Ancient practices have long-since brought with it homemade cures: belladonna, ephedra, chloroform, fumes of hydrocyanic acid, a bellows to help inflate the lungs. Prior has none of these (nor would he trust himself with them if he did).
"To start—" he says with measure, "don't chastise me for this—" His pale fingers, long like a piano virtuoso, slither beneath the wool coat. The warmth is incredibly inviting and Prior thinks to make himself at home would be a convenient excuse for saving his life (or vice versa). Unfortunately, no such instinct seems to be raging within Fitzjames, so without too much groping for the inside pocket, Prior merely finds what he's looking for and retrieves a crushed pack of Woodbines.
As he settles back again, he rests a cigarette in place but he doesn't light it yet. Even the insinuation of it between his lips seems to help, although Prior's certain no one's actually fooled. In his lap, he fusses with the remainder of the pack.
Prior's head tipping back to meet the wall reminds him of a particular basement in France: tucked in like sardines, the smell of so much humanity should have been aggressively appalling, but with his men — not King George's men, his men — Prior had almost felt at peace. It's not so different here, is it?
The absurdity rips a laugh from him which descends into a middling cough. A quote immediately comes to mind, which he recites softly with his eyes closed: "'It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.'" He has no idea that Alice in Wonderland — less contemporary, but still quite the rage in his time — is a full two decades beyond Fitzjames' last known breath. And within that quote? Not a single wheeze. Curiouser and curiouser.
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"To start—" he says with measure, "don't chastise me for this—" His pale fingers, long like a piano virtuoso, slither beneath the wool coat. The warmth is incredibly inviting and Prior thinks to make himself at home would be a convenient excuse for saving his life (or vice versa). Unfortunately, no such instinct seems to be raging within Fitzjames, so without too much groping for the inside pocket, Prior merely finds what he's looking for and retrieves a crushed pack of Woodbines.
As he settles back again, he rests a cigarette in place but he doesn't light it yet. Even the insinuation of it between his lips seems to help, although Prior's certain no one's actually fooled. In his lap, he fusses with the remainder of the pack.
Prior's head tipping back to meet the wall reminds him of a particular basement in France: tucked in like sardines, the smell of so much humanity should have been aggressively appalling, but with his men — not King George's men, his men — Prior had almost felt at peace. It's not so different here, is it?
The absurdity rips a laugh from him which descends into a middling cough. A quote immediately comes to mind, which he recites softly with his eyes closed: "'It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.'" He has no idea that Alice in Wonderland — less contemporary, but still quite the rage in his time — is a full two decades beyond Fitzjames' last known breath. And within that quote? Not a single wheeze. Curiouser and curiouser.