Despite the encouragement to raise, Zhang San remains attached to the floor. He felt the confused, started, and amused eyes upon him.
The younger people, he thought, are probably relieved they won't end up like me.
His mind overflowed with anxiety fueled thoughts, and he froze. His stillness erred on the side of death that even one young woman questioned if he lived. At that moment, he knew he had to move. Rigid as a statue, Zhang San rose a hand and lifted his head slightly.
"Pray forgive me, my lord," the voice of a thousand-year-old peasant erupted from his soul. "I am in your humble service until you deemed my actions vindicated."
Talk about making a scene, although Edgar doesn’t really care that much since he’s still in some pain but as some onlookers drift back to the task at hand Edgar pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. His patience is still a little thin even if he tries to stay calm.
“What do you mean by that?” He asks all the while trying to parse Zhang San’s words. He’s got an interesting way of talking sometimes, it seems. “If, uh, I tell you you can stand up from the floor, would you please get back up? You apologizing once was enough.”
He’s not sure how much saying that will really help, but as his tone evens out to something less aggravated he can hope he sounds more sincere to Zhang San. Now if he’d done this and taken off, Edgar probably would be in a considerably worse mood. As it stands— or doesn’t so to speak, in this case— it’s obvious he just wants to make amends in his own way.
