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“I’m sorry my dear, but this will be painful,” Wynne said. She stood behind Rythlen, palms raised above a bloody and gaping wound on the Warden’s thigh.
“I’m ready,” Rythlen said. Even if she were, or thought she was, even if she had the support of her fellow Warden Alistair, it would not be enough. But the mage said nothing. Just the same way that words could not truly prepare one for the reality of battle, the pain of steel on flesh, the screams of pain, of horror, neither can they prepare for how that flesh can be put back together. Only experience held the truth.
It did not help that they had ran out of elfroot.
A low groan emanated from the girl, growing louder, her hands crushing Alistair’s. Wynne focused on the wound, weaving sinew and muscles back together. Halfway through, she estimated, she stopped and withdrew her hands.
“It’s not over, is it?” The hopefulness in Rythlen’s voice tore at Wynne’s heart. The girl knew it wasn’t over, but hoped to be proven wrong. The tone of her voice reminded Wynne of a child’s asking if the storm was over. Then again, she wasn’t too far from one, something easily forgotten. Just shy of nineteen with the weight of an entire country, perhaps the world, on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, my dear.” It was all Wynne could offer.
“Feel free to crush my hands,” Alistair said. “Then it’ll be my turn to tortu—ehem—healed.”
That got a laugh from Rythlen. It was short. “I couldn’t let you go through this.”
“A few broken bones is nothing,” Alistair said with a shrug. “Raised by dogs, remember? I’ve gotten into so many scuffles, I’ve lost count!”
“Thanks,” Rythlen said, smiling. She may be capable of breaking a bone or two of his, but they all knew she wouldn’t, even if in extreme pain. She took a deep breath and turned to Wynne. “I’m ready.”
Wynne nodded and placed her hands right above the wound. She slowly pushed her magic at the wound, a trickle at first, then a stream. Rythlen’s breathing became laboured, but steady. Deep breath in and out.
The difficult part over, Wynne glanced up to check on Rythlen. Her eyes were closed, focusing on her breathing, which had returned to normal. Suddenly, a smile.
With her eyes closed, there could have only been one reason for the smile. Wynne turned her gaze to Alistair, who was wholly focused on Rythlen, his hands gently squeezing hers, thumbs rubbing circles at the back of her hands. The smile on his face, in contrast to her small and appreciative one, was large and of encouragement. It was there even if the lass could not see it, just as she could not—or would not—see his affection for her.
“We’re almost done here,” Wynne said, knitting the last few layers together. It was excruciating and meticulous, mending nerves and skin.
Rythlen groaned, grit her teeth to keep in another scream.
“Just let it out, my dear,” Wynne said.
She did.