[ Following after her into the house, his stare is critical as he takes in the sight of what surely had been a struggle—the living room overturned, gore which hasn't yet crusted over to brown still vibrant against cream-colored décor, and... the sight of a body, obscured by the drape of a terry-cloth towel, but unmistakably maligned by the knife which Alice clings to now, her fingers wrapped about its handle as though it were a lifeline.
(Alice, what did that man do to you?) ]
Take her and her things to town and spend the night at an inn.
[ Memory of Sion's first and only time at the house carries him to the kitchen where he is quick to run the tap-water to warm, soaking a cloth beneath it before he is satisfied, wringing just enough of the moisture out. It is this washcloth he presents to Alice a moment later, wishing that, instead, just this once she might permit him to touch her. To wrap his arms about her in an embrace because he is so, so very sorry she'd been left with no other option than to take a worthless man's life upon herself.
But, in the end, he can only offer her a means to clean up.
(And perhaps he is just as worthless as the man who lies dead.) ]
For your face, Alice. [ And for her neck, the skin which is bruising to purple as the moments pass them by, the color stark against red. Impossible for him, to mask his concern, the way his brow furrows in discontent— ] You are injured. If you will not seek medical attention, then allow me this.
Let me take care of this for you, you needn't be burdened with it.
no subject
[ Following after her into the house, his stare is critical as he takes in the sight of what surely had been a struggle—the living room overturned, gore which hasn't yet crusted over to brown still vibrant against cream-colored décor, and... the sight of a body, obscured by the drape of a terry-cloth towel, but unmistakably maligned by the knife which Alice clings to now, her fingers wrapped about its handle as though it were a lifeline.
(Alice, what did that man do to you?) ]
Take her and her things to town and spend the night at an inn.
[ Memory of Sion's first and only time at the house carries him to the kitchen where he is quick to run the tap-water to warm, soaking a cloth beneath it before he is satisfied, wringing just enough of the moisture out. It is this washcloth he presents to Alice a moment later, wishing that, instead, just this once she might permit him to touch her. To wrap his arms about her in an embrace because he is so, so very sorry she'd been left with no other option than to take a worthless man's life upon herself.
But, in the end, he can only offer her a means to clean up.
(And perhaps he is just as worthless as the man who lies dead.) ]
For your face, Alice. [ And for her neck, the skin which is bruising to purple as the moments pass them by, the color stark against red. Impossible for him, to mask his concern, the way his brow furrows in discontent— ] You are injured. If you will not seek medical attention, then allow me this.
Let me take care of this for you, you needn't be burdened with it.