The day - day, could it really count as that anymore? - had been commotion even after the Not-Casino, and Conall couldn't even begin to explain it. Irritatingly, they'd all been shipped off to the Ministry to attempt some useless recollection of their adventures, which was just about the last thing he felt like doing. (So: irritatingly for the Ministry, Conall had... not been forthcoming.)
Especially not after he'd scoured every inch of the place and not seen the familiar head of red hair and face of freckles that he'd been supposed to. If her group had been through anything of the sort his had, with hailstones and fire apiece, there was no reason to suppose Eavan hadn't made it here unscathed; he had rather expected her to have been among the people who'd triumphed against the fog, and all. A few rough questions of his own and a flinty stare had hastened away his questioner to see what had become of Miss MacKay, and that had been that. Conall had stormed out of those damned offices, and headed straight for the Edinburgh hospital.
He'd all but forgotten he was half dead on his feet, with concern shooting dagger-sharp through his limbs and his head swimming from fear until he made it to the right ward and the right room. Conall barely knew what to expect, with few details of what precisely had happened and how badly she was hurt and only the crushing feeling that he should have been more worried about her. Why had she signed up for the expedition? (A better question: why had he raised her this way, and why had he let her go?)
Conall barrelled into the room, too afraid to look but more afraid to linger in the unknown. If he woke her from sleep, well, then at least she'd know he was here -
She wasn't alone. "You're her heal-" Conall began matter-of-factly, striding up to his daughter's bedside, his brain scarcely having time to deconstruct the images in front of his face besides the fact that Eavan was here. The man with her - close at her bedside, too close? - was -
Conall froze as he recognised the man, the residual pain of the burns up his shoulder and face flaring up as if to tell him where he'd seen the healer before. He... was here. Working here? Looking after Eavan. "You," Conall said, dumbfounded.
Especially not after he'd scoured every inch of the place and not seen the familiar head of red hair and face of freckles that he'd been supposed to. If her group had been through anything of the sort his had, with hailstones and fire apiece, there was no reason to suppose Eavan hadn't made it here unscathed; he had rather expected her to have been among the people who'd triumphed against the fog, and all. A few rough questions of his own and a flinty stare had hastened away his questioner to see what had become of Miss MacKay, and that had been that. Conall had stormed out of those damned offices, and headed straight for the Edinburgh hospital.
He'd all but forgotten he was half dead on his feet, with concern shooting dagger-sharp through his limbs and his head swimming from fear until he made it to the right ward and the right room. Conall barely knew what to expect, with few details of what precisely had happened and how badly she was hurt and only the crushing feeling that he should have been more worried about her. Why had she signed up for the expedition? (A better question: why had he raised her this way, and why had he let her go?)
Conall barrelled into the room, too afraid to look but more afraid to linger in the unknown. If he woke her from sleep, well, then at least she'd know he was here -
She wasn't alone. "You're her heal-" Conall began matter-of-factly, striding up to his daughter's bedside, his brain scarcely having time to deconstruct the images in front of his face besides the fact that Eavan was here. The man with her - close at her bedside, too close? - was -
Conall froze as he recognised the man, the residual pain of the burns up his shoulder and face flaring up as if to tell him where he'd seen the healer before. He... was here. Working here? Looking after Eavan. "You," Conall said, dumbfounded.
