( really, she wants to say that she's only there because she has to be. as one of the only other witnesses to the incident--and even that is just the happenstance of bad luck, passing by the training ground, with no intention to join in or even consider breaking a sweat--it's practically required of her to accompany claude to the infirmary, because apparently they might have questions and apparently they need more help than they have readily available and apparently she's meant to put her hand over the wound and keep it from spilling blood everywhere in transit, something that makes her swallow in discomfort and put on a face of clear displeasure.
what kind of idiot practices like this, anyway? the mock battles are more meant for displays like this, though why he'd been dying to show off or hone his bowmanship or whatever he'd been after, in the middle of the school week, is anyone's guess. she doesn't have the time to question it.
rushed into the room as they are, it's only with a bit of cursory, minimal healing that they're left alone--the infirmary is bustling thanks to a recent stomachvirus going through the school, and the wound at claude's shoulder is "surprising superficial", which explains why the healer leaves them after a moment with a crisp, sharp pull of a curtain around the side of the bed. there are plenty of other beds like this, stretched out along the room, and this is the only bit of privacy they're given from them: hilda sits at the chair by the bedside, her hands splattered with blood; she holds them palms up in her lap, making a face down at them before she looks up at claude, expectant. )
Does it feel any better?
( maybe she's looking, hopefully, for her cue to leave: but even her laziness won't permit her to step out of the infirmary if he's not stable, or if he's in pain, or if there's something she can do about it. wandering, her gaze finds the bowl of cool water and cloth at the bedside table, and with a resigned sigh, she stands up, dips her fingers into the bowl and starts rubbing the blood off of them. )
Take off your shirt. I'll clean the blood, at least.
( it's the right thing to do, isn't it? though claude is likely going to have a field day with her asking it of him. )
for claude.
what kind of idiot practices like this, anyway? the mock battles are more meant for displays like this, though why he'd been dying to show off or hone his bowmanship or whatever he'd been after, in the middle of the school week, is anyone's guess. she doesn't have the time to question it.
rushed into the room as they are, it's only with a bit of cursory, minimal healing that they're left alone--the infirmary is bustling thanks to a recent stomachvirus going through the school, and the wound at claude's shoulder is "surprising superficial", which explains why the healer leaves them after a moment with a crisp, sharp pull of a curtain around the side of the bed. there are plenty of other beds like this, stretched out along the room, and this is the only bit of privacy they're given from them: hilda sits at the chair by the bedside, her hands splattered with blood; she holds them palms up in her lap, making a face down at them before she looks up at claude, expectant. )
Does it feel any better?
( maybe she's looking, hopefully, for her cue to leave: but even her laziness won't permit her to step out of the infirmary if he's not stable, or if he's in pain, or if there's something she can do about it. wandering, her gaze finds the bowl of cool water and cloth at the bedside table, and with a resigned sigh, she stands up, dips her fingers into the bowl and starts rubbing the blood off of them. )
Take off your shirt. I'll clean the blood, at least.
( it's the right thing to do, isn't it? though claude is likely going to have a field day with her asking it of him. )