Having run the gauntlet of possible bodily injuries and their various thresholds of pain, the passive was at least prepared for Sarinah's expression of suffering. He'd bit the inside of his cheek until he could taste copper, finding it impossible to stay angry at anything in the presence of her sobbing. He wasn't angry with her. If anything, he was angry he'd let a single clocking word dig under his skin, that he hadn't stopped the fight sooner, that he had to sit here helpless in the presence of someone he cared about unnecessarily shot and bleeding all over the freshly waxed floor.

"Epaemo? Ne. Y'ent got nothin' t'be apologizin' for, hama."

Tristaan sighed and slid from the chair, gingerly leaving her leg elevated, foot delicately placed on the seat. Moving hurt all the sudden, and he stifled a grunt when the leg with the fracture wobbled and protested under his weight. Uncaring of the bloody mess, the sharp pain of glass in his feet, and the sting from her grip on his arm, he sat on the floor beside her, straightening the leg he could feel swelling and bruising before reaching for the lovely witch.

One hand sought to rest her head against his chest, fingers curling into her hair as his other arm wrapped around her shoulders to bring her closer, "I ent mad at you. Gods, I jus' wanted you safe. If anyone's gotta say epaemo, it's me."

He glanced at her leg. It needed to be cleaned. He needed some rags to keep applying pressure. She needed to stay talking, conscious. Still, he held her a bit and made no real move to let go right away, cheek pressed against the crown of her head, "I ... I let that thing get me mad s'all. Over a word. I could've tried harder t'stop things sooner, but I didn't. Epaemo."

Tristaan bit his lip and didn't explain further, words stuck in his throat and burning his tongue.

Leaning her head into his chest, the dazed woman cried, quieter now as the pain in her thigh subsided to a throbbing burn. Closing her eyes, she relaxed against him, aware that the passive had been hurt too, but the cloudiness in her mind couldn't remember where. He bled, that much she could recall.

"Ne hama...you couldn't help how things went. He looked...insane." The tremble in her hands slowly overtook her body, and she shook in his arms. Slowly, the crying stopped, as she rested against him, listening to his heartbeat.

"Tristaan...what did he say?" Sarinah asked in a soft voice, sounding distant, almost as if she'd suddenly remembered something he said. Gods, she felt so tired. If she just napped, things would be better. Her leg would feel better in the morning. Everything would be alright in the morning.

"Scrap."

The passive answered simply, a bitter edge grating in his voice as the word left his lips, the fire in his chest suddenly still feeling unquenched. Tristaan noted she'd relaxed, maybe a little too much. His concern wrestled with his anger, winning in the end. He didn't wait for a response to his answer, leaning away as he moved his hands to goad her into sitting up, "Macha, I need you t'stay awake, ye chen? I still need t'clean that and stop it from bleedin' so much."

He shifted, making as if to stand, realizing that was going to be a painful experience, "Keep talkin' t'me. I need t'fetch things from th'kitchen. Y'ent allowed t'sleep. Okay?"

Sarinah frowned at the word. It wasn't unfamiliar, she knew what it meant, but only since recently had it meant something to her. She muttered something under her breath, sounding a lot like Tek cursing, but too quiet and mumbled to understand.
 
As Tristaan made to move, sitting her up, she groaned slightly in protest, leaning heavily on one arm. Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, she reached out with her free hand, holding onto the leg of his pants above the knee. Her chocolate eyes looked glazed and pleading.
 
"Ne, don't go. Please Tristaan, please." Tears welled up again, as she gripped the fabric weakly, mind foggy. Why would he leave her alone now? With the stranger? Why did he want her to stay awake, it seemed so logical to just sleep everything off. The toes of her raised leg began to feel cold and uncomfortable. Vaguely, her eyes roamed down his bruised and bloodied form, and she found herself crying openly again.
 
"Oh kov..." Her hand strayed from his pants to his side, trembling fingers stopping short of touching the gash.

"S'fine. That." He said quietly, catching her hand, ambiguous as to whether or not he meant the slang for his birthright or the knife slash along his side. It was a nick, really, already congealing against his skin. The graze on his arm was deeper, not quite yet scabbed over, still bright and red against his skin.

Tristaan sighed, swaying a little at the wrong sensation putting weight on his leg produced, tilting his head at her thigh, "An' if we don't get your bleedin' stopped, there ent gonna be much left for whoever Sparkles is fetchin' t'do t'help you. Ye chen? That's bad, an' I ent gonna let that happen. Jus' th' kitchen," he hooked his free thumb over his shoulder, fingers of his other hand intertwining with hers, "or th'bar. Right behind you, hama."

He stood there, concern obvious on his face. He wanted to make sure Carmine was at least completely disarmed, possibly bound, before he was even close to regaining consciousness. He wanted some rags. Maybe a drink. He needed to keep Sarinah awake, which the sting of alcohol may prove helpful if he could just get to it.

"I ent gonna leave you alone." Standing on his feet hurt. He'd have a time digging little glass shards out later, "Jus' give me a minute. Please?"

Nodding, the witch released him, wrapping her arm around herself as she watched him waver. He was in pain too, she knew it, but her mind wouldn't focus enough to help him help her.

Crying fading off again, Sarinah stared into space, mind foggy and unfocused. She could hear the passive behind her somewhere, feeling a long way off, and her eyelids blinked heavily. Thick strands of red and black hair slipped across her face as he head drooped. Everything felt numb and cottony, and it would be just so easy to shut her eyes.

Once released, Tristaan did what he could as quickly as his body allowed: snatching up the unconscious Carmine to set him on the bar, making sure he wasn't bleeding (too much); digging for everything that even resembled cloth or rags from behind the bar; and not quite as an afterthought, grabbing whatever bottle of something-or-other strong and alcoholic from one of the shelves. Surely, it was useful enough in more than one capacity.

It was really only a few moments of absence, shuffling back and forth, willing himself to think about anything else than his own bodily protests.

He returned to sort of throw himself back at the floor next to Sarinah, crumpling as quickly as possible into a sitting position so as to avoid lingering on his leg longer than he had to. Setting the pile of cloth on one side and the bottle on the other, he paused to shake her shoulder,

"Hey, none of that." Tristaan waited for a bit of a response before reaching for the bottle and a couple of rags, fully aware that what he was about to do would most likely wake the dead if they had the ability to feel pain. Cleaning an open wound with alcohol was not going to be pretty, "No sleepin'. You'll wanna look at me an' not your leg ..."

The passive trailed off a little, frowning as he mustered up the truth, "Th'hurtin' part ent over yet."

Jolting awake, eyes wide for a moment, Sarinah looked at Tristaan with a confused frown, blinking.

"Wha.." She began to say, before a flash of coherancy reminded her of the situation. They weren't in the big warm bed upstairs. They were on the hardwood floor, bleeding and broken, and the passive was talking to her. Reaching up, the brunette pushed her hair out of her face.



Numbly, the witch nodded, keeping her almost vacant gaze on the man she trusted and loved, mind unable to keep up anymore. She felt light headed, too light headed. The room wavered like she was drunk, but the dancer ignored it.

"Just...be quick hama." Sarinah sighed weakly, unsure of how the passive dealt so well with pain. Even with her mind filled with mush, she knew she was handling it poorly.

For a significant span of his lifetime, pain had often been like breathing—necessary and inescapable. If there was anything to get used to, it was that it happened. Whether Tristaan really considered himself capable of dealing with pain or not wasn't something he would ever be able to answer should he had actually been asked.

"I ent got any promises, hama." He replied apologetically while squinting at the faded label of the bottle of clear, slightly mysterious alcohol he'd pulled out from behind the bar. Struggling to open it, the passive reached his free hand up to brush the side of the dancer's face, "Look at me. Not at that."

Then his hand was drifting away from her face to rest firmly on her leg above the wound, not particularly interested in ending up with a knee to the face as a reaction. Using the bottom of the bottle, he scooted some rags within reach as preparation. With a gentle but obvious pressure, Tristaan didn't give a warning, knowing very well a bit of surprise would probably work in his favor—both with unanticipated pain and a jolt into wakefulness for Sarinah.

He simply glanced away and poured.

Leaning into his hand, the dancer closed her eyes, opening them again slowly. Her line of vision found the bottle in his hand, and a small crease appeared between her eyebrows.

"What is that?" She asked quietly, trying to focus on the label. It was faded and old...something. His hand rested on her leg, and for a moment, she knew what would come. Whining slightly, she looked up at him, not wanting more pain...too lethargic to cry about it anymore. The pressure increased, and he looked away. Reaching out her free hand, she grasped his pants again.

As the clear liquid spilled onto the open, raw flesh, the witch stiffened, muscles clenching and teeth grinding. She couldn't hold back the cry of pain as it burned her leg, black spots appearing in her vision.

Tristaan scowled, very much uncomfortable and saddened to see and to hear Sarinah in so much pain, with a clocking hole through her leg (her leg!), bleeding. Had he not been any further along the path of emotional numbness, he'd have probably cried, but, as it was, he couldn't. He sighed, lifting his hand from restraining her to set it on her own still gripping his pants,

"Epaemo."

It was all he could say. He wasn't really sure how many times he could say it. How many would make it better? Not enough.

The passive squeezed her hand, taking a swig from whatever the heck was in the bottle, sputtering and coughing before setting it down to reach for the rags and begin wiping her leg gingerly with one hand. He didn't want to let go of her hand, but he didn't look up either. It was still bleeding; the godsbedamned hole just staring up at him as if it was all his fault.

Once the wounds were clean, he released her hand to use both of his with unbloodied rags to apply pressure, as careful as he could, to both sides. With a groan, he moved to sit closer, offering the lovely witch something, someone, to lean on instead of just her own arm,

"That's it for now. Jus' gotta keep you up 'til Sparkles comes back with help." He offered quietly, staring at his hands as they held her leg, ignoring the dull ache in his own, "That feral thing should've shot me, not you, hama."

Thankful for the hand on hers, the witch wavered on her arm, blinking away the threatening blanket of darkness as he cleaned the wound. She focused on little things. The bottle, the splutter. His voice in the night. The pain lessened, a distant thing. Occasionally the swipe of a rough rag would jolt her out of the closing numbness with a gasp and a jump.



Leaning back against him, eyes shut, Sarinah shook her head. Her response to him was slow, sluggish, like that of a drunk about to hit the hay. The pressure on her leg was almost a far away concern, and a walk in the sunshine compared to what he'd had to do to her so far.

"Ne Tristaan...I should have...stayed upstairs...but...I was so worried..." Her voice faded off for a moment, the witch breathed slowly, quietly.

Nudging the witch gently, the passive urged her to stay awake, grunting frustratedly, "It was an accident, Sarinah. I ent sure th'man meant t'aim at anyone, really." He wasn't about to mention that her spell may have aggravated the situation; he understood that the dancer was trying to help.

Tristaan kept his hands steady against the two holes, noting that the bleeding was slowly letting up. Leaning against her, he did what he could to jostle her into wakefulness,

"Stay awake, macha. Surely Sparkles ent wanderin' th'whole Harbor for someone. He'll be back soon. Keep with me. I know you're tired, but it ent th'same as sleepin'."

Slowly, he removed his hands from her leg, pulling away the soaked rags to note things had ebbed to a slow oozing. Keeping her leg up and tied had helped, and less bleeding seemed to actually have good timing. Using a few more rags to wrap her thigh again, he moved to sit behind her when he was done, hands rubbing her arms to encourage a bit of warmth and less sleepiness,

"That man was lookin' for a fight, angry that he'd lost his place an' rather drunk." Tristaan mumbled almost dejectedly, absently making conversation while at the same time revealing just how guilty he felt, "I was willin' t'give him one ... It didn't do anythin' but make a mess."

Frowning, Sarinah opened her eyes and made a small sound of protest.

"Ne, ne. Sleep is gonna make it better..." She said angrily, as though it was the most obvious thing in Vita. Looking confused, she placed a hand on her forehead.

"Ne...I mean..." Sitting foward slightly, the brunette didn't even notice as he removed the rags and covered the wound, to tired to think or care.

As he rubbed her arms, Sarinah listened to him speak, concentraited on his voice. He didn't want her to sleep, it was important to him. Leaning against him again, she scoffed slightly.

"Ent any mess here thats your fault," The witch muttered, staring at the door of the premises, waiting for...something. Reaching over without turning her head, the brunette fumbled for his free hand, squeezing it softly when she found it.

"I love you." Her voice sighed, direct and in estuan. She knew that much, as foggy as her head was, that much was clear.