Well, that did explain the horse, and the boy’s thinking to stop here. Ari could forgive that much. What he could not forgive was that they’d thought they were safe out here, a selfish, foolish fancy to think there was ever truly space for them in the way the world had been made.
But there was nothing either of them could do about that now. (Although, looking at Ben now the panic was settling, Ari did wince at the disordered state of the both of them, a sort of terrible obviousness where fingers had run through hair, where buttons had been undone - but there hadn’t exactly been much time to neaten themselves up, had there?)
Unfortunately, there was also no chance that the stranger had gotten over that yet, not with the telling way he’d stumbled over evening. “Their evening”, indeed. Merlin.
Hopefully the young man would be self-conscious enough to eventually blank out the detail. (Ari did worry, though Mr. Holm had seemed to agree, that if he so much as touched his hands now, that the poor boy would be so discomfited by the contact that he would immediately wrench his hands away, that his countenance would turn suddenly to horror.) Perhaps that was why Ari ducked his gaze, did not quite dare to meet his eye.
But, steeling himself, Ari lightly drew his wand, turning the boy’s hands about to inspect the cuts beneath the dirt and hay. They weren’t too deep. “I’m afraid I don’t have any dittany to hand,” he confessed, “but we’ll manage.” Conjuring a clean cloth, he sank into silence to start gently brushing away the muck and blood, and once the thin crisscrossing of red became more visible, Ari traced steadily over them with his wand, watching the cuts close up. Ben might be busying himself by looking over the horse’s hoof, but he rather hoped he would be the one to think of the right sort of thing to say to Mr. Holm now, particularly to broach that last remark. Ben had at least met him before - and Ari wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase it. ‘Thank you for your apologies, but both our fates are now in your hands so it would be nice if you’d perhaps not mention this to anyone?’
But there was nothing either of them could do about that now. (Although, looking at Ben now the panic was settling, Ari did wince at the disordered state of the both of them, a sort of terrible obviousness where fingers had run through hair, where buttons had been undone - but there hadn’t exactly been much time to neaten themselves up, had there?)
Unfortunately, there was also no chance that the stranger had gotten over that yet, not with the telling way he’d stumbled over evening. “Their evening”, indeed. Merlin.
Hopefully the young man would be self-conscious enough to eventually blank out the detail. (Ari did worry, though Mr. Holm had seemed to agree, that if he so much as touched his hands now, that the poor boy would be so discomfited by the contact that he would immediately wrench his hands away, that his countenance would turn suddenly to horror.) Perhaps that was why Ari ducked his gaze, did not quite dare to meet his eye.
But, steeling himself, Ari lightly drew his wand, turning the boy’s hands about to inspect the cuts beneath the dirt and hay. They weren’t too deep. “I’m afraid I don’t have any dittany to hand,” he confessed, “but we’ll manage.” Conjuring a clean cloth, he sank into silence to start gently brushing away the muck and blood, and once the thin crisscrossing of red became more visible, Ari traced steadily over them with his wand, watching the cuts close up. Ben might be busying himself by looking over the horse’s hoof, but he rather hoped he would be the one to think of the right sort of thing to say to Mr. Holm now, particularly to broach that last remark. Ben had at least met him before - and Ari wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase it. ‘Thank you for your apologies, but both our fates are now in your hands so it would be nice if you’d perhaps not mention this to anyone?’
