Work Text:
The Haruspex’s hands were coarse hands.
Strong, skilled, and dangerous hands.
Injured hands.
Hands that told of a harsh and unforgiving life.
Calluses built up over the years like too many layers of paint on a worn-down house.
In a perpetual state of carrying dirt under his nails, or in the creases of his cracked skin. No matter the frequency in which he diligently cleaned them before surgery, cooking, and any of his other ceaseless responsibilities, the dirt would return with little delay.
Always touching his steppe plants and offering pets to the local animals. Plunging his hands into the soil just as freely.
He opened bodies with his hands. Sliced them so carefully, so very precisely. A true master of his craft. His hands, or rather, the man himself knew the exact area to cut. Knew what he was looking for when he reached inside. Peritia manus et mantis.
Extracting a tumor from a patient in the morning; a rare twyre herb from the earth by nightfall.
But, his hands knew not only healing.
How many men had their life brutally snuffed out of them by those same hands? Does the Haruspex even have that answer?
Would it be worse if he had been keeping count?
Knuckles raw, bruised, and bloodied. That was how he first saw the man’s hands.
Red hands. Coated in violent victory. Hands that were used to killing. Hands that would kill again.
Criss-crossed with scars from previous fights. And war. Hands such as his were more valuable than gold on the front lines. Taking and saving lives with little concern for his own. No doubt a fine soldier, despite his insubordinate nature. Until he wasn't.
His hands betray too much.
Bare for the world to see.
Yet his touch, the attentive and knowing way the pads of his fingers would brush against Daniil’s exposed skin. Caressing him, exploring him, opening him, holding him. It was nothing short of... gentle.