((The morning after Elliot gets the crap beat out of him))
It was too much, too many, and everyone's hands were bloodied. The entourage that followed Elliot to the Rememdium had not been few. In fact, the entire town seemed aware and upset, concern the first question and the last comment of conversations about Myrken’s shining knight. She would need to be alone with him, and that simply wasn’t happening.
Mid-morning came with a letter from Gloria, received with little apathy. Not that she didn’t care for Catch, but she had sat soaked, bloodied, bruised, and beyond exhausted at the bedside of the boy that might help her stop Rhaena. Numbness to everything spread so easily with mourning.
The doctors assured her he would be fine, consciousness would come, and she had best be seen herself. Swollen purple, yellow, and blue, half her face held the memory of Catch’s fist; blood long clotted and dried on her brow and red ringing her right iris – they cleaned up best they could, but the white linen eyepatch was hardly big enough to hide her involvement.
With little else they could do, she left directly for the Meeting House and a report for Rhaena’s right hand. Noses were held, looks given, and whispers whispered as the mess of a young woman made her way to the office. A water ruined and blood stained once white dress hung pathetically over her slender frame. Before it had been a stunning garment, fitted to her awkward height, embellished and nearly made to match that of the Man In White. But now the hem was muddy and torn and length if it was held, bundled in her arms as bruised ankles and awkward bare feet navigated the cobbled stone.
There was no requesting or knocking, she simply went to the door and opened it. If someone else was meeting with him, she would wait to speak. But for once, for this moment, haloed by her untamed, wavy flame-like hair, she was important and brought with her a presence, a stance that said as much.
“Giuseppe, m-may I speak with you?” Not that she would refrain if he said, ‘no.’