Who: Helen Magnus (Narrative) When: Early Morning, May 5 Where: Her house. What: Helen has another dream. Rating/Warnings: Very minor hinting at dream violence, a little bit of blood. Status: Complete!
"Adam, what have you done?"
"I forgive you, Helen. I forgive you."
She reaches for him, urgency in her voice. "Get up. Get up!"
"I forgive you."
"Come on. Come on!" Finally hauling him onto his feet, she slides her arm around his waist and half drags him back toward the entrance.
The glass starts to crack just before they reach the door, the explosion throwing them forward as they exit into bright sunlight, and she sinks onto the ground, exhausted.
Will's at her side almost immediately. "Magnus!"
And Kate's giving them both a look that clearly says, 'What the hell?' What she manages is a more suitable, "My God. What happened?"
"Who's that guy?" Will asks from somewhere behind her.
"Oh, we're in trouble."
Helen wakes suddenly, sitting up sharply, and she immediately regrets it. She'd thought the bruised ribs were painful enough, but they still weren't even close to being healed, and she's apparently just acquired even worse.
Adam.
She distinctly remembers a few blows that could have worsened the bruising, possibly cracked a rib or two. And those aren't the only bruises she remembers getting. She doesn't need to look to know her back and shoulders are likely mottled with just as many deep blues and purples as her front. And she knows instinctively her cheek will already be sensitive to touch.
Absently, she glances down at her left hand. It's still bleeding; and for a moment, she simply sits there staring at it, holding it awkwardly in the air, trying not to bleed on everything anymore than she already has, like she isn't quite certain what to do with it.
Ky watches her with concern in his big warm eyes, but she doesn’t have the energy to reassure him.
Finally, her good sense kicks in again, and she slowly eases herself out of bed, using her right hand to brace herself as she stands, grimacing. With careful steps she manages to make it into the bathroom without too much difficulty. The greyhound follows close to her side, hovering in the doorway.
Every part of her seems to ache, and it's easy to see why when she gets a look at herself in the mirror.
Her nose is bloody, and a quickly darkening mark stretches across her left cheek, just below her eye. Fainter bruises cover what she can see of her arms, and probably her legs as well, though her upper body had taken the brunt of it.
Leaning heavily against the sink, she runs the water, rinsing the blood from her hand so she can get a better look at it. The cut's only minor. She'll clean and bandage it just to be sure, but once it stops bleeding, she doubts she'll even notice it, certainly not on top of everything else.
With slow, careful movements she gently works the buttons on her shirt and lets it slide off her shoulders. The older bruises, she knows, are fading; but it's difficult to tell underneath the still darkening spread of fresh ones.
It’s probably a wonder she can even move at all.
She remembers vividly how she acquired most of these bruises, how it had felt. And she knows her own pain tolerance is only a fraction of her counterpart’s. She’s going to be feeling this for weeks.
With a soft sigh, she starts cleaning herself up. It’s going to be a long day.