs just a moment after all.

Edited 2020-01-16 12:40 (UTC)

At that, Ellis chuckles wetly.

"Getting on your feet is the hardest part," he tells her. It sounds like a platitude, but there's a deep wealth of misery beneath it. Ellis' whole life has been keeping on his feet, weathering blow after blow. Comparatively, a few broken bones are nothing.

He grits his teeth, braces a hand on the wall, and pulls himself to his feet with a pained grunt. After a moment of waiting to be sure he'll stay there, he turns to offer her a hand.

"I'll give you a hand up if you promise to be sure I don't fall down the last flight."

Between them, Wysteria looks a worse sight. The blood tips the scales.

"Of course. I will be your loyal guardian," she says, head still tipped back to staunch the flow of blood and spare hand feeling around in the air until she finds his offered hand. She quickly adds, "Within reason. I'm afraid if you start to go down, there will be very little I can do to stop you, of course," so that he might not get any untoward ideas about the level of her devotion.

To her credit, she does not haul overmuch on his hand as she gets to her feet. After all, he is the grievously injured party here. But for a moment once she is upright and after her head has stopped spinning, she is consciously aware of the placement of her hand steadied in his. The urge to clarify the whole situation rises up suddenly - 'I think you should know, sir. For the sake of transparency. I am honor bound to let you know that while your attention is of course quite flattering--' et cetera and so on -, and is nearly past her teeth when she instead plucks her hand free, smooths her skirts brusquely, and gives him a serious nod from behind the bundled and blood spotted handkerchief.

"Well then. Off we go."

And that is that. With a resolute turn, Wysteria leads the way.

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