by Rance » Sun Jul 07, 2013 2:18 pm
A moment later and she would have done what she did weeks before--
A hard strike, a cock of the forearm, a want to ignore the needle for a chance to pummel the teeth through which It so boldly spoke. She would have felt guilt for Noura; she would beg for apology, but it would have been a reasonable response to silence the chattering voice.
But she never needed to; she continued her task on penalty of losing Niall's very life. Instead, she freed her gloved hand and hammered Niall's shoulder back against the tree, hissing, "Stay up," before the final stitch was drawn, thread-edges broken, and tied roughly against the skin. What damage was done beneath that puncture could be remedied by no seamworker's hand, but the constant bleeding had been momentarily stifled.
"It is because Elliot is -- is not Elliot," she snapped at Noura, before shaking hands discarded thread-edges. The barrel-thick girl got to her feet, gritting her teeth against the dizziness, the clouds in her head. Blood on her fingers, seeping into the cracks of her palms, slicking up her wrists, spattered on her skirt, spilling to her wooden shoes. "Because Elliot is not Elliot," Gloria repeated. A softer explanation. One that wanted for patience in the wake of the whelp's fear.
"She's meant for the Rememdium, Noura. I -- I need your help. You take her under one arm, and I the other. We lift her, support her with shoulders and hips--" the way you would lift a satchel of holy sand, "--because if she stands straight, the stitches will tear, the wound will open."
And there will be more blood.
Fueled only by feeble instinct, the girl bent her knees, entwined her arm along with Niall's, and told her to stand.