Stephen’s mouth thins, presses tight around that displeasure. Because as aggravated as he is with this, and what an absolute fucking waste it is for Mobius to have to watch his own slow deterioration and feel himself slip away —
Stephen can, also, understand the motivation. He, too, could have chosen to heal himself at any time — could have held his hands together with magic and gone back to surgery, at the cost of funnelling all his magical attention into keeping them functional, not having anything else left over for actual magic, giving up on being a sorcerer. Giving up his role in saving the world. Instead, he chose living day-in and day-out with that chronic pain and disability. So who the hell is he to say Mobius can’t do something similar?
(Hypocrite.)
He could argue, he could shout back, but instead his fingers just dig into the meat of his crossed arms until his joints ache again.
“You,” he says, “are infuriatingly noble. How the hell am I supposed to argue against that point?”
no subject
Stephen can, also, understand the motivation. He, too, could have chosen to heal himself at any time — could have held his hands together with magic and gone back to surgery, at the cost of funnelling all his magical attention into keeping them functional, not having anything else left over for actual magic, giving up on being a sorcerer. Giving up his role in saving the world. Instead, he chose living day-in and day-out with that chronic pain and disability. So who the hell is he to say Mobius can’t do something similar?
(Hypocrite.)
He could argue, he could shout back, but instead his fingers just dig into the meat of his crossed arms until his joints ache again.
“You,” he says, “are infuriatingly noble. How the hell am I supposed to argue against that point?”