[ The last four weeks have felt like years. The odd cocktail of adrenaline and hope had been getting Hilda through the sleepless nights and the cold of the mountains in the last week, but now it was beginning to wane, leaving her cup empty.
She was tired, she wanted to cry about the state of her fingers and how much her body ached, but none of that could compare to anything that the taken Summoned had experienced. Being shy about her bratty, spoiled side isn't really synonymous with those that know Hilda, but the moment they had burst through the portal shivering, cold, and sans half of the gear they had left with thanks to the avalanche, there hadn't been a single complaint or whine about her predicament. There was still work to be done. After stepping foot back into Nocwich, everything had become a blur. Hilda barely remembers handing Sylvain, Claude, and Petra off to those vastly more skilled at healing than she is before rushing off in search of things to make their stay in the tents more comfortable.
Apparently four weeks had been all it took to turn Hilda into a bustling blur of pink. She refuses to stay still — or rather, insists that she can't. With all of her friends in some sort of state, she had been making her rounds, feeling once again, that it's the least she can do. She's no healer, a reluctant fighter, and jewelry making isn't particularly helpful in someone's recovery. The healers reassure that her friends will be okay, but Claude's state resurfaces the worry that she thought she wouldn't have to feel again, at least not for a little while. She runs a cool cloth over his forehead when the cure is administered to him, not even certain he'll remember or that he can hear her attempts at reassuring him that he'll be better after this. Even if the attempt is futile, she continues to dutifully remain by his bedside when she isn't flitting between the other's beds.
It's pure luck that she's by Claude's bed in that moment. At first she doesn't realize he's awake. She stares blankly at the sketchbook laid in her lap as her mind wanders to places she's been trying not to let it wander to: what would have happened had they not found them in time? What if he hadn't made it through the torture and succumbed to the awful injuries that she had been there to undress and clean even as her hands trembled in the process? It's hard to process thoughts about death and loss when it had very nearly taken one of the people she cares for so deeply. Where would that have left Petra or Sylvain? Where would that have left her? The motion of his arm jolts her and she immediately reaches for him, finger intertwining with his without thinking twice about it. It's as if the minute alertness returns to his body, so does it return to hers.
He's awake. He's alive. The constriction of her chest suddenly feels lighter and she lets out a soft scoff although it's hard for her to hide the misty quality of her eyes. ]
If you don't know the answer to that question then I'll really have a reason to be worried.
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She was tired, she wanted to cry about the state of her fingers and how much her body ached, but none of that could compare to anything that the taken Summoned had experienced. Being shy about her bratty, spoiled side isn't really synonymous with those that know Hilda, but the moment they had burst through the portal shivering, cold, and sans half of the gear they had left with thanks to the avalanche, there hadn't been a single complaint or whine about her predicament. There was still work to be done. After stepping foot back into Nocwich, everything had become a blur. Hilda barely remembers handing Sylvain, Claude, and Petra off to those vastly more skilled at healing than she is before rushing off in search of things to make their stay in the tents more comfortable.
Apparently four weeks had been all it took to turn Hilda into a bustling blur of pink. She refuses to stay still — or rather, insists that she can't. With all of her friends in some sort of state, she had been making her rounds, feeling once again, that it's the least she can do. She's no healer, a reluctant fighter, and jewelry making isn't particularly helpful in someone's recovery. The healers reassure that her friends will be okay, but Claude's state resurfaces the worry that she thought she wouldn't have to feel again, at least not for a little while. She runs a cool cloth over his forehead when the cure is administered to him, not even certain he'll remember or that he can hear her attempts at reassuring him that he'll be better after this. Even if the attempt is futile, she continues to dutifully remain by his bedside when she isn't flitting between the other's beds.
It's pure luck that she's by Claude's bed in that moment. At first she doesn't realize he's awake. She stares blankly at the sketchbook laid in her lap as her mind wanders to places she's been trying not to let it wander to: what would have happened had they not found them in time? What if he hadn't made it through the torture and succumbed to the awful injuries that she had been there to undress and clean even as her hands trembled in the process? It's hard to process thoughts about death and loss when it had very nearly taken one of the people she cares for so deeply. Where would that have left Petra or Sylvain? Where would that have left her? The motion of his arm jolts her and she immediately reaches for him, finger intertwining with his without thinking twice about it. It's as if the minute alertness returns to his body, so does it return to hers.
He's awake. He's alive. The constriction of her chest suddenly feels lighter and she lets out a soft scoff although it's hard for her to hide the misty quality of her eyes. ]
If you don't know the answer to that question then I'll really have a reason to be worried.