e-l-c-kingor:
He can’t help but flinch when the knife hits the table- but the reaction is limited, Edwin only able to squeeze his eyes shut, his jaw beginning to tremble. The very same blood spewing out onto his clothes, no doubt arching through the air from the severity of his wounds, seems to roar in his ears, that awful feeling of nausea coiling around his stomach and esophagus. Everything around him seems to be swimming- or maybe he’s teetering back and forth. Next, his vision is going to fail, then his mental faculties, then his going to bled dry and keel over and-
Similar yet inverted to his ‘host,’ it takes the inventor a moment to realize Jervis is speaking to him, struggling to open his eyes again- the raising of his eyelids freeing a couple tears. The implications of the other’s words make Edwin’s head loll forward, looking shirtward, despite his desire not to. A whimper escapes his strangled throat at the view of his absolutely ruined shirt, the obscene splotch of red- shouldn’t it be purple?- certain to stain.
“You have a spot.” Jervis swipes his thumb across his own cheek, in the place that Edwin, did, indeed, have marked with a fleck of blood. My, he did seem to have upset him, he’d never come back for another tea party at this rate.... Slowly, The Hatter pours his tea to the ground and places the cup, overturned over the bloodied blade. It’s an impractical way of hiding it, but, well, he is a storybook character, he’s never been practical.
“Caterpillar.” His voice is lilting, almost sing-song, but calm, all anger evaporated from the tone. A gloved hand extends, beckoning.
“Caterpillar. Look at me, come here. Eyes up- don’t cry, you’re liable to drown in it, and we haven't the time for it.”
