[The front door of the house clicks open. Clicks shut. And bundled into her coat, a rather nondescript rucksack slung over her shoulder, marches Rosalind Lutece.
It had been the only thing for it, she had told herself. It was a private reassurance that smoothed and salved over the raw-edged fear of waking up to the smell of salt and rust in her nostrils and the throaty, laboured sounds of Robert breathing around blood. It lent purpose to the act of rolling out of bed, dressing carefully so as not to wake him (for even if his unconscious had begun to bleed him, he only worked himself into terrifying haemorrhage while waking), making her way to the clinic and forcing her way inside and taking whatever she imagined she might need.
It was an eventuality she had researched, of course. Even if she rarely wished so dearly for research to any research she embarked upon to ultimately be pointless. But it was the only thing for it. After the things she had done to keep him with her, breaking and entering with a spot of theft was all but nothing.
Her eyes light between the two of them, Elizabeth and her brother, as much light in them as there has ever been. Her cool haughtiness is a skin rendered translucent, illumed from within by purpose and desire and the brittle flicker of fear itself, and she breathes a low string of words, sliding off her coat and laying it on the bed.]
He's still bleeding.
[It's too gentle to be despairing, the tone of her voice, but there is a quiet despondency as she draws up alongside him, for a moment brushing pale fingers along the side of his face and tipping it up to look at her. Another flit of her gaze to Elizabeth, though longer, just enough to leave it uncertain who she is even speaking to.]
[Action]
It had been the only thing for it, she had told herself. It was a private reassurance that smoothed and salved over the raw-edged fear of waking up to the smell of salt and rust in her nostrils and the throaty, laboured sounds of Robert breathing around blood. It lent purpose to the act of rolling out of bed, dressing carefully so as not to wake him (for even if his unconscious had begun to bleed him, he only worked himself into terrifying haemorrhage while waking), making her way to the clinic and forcing her way inside and taking whatever she imagined she might need.
It was an eventuality she had researched, of course. Even if she rarely wished so dearly for research to any research she embarked upon to ultimately be pointless. But it was the only thing for it. After the things she had done to keep him with her, breaking and entering with a spot of theft was all but nothing.
Her eyes light between the two of them, Elizabeth and her brother, as much light in them as there has ever been. Her cool haughtiness is a skin rendered translucent, illumed from within by purpose and desire and the brittle flicker of fear itself, and she breathes a low string of words, sliding off her coat and laying it on the bed.]
He's still bleeding.
[It's too gentle to be despairing, the tone of her voice, but there is a quiet despondency as she draws up alongside him, for a moment brushing pale fingers along the side of his face and tipping it up to look at her. Another flit of her gaze to Elizabeth, though longer, just enough to leave it uncertain who she is even speaking to.]
I'd thought we'd moved beyond this.