An Old Warehouse, The Waterfront
Niccolette stood, frozen, wide-eyed, her scream echoing in the air, and then she was running, one gloved small hand grasping her fashionable gray dress to lift it out of the way, boots clattering against the warehouse floor. Utterly heedless of it all, she dropped to her knees next to Uzoji, wide-eyed and shaking. She ignored Tom as fully as if he hadn’t spoken, as if he wasn’t even there, as if nothing else existed in all the world but Niccolette and Uzoji.
“Uzoji?” Niccolette whispered, fumbling her gloves off and cupping his cheek with her bare hand. “Darling,” her gaze dropped to his sweater, then lifted back up to his face, and Tom could see her struggling to hide her terror – and failing, tears tumbling rapidly down her cheeks.
Uzoji turned his head to kiss her palm, blood smearing against her pale skin, staining red the delicate gold of her wedding ring. He coughed, more bright red blood spluttering up over his lips, odd bubbles of air in it.
Niccolette pressed her lips together, looking down at his chest. She swallowed, hard, and brought her hands to the wounds, ripping the thick, warm sweater open to see them. One – small – a little slit in his side, oozing steady blood. Uzoji’s blood pumped out against her hands, warm and sticky. Niccolette fumbled, ripping the sweater open again higher up, where the blood was flowing faster, arms aching with the force of it. She grimaced at the sight of the wound there, tears flowing faster, his life flowing away before her eyes with every pump of his strong heart. Nicolette wiped her face on her arm, bloody hand held away from it, and took a deep breath.
“If you die on me, Uzoji Ibutatu,” Niccolette whispered. “I will never forgive you, you godsdamned, clockstopping bastard.” She took his hand in hers, smearing his blood all over the glove.
Uzoji laughed, a strained, painful sort of sound. “I certainly don’t – intend to,” there was an odd wet gurgle to his words.
Bad, Niccolette thought. It was bad. It was his lung; it had to be. Just one – perhaps – if she could stabilize him, stop him from bleeding so badly, the other could keep him alive. She needed to stabilize him, she needed desperately to stabilize him, to just – to just stop the bleeding, so her beloved wouldn’t die choking on his own blood, before her very eyes -
The redheaded galdor was still laughing, the sound echoing softly through the warehouse, over and over – almost like a song, if one listened long enough, the repetition slowly becoming familiar.
Niccolette closed her eyes, focusing for a moment, and shook her head, glancing back over her shoulder at the red-headed galdor with a grimace. The mona were there – her field still hummed faintly – but the other galdor’s backlash was too recent and too powerful. Whatever spell she had intended to cast had been – had been strong. If only Niccolette had found another way to stop her – if only she had realized before that Uzoji was injured, what that grunt of his had meant, if only she had killed the filthy wick right off, not just broken his leg and left him down.
“Beloved?” Uzoji’s voice was a little fainter now.
“Yes,” Niccolette said, quietly, examining the wound, her fingers hovering over it again. His lung – could she heal it without a quantitative cast? She could feel the cumulative effort of all the spells she’d cast that night, like an ache deep in her bones. Niccolette grimaced again. “Always, Uzoji,” Niccolette took a deep breath, her hand cupping his cheek again. “You will take my heart with you if you go,” Niccolette whispered. “I will not allow it.”
Uzoji’s face twitched at a smile, faintly, his eyes closing.
“I cannot cast in here,” Niccolette said after a moment, looking up at Tom, as if seeing him for the first time. She wiped her hair off her forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind against her pale skin. “You need to carry him outside – now, away from,” she glanced back over her shoulder at the red-haired golly.
If Tom hesitated, even a fraction of a second, Niccolette would glare at him, and jerk her chin towards the door. “Now, Tom Cooke!” She said, voice hot and tense. “She has brailed – the mona will not listen to me here. Now, if I am to have any chance of,” she took a deep breath. “Carry him outside. There will not be time to get another healer. Now!”