Strange sees it happen over Cedric’s shoulder, the woman falling as if in slow motion, his perception narrowing. A decision. Blunt force trauma, he thinks in automatic assessment: the blood isn’t a good sign, but then again head wounds do bleed a lot— at best it’s a concussion, at worst her skull’s opened up and her brains are spilling out and she’s dead.
He is the Head Healer, is he not? He should probably go help.
Then again. The Mournwatcher’s a mage, but she doesn’t have an anchor. She can’t assist in closing this rift. And he can’t do anything for her here in the middle of a battle; any proper medical care would have to be afterward regardless, once the chaos has died down, once it’s safe to extract her and get her somewhere which isn’t full of dust and bone. (That’s what he’ll tell himself, at least, afterward.)
One life, against closing the rift and cutting the fuel for all of the demons here at once.
This is a familiar, ruthless math problem. In the grand calculus of the multiverse, their sacrifice means infinitely more than their lives. He never likes doing it, but:
He doesn’t mention the girl with the scythe.
“We need to close it,” Strange says, and he turns his head to look back at that glowing green rift instead. Once again he digs deep into his last well of stamina, scraping the barrel empty. He and Cedric remain propped against each other, arms shaking, both of their anchors crackling,
everything pulsing, like an awful heartbeat in the air
this humming weight to the atmosphere, the fish-hooks embedded in their palms, and it hurts in a way it rarely does on a normal day
They haul in unison like a team of oxen, every anchor-bearer in the room exerting their gravitational pull at once. It feels like trying to rip that fish-hook out of their hands. It feels like trying to pull a door shut in the middle of a hurricane, shoulders set against the weight of nature. They pull and pull together and the rift starts to close.
surprise guilt-ridden third option
He is the Head Healer, is he not? He should probably go help.
Then again. The Mournwatcher’s a mage, but she doesn’t have an anchor. She can’t assist in closing this rift. And he can’t do anything for her here in the middle of a battle; any proper medical care would have to be afterward regardless, once the chaos has died down, once it’s safe to extract her and get her somewhere which isn’t full of dust and bone. (That’s what he’ll tell himself, at least, afterward.)
One life, against closing the rift and cutting the fuel for all of the demons here at once.
This is a familiar, ruthless math problem. In the grand calculus of the multiverse, their sacrifice means infinitely more than their lives. He never likes doing it, but:
He doesn’t mention the girl with the scythe.
“We need to close it,” Strange says, and he turns his head to look back at that glowing green rift instead. Once again he digs deep into his last well of stamina, scraping the barrel empty. He and Cedric remain propped against each other, arms shaking, both of their anchors crackling,
everything pulsing, like an awful heartbeat in the air
this humming weight to the atmosphere, the fish-hooks embedded in their palms, and it hurts in a way it rarely does on a normal day
They haul in unison like a team of oxen, every anchor-bearer in the room exerting their gravitational pull at once. It feels like trying to rip that fish-hook out of their hands. It feels like trying to pull a door shut in the middle of a hurricane, shoulders set against the weight of nature. They pull and pull together and the rift starts to close.