Enter Treadwell

[Treadwell]

From the dusty, bloody ground out by the fair, after Treadwell's attack from Catch, to the not as dusty, clean floor of the hospital go Aloisius and Clayton. Swimming lazily in and out of wakefulness, Treadwell really doesn't know much about where he is at the moment; at least he's on his back, which helps a little with the bleeding, perhaps, by not letting his innards spill out too terribly much (compared to the shape he's currently in, at least!), but the sudden appearance of the badly injured Councilor should, perhaps, get some folks' attentions!

[Picking up here from the Fiddler thread.]

[Treadwell]

Janessa had been the one to find Aloisius and Clayton; she had ordered Treadwell hefted onto a rolling table and taken to a room, there to be washed clean before she and Gloria oversaw the sewing up of his cuts to his belly and Janessa splinted Tready's broken hand for lack of being able to offer better help. There he has snored for the rest of the evening, sleeping soundly.

He woke once during the women's assistance, only to fearfully stammer out "Children" and "Catch" before being eased back to sleep so they could they continue their work.

[Treadwell]

This night, the night of the ninth, into the tenth: visitors.

Treadwell's room is softly lit by glowing, fat-bellied, three-inch-tall visitors.

They are fairies, they are from New Hibera, and they are in his room by way of a fat-bellied mouse's gnawed entryway.

They number one hundred, even: Orin Barrin, court physician and current ruler of New Hibera, with forty-nine white-winged, white-glowing healers, and fifty green-winged, green-glowing guards toting fairy-sized polearms. They are around one-tenth of the total population of New Hibera. They are the entirety of the New Hiberan palace's medical staff and most of its guardsmen.

All one hundred are portly, round little fellows, hopelessly devoted to their Tubbius.

To their Treadwell.

Treadwell stirs in his sleep, his eyes squintily opening at the gentle change in lighting put out by these unusual little folks. Glasses are smudged onto his nose, and then--recognition!

"Doctor?" he squeakily whispers.

"My Lord," the great-tummied physician offers a bow even though he buzzes exhaustingly with overtaxed wings. "Speak not, or very little, Holy One." Pudgy little fairy arms wave about--one directing half of the white-glowing healers to Treadwell's pillow, one directing the others to his hand. He stays fluttering-flapping busily near Aloisius's shoulder, finally landing by his ear.

"These are the obvious injuries, My Lord; even biglings don't let their cheeks and hands suffer that manner of pain! What else ails you?"

"My belly, Doctor," he croaks. "Stitched up, though, mmph."

The doctor fairy frowns. The belly is simply too much to cover!

"We can do nothing about that tonight, I fear. It took us these last few days to read and study bigling bodies and injuries, Holy Tubbius, and then to travel here. We wish to help as we can. Gentle, careful applications of magic, a bit of muscle from our guardsmen to move things about. . . . Oh, dear me. I fear this nudging about of offset and broken bones might hurt considerably."

The frown grows.

"We'll do what we can to numb your pain while we work, and then, My Lord, we will work to mend what we can. We can't guarantee a full healing, but we should be able to get your jaw set aright and a little less swollen, and your hand. . . . Well, ahem."

"Well, mmph?"

"Luckily, bigling hands are the same as fairy hands. We know where things go; it's just a matter of getting everything held in place while we work on it, and doing it all overnight without being interrupted. We can fix your hand well enough, but you will have to take it very, very easy with it for a time, Holy One, or use your own divine magic to finish our job. It will be fragile; you see, we can only do so much, especially in one night, and--"

"Then visit every night!"

An order, a command, a growl.

The doctor sighs and nods.

"Of course. Until your mortal, fleshy body is well, Great Tubbius! By morning, you will look more like your usual self in face and fingers, and both will be considerably more useful to you!"

And then, shrilly barked orders!

"Men! All of you! To work! And no one light on Our Lord's belly, for it is soft and hurt and newly sutured!"

[breeevil]

Had he been able to, he would have come sooner. But medical areas kind of give Clayton a bad feeling, and the man had to work himself up to going to see his friend, the Glutton, and not immediately becoming the non-human he truly was. Nerves are a pain.

A length of bright yellow fabric is folded over his arm, other hand gripping the handles of a bag tightly as he makes his way for Treadwell, ignoring everyone in his path. And curtains are pulled or doors are closed to immediately let then believe they have some privacy.. even if they don't.

Normally he would hover.. stay away from the sick or injured person but this is not just some random Myrken filth. This was Treadwell.

"My brother.. are you awake?" His voice may have never been so gentle before..

[Treadwell]

A snort and snuff-mmphle see a dozing Treadwell to his senses. He wears one of his gowns from home--the only thing in the building, besides his nearby robe and pajamas, that would fit him properly. His right hand is still splinted into place, but the swelling in it and in the right side of his jaw has decreased. In the hand, fingers have been properly aligned and set into place, as have bones all through the hand's fleshy self. The jaw is properly positioned as well. In fact, as the yawwawwwwn shows, he can actually talk.

The stitching up of his belly, of course, is still quite visible through his nightgown.

"Clayton!" Tready whispers, almost happily despite his condition. "What, hmm hmm, brings you by?"

And, at this, the Glutton's belly rummmmmbles. Tready hasn't eaten a really good meal for days, now.

[breeevil]

Another robe.. the bright thing Clayton was holding was another of Treadwell's garments from home. He takes a moment to drape the thing nicely over the back of a chair, sighing a bit.. smoothing the robe out to make sure the fabric wont wrinkle much. The bag is set down near the bed.
What brings you buy? he says. Clayton cannot help the smirk, glancing sideways to his friend for a moment before he takes a deep breath. "I've come to see you, of course. Check on you, make sure you're healing properly. Make sure they're feeding you.." And such. He wont apologize for not having come sooner, because he hates apologies. He cannot feel badly about it.
"Find out if there is anything you absolutely must have so I can bring it to you later on tonight.."

[Treadwell]

"Have to eat?"

Aloisius Treadwell's quivery jowls jiggle as he grins beneath that floofy, white beard, so recently and thoroughly washed of his blood that stained it days ago.

"Or, mmph, more practically? And I'm healing well, I think. . . My hand hurts, and my belly, and my face, mmph mmph, but the helpers here and my fairy friends from New Hibera who came by last night, hmm, are doing their parts."

Tready nods his head another time or two, squinting those wet, beady eyes toward Clayton.

"I just want a good meal, dear boy, but I'm told my mouth and stomach likely aren't up to it, yet."

Such despair in his voice! Such sadness! Such sorrow!

[breeevil]

At least, then, there was no one for him to have to exchange harsh words with when it comes to Treadwell being taken care of. If not the people of the rememdium, apparently the fae will do it.. satisfactory, he supposed.
The visiting man places his hands on his hips, head hanging down for a moment before eyes sweep over the room and he starts to pace a shortly, a few steps in this direction, a few in that.
He could understand an issue eating with the Glutton's jaw being broken, and Clayton had been hoping the mans actual stomach - the organ itself - had no been harmed but he wouldn't ask for clarification on what handle it means.

"Your friends.. are they handling who did this to you, too?" Because someone needed to, right? Someone needed to pay for attacking Treadwell, for maiming a God..

[Treadwell]

Treadwell's great gut gives a grumpy gurrrrrrgle, empty and ravenous.

"All that's been taken care of, at least for now, mmph."

The corpulent councilor lifts his splinted hand to a bedside chair, wiggling the tip of a finger that way.

"Please, Clayton, sit down, mmph mmph. You're making me dreadfully nervous."

A gentle nod of his head.

"Besides, dear boy. . . . Old Tready needs a hug."

The last he says with teary eyes and rumbly middle; lingering pain and an empty belly are, to him, just about as bad as each other!

[breeevil]

That was enough for him.. Clayton didn't need to go poking his nose in to the business of crazy people.. he had done more than enough of that in his time here.
Again, he wont apologize.. not even when it comes to him having made his friend nervous while he is trying to heal, but Clayton does hook his foot around the leg of a chair and drag it to himself, glancing down at the seat for a second.
The thought of hugging most people was enough to make the proud man cringe.. but the Glutton was a little different.

"I worry I might hurt you.." By getting too close.

[Treadwell]

"Ooooh, that's fine. . . . I'm just hurting all over; that's all. Think nothing of it."

He worms back under the covers with a slow wiggle of his rump.

"I mainly just want a good supper, but they're a bit worried about me eating too much and straining the stitches, mmph mmph. Granted, with my jaw and hand still hurting like they are--even though they're a good bit healed--I don't know that I feel up to it, all the same."

"How long have I been here, Clayton? A few days? I've spent too much time asleep, mmph mmph, just trying not to deal with it all."

He blushes a bit.

"It's much simpler sleeping and easing into. . . well, other stuff."

[breeevil]

As his friend snuggle back under his blankets, Clayton's hand comes to rest gently on his shoulder. And he nods a bit, sinking down in to his chair.. a hand still resting atop the glutton's blankets. "It makes sense, though. Once they now you wont be tearing open your sutures I will prepare you something lovely.. I promise." He smiles a bit.
But then.. he has to think a bit. "I want to say something like.. ten days, maybe." There is a one-shouldered shrug. "Sleep is what you need, though. You wont heal without rest.. this is the best place for you to be, hard as that is to admit." because really Clayton was more than capable of taking care of Treadwell, and he would do a good job. But not as good as the people here.
"It will get better. I've brought you some books.. some more of your clothes. even some things for you to tinker with once you're up to it.." He motions to the bag he had come in with.

[Treadwell]

"Oho? Things to tinker with?"

Treadwell gives a sleepy grin, already wanting to ease back into drowsy slumbers where godly duties and desires are so much more appealing than lying in a hospital bed in agony with a belly that is never full and certainly doesn't have the opportunity to be anywhere close on the food offered here.

"Are you saying you brought me some of my work from the toy shop, mmph mmph? Or is this something else?"

[breeevil]

Clayton nods, his fingers drumming over the sheet on his friend's bed. "Mmmhmm." There is a small smile as Pride scratches at the tip of his nose, "Just some thing from around the shop.. I wasn't sure what I could find and I thought it better to.. well to get here faster instead of wandering the town looking for things I don't know about." And he chuckles, one shoulder shrugging.

"Rest now, if you need to. I'll stick around for a while. Unless you'd rather.." He gestures to the bag he brought in with him..

[Treadwell]

Treadwell nods his head a few times, giving a sleepy, sluggish yawwawwwwn and worming his neck around on his pillow. "I think I'll look at it a little later, mmph mmph. A nap suits me, now, and then, well, whenever they bring me something for supper, I suppose I'll eat."

He smiles and lets those beady eyes slip shut. In a few moments, Tready lies there a-snoring.