"Wójcik," Francis repeats, under his breath, and frowns. There is something familiar about the name, something he can't quite place. It doesn't feel significant, precisely, but it nags at him, at the edge of his memory. He feels quite sure that it's a name he has heard before.
But what of it? Boromir is a soldier, but one with the bearing and the accent of the well-bred; probably, Wójcik is the name of some baron or lord, or some patron of the university, even. It feels too easy, in this shifting candlelight, with the horrors of the night so fresh and still giddying, to put significance where none belongs; to sit and stare through a pinhole of the mind at some small fraction of what was said, and take no account of what was meant.
Francis clears his throat, and shakes his head briskly, not in negation but merely to try and bring himself back to the present. "I would not wish to take such generosity, Mr Wójcik," he says, but as he says it, he notes the command in Boromir's tone and, too, the pallor and pain in the other man's face, and he knows that he will stay. Wójcik will not have him leave, and Francis himself is not callous enough to turn away from a man in such a state. Besides, the thought of poison in the creature's bite has not yet left him, and someone, he thinks, ought to make sure a doctor is called if things go wrong. He sighs, and shakes his head again, this time in resignation. "My own lodgings are not far from here," he observes, quietly. "But if it will put you more at ease, then I will stay."
no subject
But what of it? Boromir is a soldier, but one with the bearing and the accent of the well-bred; probably, Wójcik is the name of some baron or lord, or some patron of the university, even. It feels too easy, in this shifting candlelight, with the horrors of the night so fresh and still giddying, to put significance where none belongs; to sit and stare through a pinhole of the mind at some small fraction of what was said, and take no account of what was meant.
Francis clears his throat, and shakes his head briskly, not in negation but merely to try and bring himself back to the present. "I would not wish to take such generosity, Mr Wójcik," he says, but as he says it, he notes the command in Boromir's tone and, too, the pallor and pain in the other man's face, and he knows that he will stay. Wójcik will not have him leave, and Francis himself is not callous enough to turn away from a man in such a state. Besides, the thought of poison in the creature's bite has not yet left him, and someone, he thinks, ought to make sure a doctor is called if things go wrong. He sighs, and shakes his head again, this time in resignation. "My own lodgings are not far from here," he observes, quietly. "But if it will put you more at ease, then I will stay."