Amputated forearm, and of course, he's had those discussions. A thread to tug later. Another in Strange's stuttered momentum.
"Magebane," The girl's spoken of tenuous control. "Lyrium for me."
Clear steps. A problem to search and solve for, and maybe that's kinder than telling him it'll be alright. They're both professionals. They know that'd be a lie. Blood poisoning is chancy under the best circumstances, enough to set aside for a likelier recovery. They aren't in battle. They needn't triage. These are the best circumstances,
But magic has limits, too.
When he arrives, it's in yesterday's shirt and a pilfered jacket, hangdog about the shoulders. The look he trades Stephen flattens before it reaches her. Schooled careful-still, even and dull as brick. He's made a habit this past year of studying Amsel's face. The particular difference between a slackness of expression, and its absence, imitation.
When he looks at her, he looks like he always does, like he looked over the crushed shoulder of a knight; the fester in a hunter's burn. Steady. Empty as the work. Isaac draws close, voice pitched for clarity:
"I need to undo the dressing. I'm going to touch your arm,"
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Amputated forearm, and of course, he's had those discussions. A thread to tug later. Another in Strange's stuttered momentum.
"Magebane," The girl's spoken of tenuous control. "Lyrium for me."
Clear steps. A problem to search and solve for, and maybe that's kinder than telling him it'll be alright. They're both professionals. They know that'd be a lie. Blood poisoning is chancy under the best circumstances, enough to set aside for a likelier recovery. They aren't in battle. They needn't triage. These are the best circumstances,
But magic has limits, too.
When he arrives, it's in yesterday's shirt and a pilfered jacket, hangdog about the shoulders. The look he trades Stephen flattens before it reaches her. Schooled careful-still, even and dull as brick. He's made a habit this past year of studying Amsel's face. The particular difference between a slackness of expression, and its absence, imitation.
When he looks at her, he looks like he always does, like he looked over the crushed shoulder of a knight; the fester in a hunter's burn. Steady. Empty as the work. Isaac draws close, voice pitched for clarity:
"I need to undo the dressing. I'm going to touch your arm,"
And unavoidably, it's going to hurt.