The impression that Hesri's been getting, that Guts is younger than she is, is strengthened as she sees him attack the dripping fruit with his stomach growling. He looks like he's about twenty, to her, but there are moments that suggest otherwise. Maybe he's just spent more time alone than in company.
When he offers she smiles. "I should say no and prove my independence, but I suppose I've cut up a couple already." Meaning, she does hurt. "Please. You can use my knife, and go ahead and eat some yourself... I suppose this seems extremely fiddly to you."
The Apothecary has left her a mug of something, larger than the cup she gave him last night, with a similar look and smell. Hesri drinks it all in one go, opening her mouth afterwards in a suppressed gag, and starts using a long bulbous-handled fork to stuff peach slices into her face. Once she's eaten enough of them she sits back with a sigh. A certain brightly brittle edge to her demeanor softens as the medicine starts to take effect.
"Did Sister Lashan ask you to help me? You don't have to, Vena will do it once she's washed the forge off." Guts must have just missed her. "I know it's a lot. I suppose I'm something of a memento mori, but as a soldier you wouldn't need to be reminded."
She's saying it as much for her own sake. Hesri knows what she looks like and how uncomfortable it makes people who aren't accustomed. He'd done well to go a few rounds arm wrestling with her, actually touching her, but she'd noticed that discomfort and it's not something she enjoys seeing. And despite what she's just said, she is a sort of memento mori to a soldier, too, not so much a reminder of death as permanent injury. If his hands were like hers, he wouldn't be able to use a sword well enough to fight.
no subject
When he offers she smiles. "I should say no and prove my independence, but I suppose I've cut up a couple already." Meaning, she does hurt. "Please. You can use my knife, and go ahead and eat some yourself... I suppose this seems extremely fiddly to you."
The Apothecary has left her a mug of something, larger than the cup she gave him last night, with a similar look and smell. Hesri drinks it all in one go, opening her mouth afterwards in a suppressed gag, and starts using a long bulbous-handled fork to stuff peach slices into her face. Once she's eaten enough of them she sits back with a sigh. A certain brightly brittle edge to her demeanor softens as the medicine starts to take effect.
"Did Sister Lashan ask you to help me? You don't have to, Vena will do it once she's washed the forge off." Guts must have just missed her. "I know it's a lot. I suppose I'm something of a memento mori, but as a soldier you wouldn't need to be reminded."
She's saying it as much for her own sake. Hesri knows what she looks like and how uncomfortable it makes people who aren't accustomed. He'd done well to go a few rounds arm wrestling with her, actually touching her, but she'd noticed that discomfort and it's not something she enjoys seeing. And despite what she's just said, she is a sort of memento mori to a soldier, too, not so much a reminder of death as permanent injury. If his hands were like hers, he wouldn't be able to use a sword well enough to fight.