Following Just a Flesh Wound.

Aisling was quite grateful that they hadn't taken the floo. Even the quick and relatively painless apparation at Krix's hands had left her reeling and nauseous, and she clung to Tarron's arm. He was quite as good at steadying her there, just as he was in some many other matters.

Fortunately, she also managed not to retch. Barely. She could almost taste it, and there was a slow ache coming from the back of her skull. Then she turned her head about in an effort to find a Welcome Witch, or, well, anyone. With how many patients had been coming in earlier, she expected that the healers were still quite occupied.

Even that simple movement caused her to waver, and she tightened her grip on Tarron's arm. She wouldn't let herself collapse here, not yet.  She would manage. "I do hope they do not take too long. I was quite looking forward to some dinner." Assuming her stomach could manage it.

The lobby of St. Mungos was not a place Tarron had been recently, and this combined with the unsettling nature of Apparition (elf aided or otherwise) was enough to unsteady him for a few moments as he attempted to get his bearings. In the end it was the signs and the organisation of the place that made him realize where they were, rather than any real recollection of the place.

Aisling tightened the grip on his arm, and he reached over with his opposite arm to cup her hand in his as he straightened up, looking about. As the nausea from Apparition passed, he returned to normal and his steely eyes scanned the room.

"Mmm," he acknowledged her words - and his agreement - with a grunt, guiding her forward towards the front desk. There was a welcome witch there, apparently busy. He cared not for her mountains of paperwork, and loomed up in front of the desk.

"Good evening," he said, gravely. "My wife appears to have suffered some form of head injury. If you could be so kind as to summon a Healer." The words were polite, but his tone made it very clear they were more command than request. The welcome Witch stared at him, that expression he had grown used to as people attempted to place a vaguely familiar face.

"With some speed, if you would," he added, and she nodded, quickly turning from her papers to send a runner away. That done, Tarron turned and guided Aisling to a nearby bench.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, remaining standing.

Mon dieu, what a day this had been!

The influx of muggle patients had left the Healers in dissaray: they flooded on to the third floor to help and then out of it when victims were transferred to less crowded spaces, several even taken to the temporary wards where it was necessary to restrain them. Vivienne had been on-site with the mediwitch team twice so far and was only just getting back from the quick meal break she'd earned when her insignia began to glow.

A hand went to the patch on her chest, answering. It was the quickest way to summon leisurely healers on the same floor, and as they were in no urgent need of her services en haut...

"Bonsoir," Viv greeted the two figures at the reception desk from behind. Neither appeared well but not evidently injured either. The welcome Witch gave her a meaningful look that she didn't fully grasp, and so disregarded its ominous tone. "Sir, Madame. Healer Thorpe. How may I be of assistance?"
 

"Grateful for the seat." It wasn't the most comfortable, true, but it took the edge off the dizziness. The slow, uncertain way with which she first followed Tarron's movements, then those of the Welcome Witch, worked to the opposite effect. But Aisling wouldn't let herself hold still, let herself lose that knowledge of her surroundings. She offered the Witch, who seemed to be slowly realizing just who it was that she had to attend to, a wavering smile.

But the healer was there quickly enough. Aisling thought she might have seen her before, perhaps even earlier that day, but with her current state attempting to find the memory was a bit beyond her. "I hit my head earlier in the day. It has proven rather an issue." She'd leave the rest of the explaining up to Tarron.

"Healer Thorpe." Tarron greeted her with a somewhat sharp, but still respectful, nod and slight bow. He had stepped back to where Aisling sat, one hand falling to his wife's shoulder and holding on to it gently, the support half emotional and half actual physical support, especially as Aisling swung a bit whenever she looked about. His coat and hat he held folded over his opposite arm.

"My wife appears to have a head injury, as she says. She was apparently struck several times by -" He paused, looked vaguely uncertain for a moment, and looked down at Aisling. "Flying muggles? And then struck the cobblestone once or twice while falling." Anywhere the term flying muggles was used, Tarron had to wonder on the validity of the account. He could only hope this Healer was at least aware of the situation with the sneezing.

The confusion vanished rather quickly, however, and his thin lips pressed together, beard making them all but disappear. While he was worried, and such was somewhat obvious from the combination of decorum and urgency with which he spoke, he wasn't close to making that too obvious. "We would appreciate any assistance you can render."

Vivienne recognized the face of the man addressing her now and understood the welcome Witch's foreboding expression. Bien, there would be not many niceties and she could get directly to the treatment.

"Flying muggles, oui." The Healer smiled sympathetically at Tarron Knight. "A very bizarre event. And dangerous," her smiled dimmed a little and the gaze shifted to the woman, searchingly. Head injuries were always to be taken seriously- none knew this better than those who worked on the fourth floor.

It was plain to see that the woman's husband was concerned; maybe not obvious but detectable by one who frequently received ailing patients accompanied by their loved ones. Vivienne moved to the bench and sat down to examine the witch face-to-face.

"Pardonnez-moi," she spoke in a soft voice. "I will ask you some questions and then escort you to a treatment room for further examination and healing. Bien. Can you tell me your name? Also, if possible, the day and date." This was common protocol with all head injuries that were not glaringly urgent.

"Take your time s'il vous plaît. It is fine if you feel you cannot answer."

"Aisling Mary Knight." The words came slowly, and not as clear or crisp as they might be otherwise. "And it is," she said, momentarily losing her train of thought-what day was it? Oh, yes, she wasn't supposed to have been at work. "Saturday, November twenty-first."

She hoped that was right. It was all feeling rather fuzzy again. And that, the way her thoughts were fading, slipping in and out, it terrified her. A dull twinge that even Tarron's presence couldn't quite dispel. Her own mind was the one thing she'd been able to hold onto throughout everything. Even through the war, through Azkaban, Dementors.

And there it went with a bump on the head.

There was some delay in answer but her patient did not appear to be suffering any of the immediate reactions to a severe head injury- at least nothing psychological from what Vivienne could presently distinguish. The Healer nodded, satisfied, and then stood.

"Merci," she smiled softly. "If you would follow me. Monsieur Knight, I'm sure, will help."

Nodding once to the welcome Witch, Vivienne lead the pair down a corridor to the right of the reception space- they passed several (occupied) rooms before finally turning into one that looked to be unused. A treatment bed rested lengthwise against the wall, a chair next to it. She gestured the former to her patient and offered the wizard the chair.

"The injury is not life-threatening," Viv explained in a calm voice as she flicked her wand- drawers squeaked open and squares of clean muslin cloth escape, floating to the treatment table at the foot of the bed. "Unless neglected. I will examine the wound directly before healing it, if you would oblige me. And then maybe a word alone with my patient?"

Tarron did indeed assist, extending his arm to Aisling as she was guided to the room. Tarron was a tad suspicious of the Healer, though anyone treating Aisling in such circumstances would have garnered the same intense scrutiny. She seemed competent on the surface, at the very least.

He aided Aisling to the room, silent for the walk. He communicated in gestures - a pat to Aisling's hand as it rested on his arm, a curt nod to Vivienne. For now, speech was not necessary from him.

When they reached the room, he let Aisling sit, standing by her with his arms crossed and his eyes fast, watchful. Tarron rarely was nervous, and he was certainly not nervous now. But he was being careful with his emotions, aware how much this upset him and determined not to let it show. He did relax a bit, visibly, when Vivienne announced her verdict.

He avoided shooting Aisling a sort of I told you so expression, and nodded to Vivienne again. "Of course, Healer Thorpe," he said. "I will not be underfoot." 

The treatment bed felt odd as she sat, a sensation not aided by how much her senses felt like a radio that hadn't been quite tuned in. She was unused to hospitals, to troubles that could be cured by healers and potions and spells. Or perhaps it was that her concerns which could be addressed in such a way had never become so overwhelming as to send her there.

But mostly, she could hardly focus. Just enough to catch the healer's words, to send Tarron one of those looks refined by decades of knowing each other. You were correct. Maybe she was getting old. And there she was dizzy again, as well. Confused movements of her eyes as they tried to follow the drawers and cloth.

"Of course, Healer." All she wanted to do was to lie down and sleep. Rest in the hope that she would have more strength in the morning.

That such would only make matters worse didn't seem so important as the minutes there piled atop one another.

Compliant patients! Not expected from significant members of the Ministry but, surely, appreciated by the likes of Vivienne.

"Merci," she thanked the upstanding Monsieur Knight and plucked two sheets of muslin from where they floated in the air next to her. "Turn your head slightly to the right please, Miss Knight."

Using her wand gently, the Healer sorted through her patient's locks and charmed them in place- revealing more evidently the wound. Head wounds typically appeared much more severe than they were. Even knowing this, Vivienne narrowed her gazed in sympathy of the woman's pain. Dried, crusty blood surrounded the laceration; the area around it was swollen, a bump.

"This is going to sting un peu..." she cautioned Aisling in a composed voice. A voice in her head warned her from advising that she hold her husband's hand. "Remember to breath."

The procedure went by quickly, methodically. Viv cleansed the area with sterilising elixir and the clothes; when she could ascertain that there was no underlying damage underneath the laceration, healing charms were cast to reduce swelling.

"Any pain should begin to lessen now," she broke the silence. "The nausea will stay, maybe. I will prescribe you something for that but it is important that you sleep afterwards, oui?" A flickering glance at the husband to confirm this.

The laceration was closed and her wand withdrawn. Aisling's hair fell gently back into place. "How does that feel now?"

It stung, certainly, but the pain gave Aisling something to focus on through her disorientated state. Something besides Tarron's concern, at the least.

And it did feel better, once all was done. Not good, her head was still a bit confused, and she felt suddenly tired, or more tired. There was still a faint droning at the back of her skull. But she could realize just how much it had hurt, which was a sobering realization in and of itself. "Most of the pain is gone, yes."

She turned her head to look about the room. "And I have some potions at home to aid with the sleep. Rest should be no trouble." Tarron would no doubt insist, and rightly so. "I presume that avoiding further such injuries in the near future is also recommended." Her speech was clearer now, but still not quite crisp.

"Oui, naturellement."

It went without saying. Aurors and Hitwizards were the only patients she expected to see on a frequent basis on the fourth floor- Miss Knight she hoped never to see again in this capacity. Vivienne moved to the bedside table and flicked her wand. Drawers opened while several papers flew out; they were official looking documents.

At this point she glanced at the husband.

"I will need a un moment privé with my patient? You may wait outside Monsieur."

There were questions to be answered- not all of them ones that he would be pleased to hear the Healer ask.

Tarron stood with his hands folded, rather still. Despite his stiff posture he was now somewhat relaxed - for him, anyhow. Vivienne seemed competent enough, and so even though he hated to see Aisling in such a state he was assured she'd be well. Even if the Healer smattered her words with French quite a bit.

He watched her like a hawk, however, eyes following every flick of a finger or swish of a wand. The head wound somehow looked worse now that it was being poked at, though he was aware it was likely his concern that made it seem worse than it really was - love had a way of amplifying such things, he knew.

When Vivinne ordered him out of the room, he did hesitate a moment, even though he had already agreed to depart just minutes earlier. He had to wonder just what the Healer had to do that couldn't be done in his presence, but - so be it.

"Do let me know when you're finished," he said, a bit curtly, and then he stepped outside into the hall - leaving the room with a soft pat to Aisling's shoulder. There wasn't an obvious place to go, so he settled for standing out of the way on the other side of the hall, arms folded.

That departure had gone as smoothly as Vivienne could have hoped. Hommes.

Her gray gaze followed the wizard's back until the room door was finally shut behind him Bien. Viv turned back to Aisling, charming a clipboard for the papers- and a quill from her robes. A polite smile.

"Désolé. These are only precautionary questions for our records..." They did not always ask this of their patients- injury sources were usually fairly evident. Duels, accidents (with perpetrators guiltily in tow), falls. "If you could please sign these papers to assure us that your injuries were received while in a professional function."

The implication was, naturally, that they had been unwillingly inflicted by herself or other persons in a domestic situation. Vivienne did not think so but they were obliged to ask. She angled the clipboard and quill towards Aisling.

"Anything said between us at this moment is confidential, Miss Knight."