Well, she does a good job at heading off argument, doesn't she — he opens his mouth to retort and has to wait till she's done with that instead. He flinches, reflexively, but otherwise lets her get on with the work.
"I've said I can't pay you back," he insists when she's done with that. "I meant it."
The kindness of strangers has extended to the occasional scarf against the wind, roof or food in exchange for either work or coin. More often grudgingly given than not, being honest. Things that seemed too good to be true typically have been. So what could she want? He doesn't want to try seeking out another homestead, but he will if he has to.
"And I said there's plenty to go around. Food, beds. You won't be inconveniencing anyone," she assures him, voice stern. One bottle is set down for another--whisky--and she offers it to him.
She's being kind, but isn't exactly being kind about it. Reminds him of Moiraine more than any Darkfriends he's ever met. There's the briefest of moments where he thinks light, I hope she isn't an Aes Sedai, but no, there's not a one among them who'd thread a needle for stitches when she can Heal. And her demeanor might be a small thing to rule out Darkfriend with, but they've usually tried to lure with honey, not vinegar.
He has to rest somewhere. All the better if it's not another bale of hay or cold patch of earth.
So he says, "All right," and accepts the bottle with a grimace. (For the procedure ahead, not the alcohol.)
Luckily for him, the stitches are few and mostly precautionary. Still, it's never nice to have needle and thread going through your flesh, and so Claire gives him a moment before she begins, hands experienced and as gentle as can be given the need.
"How old are you?" She asks, because why not hold conversation while working on him? He seems young. But the older she gets, the more often people seem too young.
He does his best to hold still for Claire. It's not comfortable, but also not the first time he's ever needed stitches. Her hand is as steady as his father's — a pang of homesickness — and her conversation is more pleasant than Nynaeve's scolding (another pang, truthfully).
"Twenty," he says.
Old enough to be of marriageable age in Two Rivers. In another life, he and Egwene might be planning their wedding now.
Younger than Bree. Closer to Marsali's age--she might be one to set upon him if he chooses to be stubborn about accepting food and a bed, but Claire's hoping to have this under control. He's obedient thus far, but she's also passing a needle through his skin. It makes people less eager to argue with her.
"And alone?" The twins hadn't reported sign of anyone else. They would know.
And that accounts for part of his defensive prickle, anyway. Easy enough to imagine her claiming otherwise. The other part being, of course, that he has no interest in explaining how he came to be alone, or if he'd ever traveled with others.
"I'm just making sure it's alone by choice and not something else," she replies. It's just a few more moments of discomfort before she deems herself done, tying the end of the sutures and going over to her collection of salves to find one to put on top.
"People don't often come to the Ridge if they're out to see the world."
"It was my choice," he says, fervent. That much is the truth; he'd chosen to leave his friends safely — relatively safely — in Fal Dara. He'd chosen to leave the Eye by himself and let them think him dead. If it had been up to them, things would have been different. But he couldn't let them pay that cost.
"Why not?"
That unfamiliar name again, the Ridge. It'd be good to learn more about it.
"This is where people come to settle down. Not your long-term goal, I can tell," she murmurs, carefully dabbing her healing salve onto her stitchwork at his neck.
"But you won't find anyone trying to chase you out."
Light, she means well. He straightens hastily, apologizing, as soon as he manages to pull himself together. No one will try to chase him out, unless they find out who and what he is.
But he'll make sure it doesn't come to that.
"Sorry," he says again, and, "Thank you. Are you done?"
"I suspect I better be, before you barrel me over in your haste to escape me," she says, teasing, but maybe not entirely lacking seriousness. She steps back to wipe her hands.
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"There's plenty to go around. You'll repay me by not creating more work. That means resting after I'm done with you."
Claire doesn't sound like she's willing to listen to any arguments.
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"Resting? I thought you just said it wasn't that bad."
Which he believes, honestly. He's had worse with normal childhood scrapes around the farm, playing in the mountains.
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"It's not. But you look like you could use a bed. Am I wrong?"
She wets her cloth.
"This will sting."
And that would be her cleaning the wound with alcohol, now. Sorry, what was that? Did you want to reply, Rand?
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"I've said I can't pay you back," he insists when she's done with that. "I meant it."
The kindness of strangers has extended to the occasional scarf against the wind, roof or food in exchange for either work or coin. More often grudgingly given than not, being honest. Things that seemed too good to be true typically have been. So what could she want? He doesn't want to try seeking out another homestead, but he will if he has to.
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"Here. You'll want a drink before I begin."
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He has to rest somewhere. All the better if it's not another bale of hay or cold patch of earth.
So he says, "All right," and accepts the bottle with a grimace. (For the procedure ahead, not the alcohol.)
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"How old are you?" She asks, because why not hold conversation while working on him? He seems young. But the older she gets, the more often people seem too young.
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"Twenty," he says.
Old enough to be of marriageable age in Two Rivers. In another life, he and Egwene might be planning their wedding now.
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"And alone?" The twins hadn't reported sign of anyone else. They would know.
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And that accounts for part of his defensive prickle, anyway. Easy enough to imagine her claiming otherwise. The other part being, of course, that he has no interest in explaining how he came to be alone, or if he'd ever traveled with others.
"I wanted to see more of the world, is all."
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"People don't often come to the Ridge if they're out to see the world."
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"Why not?"
That unfamiliar name again, the Ridge. It'd be good to learn more about it.
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"But you won't find anyone trying to chase you out."
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Light, she means well. He straightens hastily, apologizing, as soon as he manages to pull himself together. No one will try to chase him out, unless they find out who and what he is.
But he'll make sure it doesn't come to that.
"Sorry," he says again, and, "Thank you. Are you done?"
come in a year late with starbucks (expired)
"Come. I'll get you some food."
She turns, expecting him to follow.