Somehow, hearing a shout that reminded him more than a little of the way Sylvester spoke when even just recalling tales of old battles snapped Simon out of his stupor enough to hasten forward. None of these people would know enough about August's nature to help; there were few in his own home who would. He might not even know enough, at least not without his tools, but he could--he didn't know what he could do, but he had to at least face the consequences of his own anxieties and cowardice.
"Move, all of you!" it wasn't a bellow, more the hiss of a startled and furious predator. When only a few of them stepped back for him, he gritted his teeth and snapped his fingers to drop the glamor that had both darkened and blunted his features. Those closest would see his eyes gone brighter gold, cheekbones gone impossibly sharper, while those farther back might only see that his ears now rose to sharp points through his hair. Luckily these people, even if they were not the mortals of his own world and unlikely to have the stories about his kind, seemed to at least hold some of the same innate knowledge that the Fair Folk were not called that for their gentle natures and stepped back quickly to give him a clear view of August. And he immediately wished they hadn't the sense to fear what he might be capable of.
He'd seen Amy in worse condition more than once. But Amy was her own unique blossom that could never be replicated. True, the two of them had coddled August close for so long that he'd never seen his child with more than a cut from a rose thorn or a slightly scraped knee, but that meant he had even less knowledge of just how much August could withstand, and even if he did know that would do little for how seeing his daughter with blood soaking through the whole front of her dress made his heart still. Oak and ash, if only he had any of his tinctures or even the bare ingredients on hand. But he didn't, so he'd have to make do with what he did. Which was very little.
He let his shaking legs give out entirely to bring him to his knees at August's side. Either the motion or scent of his magic seemed to rouse her to turn her head in his direction, eyes fluttering open but falling half-closed quickly. "Papa?" she murmured, voice weak and slurred. "Did you bring me roses? I can smell them."
There was so much wrong with those words falling from her lips now, and if he hadn't more pressing concerns Simon would have been terrified a great threat had chosen this moment to strike them both down. "No, little love," he murmured, grasping her hand in his while running the other carefully along her face and down her ruined dress. He was no healer, he had no idea what to do. What to encourage her to do. No, that wasn't quite right.
"If any of you foolish or brave enough to still hear me have a sharp blade, it would be in your best interest to bring it to me now," he barked, keeping his gaze focused on August the whole time. This was wrong, she should have been able to help herself as Amy did. Instead she had to rely on the father who had already failed her too many times. Maeve help him.