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hufflepuffwritingstuff2 · 8 months

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It's Magic

This snippet is for @creweemmaeec11!

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Villain pressed the knife deeper into Hero's side, the blade glowing with harmful magic.

"Pathetic little thing," Villain laughed, yanking the blade out.

Hero gasped, lurching forward. They crashed down in the alleyway.

"Lesser beings like you should learn to stay out of my way," Villain said, "maybe your corpse will serve as an example."

Villain cast a spell, causing little cuts to open all over Hero's body. Hero whimpered in pain. They looked up with blurry vision as Villain strode away. Was this really how it was going to end? Killed by a magic user? Hero didn't have the energy to worry about it; they started to drift off, their head light and their limbs heavy.

----

Hero stirred to the feeling of a gentle rocking sensation.

"Mm..." they mumbled.

"Shhh," a voice soothed.

The rocking sensation stopped suddenly as Hero was laid down on a soft surface. They forced their eyes to open. They tried to sit up, but a hand gently pushed them back down.

"Don't-" the voice said softly, "don't get up. You're hurt."

Hero stared up at their rescuer. Their vision cleared, and their face went pale. Hero scuttled back on the couch.

"S-Supervillain," Hero breathed.

Hero's breaths quickened, coming out in short little gasps. Their heart felt like it was going to beat out of their chest. Supervillain held their hands up in a placating gesture.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," they said, "I promise."

Supervillain took a step closer, and Hero flinched hard, screwing their eyes shut. Instead of a harsh strike or a dark spell, Hero felt the gentle pressure of a hand on their forehead. They cracked an eye open and looked at Supervillain.

"No fever, that's good," Supervillain said.

Soft green light emanated from Supervillain's hands. Hero's breathing became deep of its own accord. Hero blinked in confusion.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Hero asked.

"It's a calming spell," Supervillain explained, "I don't want you to panic."

Supervillain gestured to Hero's shirt.

"May I?" they asked.

Hero felt themselves nodding, a forced calm settling over them. Supervillain thanked them and lifted their shirt.

"It seems to be healing well," Supervillain said, "my magic made short work of your cuts, but this stab wound was pretty bad."

"Magic?"

"Yes, my healing magic. You're lucky to be alive, if I hadn't found you... well, it doesn't matter now."

Normally the mention of magic would have Hero hyperventilating, but the calming spell was weaving its way through their mind and body, keeping them pacified.

"Let me work on your wound some more, you don't deserve a scar."

Magenta light flowed from Supervillain's hands into Hero's healing wound. The area began to feel warm and fuzzy. Hero watched as the wound faded away completely, leaving nothing but smooth, undamaged skin.

"Can I get you anything?" Supervillain asked.

"I, um..."

"How about something to eat and drink?" Supervillain offered.

Hero quickly shook their head. What if they poisoned it? Then again, Supervillain probably wouldn't go through the trouble to save them just to poison them... on the other hand, though, this was Supervillain they were talking about, and-

A floating tray of food interrupted Hero's thoughts. On the tray was a bowl of chili and a cup of water. Supervillain ushered the tray over with a finger. It settled a few inches over Hero.

"It's, uh, it's waiting for you to sit up," Supervillain said.

Hero sat up cautiously. The tray, satisfied, landed gently on Hero's lap. The spoon flew into Hero's hand. Hero yelped in surprise.

"Yes, that particular spoon is rather forward," Supervillain said apologetically, "you'll get used to it."

Hero gulped. What would happen if they didn't eat? Would Supervillain kill them in a harsher way? The spoon, growing impatient, zipped out of Hero's hand, filled itself with a helping of chili, and forced its way into their mouth.

"Mm!"

Flavors danced on Hero's tongue; the chili was absolutely delicious. The spoon left Hero's mouth and grabbed another helping of chili. It waited for Hero to swallow.

"I wouldn't poison you, if that's what you're worried about," Supervillain said, "I went through a bit of trouble to save you."

Hero swallowed hesitantly. The spoon eagerly shoved the next bite of chili into their mouth. Hero grabbed the spoon and started to feed themselves. Supervillain smiled.

"Why... why did you save me?" Hero asked.

Supervillain's smile faltered, replaced with a concerned expression.

"I couldn't just leave you there," Supervillain said.

"Yes you could've! You're Supervillain! You're the most powerful mage in the city, and I'm..."

"Yes?" Supervillain prompted.

"I fight mages! I'm your enemy!" Hero blurted.

Supervillain sighed. They waved a hand and an armchair tottered forward. Supervillain sat down, snapping their fingers. A cup of tea materialized out of thin air. Supervillain took a sip of it, then set it on the saucer, which was still floating nearby.

"Why do you fight mages?" Supervillain asked, as though Hero had come in for a therapy session.

"Because they use magic! And magic is- well, it's evil isn't it?"

"Look around you," Supervillain gestured to the room, "I've been using magic nonstop since I brought you here. Have I been using it for evil?"

Hero didn't respond.

"I've done nothing but heal you and tend to you with my powers," Supervillain continued, "what I want is for magic users and non-magic users to get along and enjoy each other's gifts. Of course, not everyone shares my sentiment, such as the mage who attacked you."

Hero shook their head, trying to rationalize Supervillain's words. Supervillain sighed again and stood. The tray floated away with the empty chili bowl. The spoon followed it back to the kitchen.

"You should get some rest," Supervillain said, summoning a blanket, which draped itself over Hero, "let me know if you need anything."

Supervillain began to leave.

"Wait!" Hero said weakly.

Supervillain turned.

"Yes?"

"Thank you, Supervillain," Hero said quietly.

Supervillain cracked a small smile.

"You're welcome..."

"Hero," Hero said, "my name is Hero."

"You're welcome, Hero."

Supervillain flicked their wrist, and the lights went out. They left the room to let Hero sleep. Hero snuggled under the blanket and closed their eyes. They were still very confused about many things, but maybe magic wasn't as evil as they had thought.

Ko-fi

Tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm

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shannaraisles · 5 months

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Idiot. - for @threeletterepithet

A comissioned piece for the patient and lovely @threeletterepithet, who requested a little interaction between her OC, Velthei, and Cullen Rutherford. Thank you, lovely, it was a delight to work with you!

Idiot.

“Healer! We need a healer here - the commander!”

Velthei’s head snapped up at the sound of that cry, her eyes narrowing their focus to take in the sight of Commander Cullen Rutherford being half-dragged, half-carried into the medical tent where she had been working, with Varric Tethras bobbing along behind him like a particularly motherly tugboat. Of course, most tugboats don’t have a shit-eating grin on their face as they watch their charge tipped bodily onto a cot in front of the harbour master, but Varric could hardly be described as most anything.

“What happened?” Velthei demanded, hurriedly dousing her hands in alcohol to disinfect them as she made her way to the commander’s side.

“Curly here decided to show his army how it’s done,” the dwarf informed her, staying out of the way as the soldiers removed Cullen’s dented and scratched armour as carefully as they could.

Not carefully enough, though - for all his stubborn stoicism, Cullen couldn’t quite hold in the soft groans of pain as various cuts and bruises were brought forth into the shining light of Velthei’s critical eyes. Even she, without the sharpness of sight brought about by years of mundane medicinal training, could tell that the armour had done little to prevent several broken ribs at the very least, and one particular gash on his temple had seemingly been bleeding for a significant amount of time, if the state of his quilted padding was anything to go by.

“It was ...” Cullen paused to bite down on another groan, one hand weakly waving away the soldiers before they managed to get the padded shirt off him. “It was a necessary action.”

“Yes, I can see how very necessary it was.”

Her drawling response to his noble comment was met with a wince that was definitely not inspired wholly by physical pain. Velthei knew only too well - better than most, in fact - Cullen’s tendency to throw himself into combat he could not possibly prevail in out of a sense of guilt over sending others under his command to do something similar. She had absolutely no doubt this was a result of exactly the same guilt that had had him forcibly removed from Haven all those months ago, all but kicking and screaming in an attempt to go down with his proverbial ship. He hadn’t had much opportunity to be a flaming idiot in recent months. After much debate between the two of them, it had been decided that Adamant didn’t count; there was a small but significant contingent of the Inquisition that maintained they had all been flaming idiots to storm the Grey Warden fortress, and it was a little difficult to argue with, however well it had turned out in the end.

But here and now, Cullen was beaten to the Void and back yet again, and it was, yet again, the result of his own daft decision to lead by example without actually letting anyone follow his example and help him in the moment. Possibly the best part of this situation, however, was the sheepish, slightly cornered expression on his face under the stern gaze she levelled in his direction as Varric was shooed out of the tent.

“I know what you are going to say,” he began, but she wasn’t having it, shaking her head before he could entrench himself in a ridiculous excuse for this behaviour.

“How many times have I told you that one man does not make an army?” she said, her tone perfectly calm.

She knew that was the worst part of it, too - Cullen was braced for angry words and tempers; he crumbled easily in the face of calm disappointment. Perhaps it was a little mean to wield that knowledge as a weapon, but given the state of him and the way he had got there, it felt like a fair weapon to wield right now. He visibly deflated in the face of that calmness, not even flinching when she sat down on the cot beside him and began to untangle him from what remained of his armour’s padding.

“I maintain that in some instances one man can be an army,” he managed, the words muffled half by quilting and half by pain as he contorted through the action of raising his arms above his head.

“Hawke doesn’t count,” Velthei said, but there was a smile playing about her lips as she said it. She knew she had already won this argument, if there was going to be one. The man was already backpedalling, and she had barely said a word.

Cullen glowered at her, just a touch petulantly, at the mention of Hawke. That individual had been somehow both a thorn in his side and his deliverance in Kirkwall, and he still vacillated between gratitude and resentment for it. It did not help that Hawke was possibly the most impressive person either of them had ever met. Impressive; not necessarily likeable from certain perspectives.

“Are you finished making excuses for being a hero yet?” she then asked, tilting her head as she let that smile loose to shine through her face and voice. “I’ve treated about twenty of the soldiers whose retreat you covered all by yourself in the past hour or so. You may be an idiot, but you’re an heroic idiot.”

To her delight, a very faint flush of rose flooded his cheeks at her complimentary words, whiskey-warm eyes awkwardly glancing away before returning to examine her face even as she let her gaze lower to examine the mottling that betrayed just how much damage he had sustained before his own people dragged him bodily out of harm’s way. All it took was a barely whispered request, and he gave his permission to be touched, allowing her the freedom to trace the edges of bruises and cuts with feather light fingertips, cataloguing the injuries he had so willingly taken in defence of the people he lead without hesitation.

“Better an idiot than a coward,” was his soft reply, shortened only by the sharp intake of breath as the barest pressure on his side drew pain flaring to the foreground.

“Cullen ...” Velthei bit her lip, glancing across the medical tent to where the mundane healers were still working on their charges. There were other spirit healers too, but this was a question that could only come from her. “I can heal you with magic, if you will allow it. You know how long broken ribs take to heal on their own.”

He hesitated, as she knew he would. No matter how close they were, how many times he had allowed her to do just this in the past, he would always be wary of magic and those who wielded it, with good reason. It was a decision to be weighed up between his traumatic past and his unknown future - was revisiting a memory filled with pain and torment worth being ready for the future that might bring with it more danger for him to face? For as long as she had known him, he had always had this moment of consideration, and he had never chosen to run from his past.

He did not run from it now.

WIth a short nod, he assented, settling himself on the cot in as relaxed a fashion as he could muster.

“If it is you, Velthei, then heal me,” he said, fingers twitching toward her own ever so briefly before falling back to the rough linen beneath him. “Idiot though I may be, I trust you.”

“I really don’t understand why,” she said, relaxing herself now the consent had been given. “I am, after all, a filthy Dalish mage with no manners whatsoever.”

He groaned at the reminder of how she had been described in Kirkwall, rolling his eyes under her grin.

“Yes, thank you, I am aware that I was not the most courteous in my welcome,” he pointed out, wincing just a little as she laid her palms gently over his right side to begin channelling the icy heat of healing magic into the bones that lay cracked beneath his flesh. “You were not particularly charming yourself.”

“Oh, I was horrible,” she agreed cheerfully. “But that’s why you love me, isn’t it? My irrepressible bad humour.”

For a moment, there was absolute silence, Velthei’s focus pouring into Cullen’s injuries to knit and soothe in that same cool heat of magical healing. Then she felt Cullen’s chest jerk beneath her hands - not in pain, but in a strange huff of laughter - and heard words that she could not have said with any confidence that she had no longed to hear.

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” he mused, “But there is far more to love about you than just your bad humour.”

She froze, wide eyes flicking to meet a gaze that was somehow impossibly soft and also guarded with stone-like shields, wary of her response but achingly eager for it as well. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest; was this really the time or the place for this conversation? Would it ever truly be the right time or place for it? She’d spent so long not putting a name to this closeness between them, not labelling it or hoping for anything, acutely aware that they were not a couple that would be willingly accepted by the circles either of them moved in ... but now she had said it, entirely without thinking, and he had not corrected her.

“Cullen, I -”

His lips crooked into a faint smile as he raised his hand, one finger gently touching her lips.

“Now who’s the idiot, hmm?” he asked, biting down on a grunt as he eased himself to sit up, only his ribs yet healed at this point. “It may still be myself, waiting to know if you feel for me as I feel for you.”

It was her turn to hesitate, almost afraid to break the silence now with a confession after she had almost forced his from him with her unthinking words, unconsciously turning her face into the curve of his palm as his fingers traced from her lips to her jaw.

“Do you think I’m like this with just anyone?” she heard herself ask, inwardly cursing the way she had not truly answered. “I mean ... that is, I ...” She sighed harshly, trying to force the nerves from her throat, daring to hold his gaze with her own as she finally gathered her own courage. “I do. I’ve loved you for a long time, Cullen.”

“Then, with your permission, I will do something that not even you could call idiotic,” he answered, the scar on his lip pulled taut as he leaned close to her, his breath playing over her lips. Waiting for her consent.

Consent given with near-shy enthusiasm as her lips brushed his, tasting with tenderness, mindful that he was not as hale and hearty as he wanted to believe himself to be. He gave her no chance to pull back and spare his injuries, sliding arms about her waist to pull her ever closer as his kiss deepened, savouring the mouth that teased him constantly as much with words as with smiles and laughter, embracing the woman who had become so much a part of his life that he could not now imagine a future without her. She squeaked at his boldness, laughing into that kiss even as he grinned, daring to wrap her arms about his neck and shoulders, falling into this newness with the familiarity of old friends who might always have known this was coming. Pressing closer, needing to be closer still, until ...

“Blast it all!”

Cullen dragged free of their embrace with a hiss of pain, his back arched, eyes squeezed shut, one hand pressing to the sizeable bruise on his shoulder that her fond ministrations had not yet had the chance to attend to. Velthei couldn’t help it, not even trying to bite down on her laugh at the pain their shared eagerness had given him anew.

“Idiot.”

#commission fic #threeletterepithet #dragon age #oc - velthei #cullen rutherford #velthei x cullen #hurt/comfort #fluff #friends to lovers #magic healing #varric tethras #smug dwarf extraordinaire

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friendlylocalwhumper · 7 months

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“I - I, I…” The shudder that rips through their body is violent enough that it knocks the healer’s hands away. Major snarls in frustration. Quinn licks their lips, the back of their head rolling side to side against the floor to vent their restlessness. “I… don’t think I can… can handle this, the pain…”

His hands are rough, covered in sharp ridges from burn scars. He’s holding them down like they’re a dumb, rabid animal. They feel like one right now. His fingers wrap around their broken wrist, and the blood drains from their face, making freckles more stark across their cheeks. Major’s free hand lifts toward their head - Quinn’s eyes widen and their age shows suddenly as they become a nineteen-year-old recoiling in fear.

“Settle down,” Hisses Major as he brushes their hair back in one harsh swipe. Nervous brown eyes flutter shut for the moment that his palm lays atop their head in a condescending but firm reminder that they are being helped. “You gotta handle it, so you will. I gotta pull on this shit to make it straighter.” He nods down at their broken wrist instead of jostling it in gesture. “It’ll hurt your fucked up hand. But listen.” He squeezes around fractured bone, eyes hard and cold.

Shuddering where they lie on their back, Quinn keens, back arching and brows knitting together as they try to focus. They’re listening.

“You gotta keep quiet. You hear me?” His warning is a hiss, the hand atop their hair pressing down to keep them in place. In the other room, witches and warlocks cackle and knock beers together. Gray eyes flick toward the doorway in uncharacteristic caution. “You can’t scream. If they find out I can heal…”

“I won’t,” Quinn whispers. The others in this safehouse haven’t done anything dangerous yet, but Major’s scared of them anyway. It has to do with his past, his childhood, they suspect. They trust his instinct. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Damn straight.” The broken wrist is held between two scarred hands, now, and Major squints at the joint. With a warning tug he gives his friend a second to suck in a breath.

One sharp tug, and Quinn’s vision explodes into white. Holding back their scream is a herculean feat; the sound catches in their throat and chokes them as their feet kick at the floor, soles sliding uselessly against worn carpet. Bones shift in their wrist with the second, more firm twist-tug, and Quinn slams their head back against the floor with the force of their resolve to keep their voice restrained.

The healing magic that pours into the fracture brings no relief. Major’s magic hurts, it can fix things but doesn’t numb a bit of it. Gnarled, chronically swollen fingers twitch and spasm with fresh agony lancing through their arm, and they whimper animalistically when he shoves the fingers down with his forearm in retribution for them dividing his focus.

By the end of the healing, Quinn is panting. Major’s jaw is set with focus as he presses down on the joint to test it, finding that the breaks are mended. “There. That was it? That’s what you were whining about all day?”

Flushed with embarrassment, they rise to sitting, hair hanging in limp waves to brush over their shoulders. “I don’t need any more pain there.” Their crooked hands twitch as if in agreement. Sparks of painful healing magic still fritz under thick scars in their palms.

Incredulous eyes glare out at them from under a mess of frizzy hair. Major’s loathing isn’t hard to earn, and Quinn faces it with a blank stare. “Can you stop being a little bitch for five seconds?”

Their mouth opens to argue, but then Quinn’s eyes flit up to lock onto the guy strolling into the room. He walks right up behind Major and grabs a fistful of his hair, interjecting with a cool, “Can you?”

Major’s eyes widen with rage and he twists, trying to stand and kick out at the other warlock, but his wrist is grabbed and in a flurry of movement, he’s knocked back to his knees with his head forced back. Huffing out sharp breaths and straining against the arm now wrapped around his middle in restraint, Major jerks his head away from the guy breathing next to his ear, now.

Quinn has backed away and watched every second of the struggle that seems to have ended as soon as it began. Major is trying to fight back, but he’s held firmly for now. And Quinn doesn’t fight.

“You calling me a bitch?” Growls the healer, sending his head flying back to try to break the guy’s nose. He’s not even close to succeeding.

“Yup,” Answers the warlock. “Bitch and a coward. ‘Cause I just watched you heal a busted wrist. While my girl out there has a bullet in her gut. We were just going to have to wait for her to pass out before we could try to stitch it up.” A sharp tug on that bleach-fried hair gets Major to hiss in discomfort. Quinn sees how his fists clench with terror at being found out as a healer. “So first thing we’ll do is go fix her up. Break that wrist as payment from both of you assholes.” The warlock jerks his chin at Quinn, and they don’t argue against the guy who’s now dragging Major up to his feet and trading the arm around his middle for a knife at his back. Major feels the pinprick of it and decides not to get stabbed right now. “And then I’ll decide what to do next.”

The possibilities play through Quinn’s mind in a rapid-fire slideshow. He could make Major heal everyone injured who comes through the front door. Could beat him to death in revenge for making the girlfriend wait for healing. Could kill them both. Could set them free. The possibilities feel much more sour and hopeless if that girlfriend dies before Major fixes her up. And if he refuses to help…

“I’m not healing shit,” Hisses the furious healer with a knife to his back, and Quinn has to let their sigh out slowly from their nose to keep it silent.

“Huh. Okay.” The armed warlock scoffs in disbelief, then stabs the knife into Major’s back.

Quinn watches the exchange with dawning shock as the knife slides in quickly, quietly, out of their line of sight. Major’s face twists with pain and he’s allowed to stagger and fall, reaching back to pull the knife out of his own lower left back. The warlock easily grabs it back out of the healer’s hand and slashes again, this time scoring a long chasm across Major’s left bicep.

Blood splatters across the floor and soaks through his shirt quickly. The healer collapses with a strangled moan as he twists to apply pressure and inspect the new stab wounds. “Fuck,” He hisses, paranoia forcing him to check on where the warlock’s gone and if he’s watching as magic glows in his hands to heal himself. But the guy’s moved on. He’s approaching Quinn with the knife. Hissing as the wound in his back closes reluctantly, Major scrambles to get up onto his knees and heal as he goes.

“He doesn’t seem to like you,” Says the guy conversationally as he snatches Quinn up by their blouse and shoves them against the wall. They’re tense and still, obviously not the type to fight back. “Seems like an asshole. Kinda sorry to do this to you.”

Major launches himself at the warlock with a roar and knocks him away, grabbing for his hands with his own bloody ones, landing at least one punch to the guy’s gut. He can’t find the knife no matter where he grabs, hands sliding urgently along the guy’s hands and pockets. The struggle turns and white frizzy hair flies wildly as the healer’s head is slammed into the wall. The room seems to spin and crash sideways, the floor coming up to crash into him before Major realizes that Quinn is treumulously trying to pull the knife out of their thigh, where it’s been embedded to the hilt.

The warlock’s back blocks Major’s sight. As he works again to heal himself enough to fight back, he hears the sick squelching of stabs. The knife was pulled out of their leg, then, and they’re getting all stabbed up in their gut. Major can imagine the internal damage being done and how rapidly their chances of surviving are crumbling.

“Okay.” The guy returns, hands bloody now. As he approaches and hauls Major up, the healer spots Quinn sliding to the floor, clutching at their stomach. They don’t look dead or unconscious yet. “You ready to heal my people yet?”

He could go for a few more rounds. Major could fight back, could grab at that knife. But Quinn might not have enough time. And it would suck if they died before he could beat the shit out of them for… being annoying.

“Fine. I’ll heal your bitch.”

Someone’s crept into the room. Not the warlock from before - he’s still out in the main room forcing Major to heal people. Quinn squints at the doorway and backs up as well as they can, dragging themself slowly along the wall.

The puddle of blood makes the carpet sticky. Nauesous, Quinn blinks down at the dark sight, then flinches when they realize their visitor is in front of them now.

A young guy, maybe a year younger than them, with glasses and the side of his head buzzed down. He would look cute if he didn’t have that odd, curious glint in his eyes.

“Can, can I… help you?” Quinn rasps, protecting their slashed up abdomen with a quaking hand. Someone benevolent would gasp in shock and hurry to help, not stare in awe and budding excitement.

His eyes are locked onto the blood. The injuries. “Does it hurt?” He asks, voice hushed and low.

Their hand lies more firmly over the wounds. “Stay back.” There’s no way for them to escape without help, and they instinctively fear this person. “Just - whatever weird curiosity thing you’ve got going on, don’t… don’t do anything.”

Glasses slid down near the tip of his nose and eyebrows a bit higher than they were at first, he looks up into their eyes finally. It sends a chill down their spine. “What would I do?” He asks in a whisper. It sounds like he’s looking for suggestions, for inspiration.

“I don’t… my friend is healing your friends, and then he’ll come heal me, and… then we’ll leave. Th-there’s nothing you need to do, I… wait,” Quinn gasps, trying to shove themself back into the wall, to crush through the drywall and find safety in plywood and dust. He’s prying their hand away and-

Quinn tries to scream, but a second hand flies up to press over their mouth as the first digs a finger into the stab wound above the belly button. His ring finger and pinky stretch to press atop another stab wound as he widens the one already breached.

It feels like fire. With a dizzy sound, Quinn nearly faints. Their gnarled hands twist in the guy’s shirt, and their eyes well up with instant reflexive tears.

“Oh, cool,” He mumbles, and devotes his whole hand to the biggest gash, dipping into it. His head tilts with wonder at how packed a body is, inside - where the organs are and how warm the blood is.

They wish their wrist was broken. A broken wrist, that’s all they had, and they could’ve handled that. The healing was extra, it wasn’t necessary, didn’t save their life.

Now their stab wounds have been left alone. Quinn lies on their back, weakly pushing against the stranger as he crushes their throat with one hand and twists their fingers with another. He can’t decide between learning to strangle someone and playing with Quinn’s chronically aching hands.

“Where the - oh my god.” A new voice, a girl. She storms in and grabs the guy, hauling him backward until he falls off of his victim. “Get the fuck out of here, Neo. Ugh.” While he huffs and adjusts his glasses with bloody hands, complaining on his way out, the girl approaches Quinn with a grimace. “Oh. You’re… all fucked up. Are you about to die?”

Wheezing and clutching with one hand at their aching throat, Quinn shakes their head quickly. They don’t want to be left to die alone in here. “Nnh, no. Please.”

Her hand flies up, badly painted nails flashing purple at them. “Don’t say please. Don’t do that begging shit. I’ll get that healer in here. God.” Out she goes, and they watch with a stomach twisted in delayed horror, reluctantly applying pressure to the source of all the blood that’s trying to escape them.

They’re dying. They’re dying, and someone’s trying to hold them still while they do. Panicked grunts and whines escape them as Quinn fights with all their strength to get free, to get away, it’s that guy Neo again probably and he’ll excitedly push and poke and pry until the light fades from their eyes, and that’s such a horrible way to go, they don’t want to die-

“Fuck! Jesus, Quinn, calm the fuck down!”

Unforgiving hands pin them harder, crushing ever-aching bones to keep their hands from flailing anymore. An awful fire is lit in their abdomen and Quinn sobs with all their might, thrashing and begging incoherently for it to stop.

“Neo got in here,” Someone mutters, and someone else laughs while a third voice groans.

“Don’, don’t, don’t,” Babbles Quinn, flexing ruined fingers that never work how they want them to anyway. Their toes are cold. Too much blood spilled everywhere. Someone must be digging a hand into their stomach again, it hurts so much. “No more, please, please, ple-, ghh, I can’t!”

A slap to the face, a sharp sting that feels like ice water to their nerves. Quinn gasps belatedly and holds their breath as the agony in their side sharpens, then fades. Healing? Were they healed? Their head lifts and tear-filled eyes blink blearily at the sight of a bloody-but-no-longer-torn stretch of skin.

“Stop crying,” Major grumbles, slowly taking his weight off their hands and pulling their arms down, checking on wrists and shoulders and all. Quinn takes a series of ragged, soggy breaths. They won’t die. No more bleeding. No fingers in them. Each thought is choppy, rapid-fire, dull with shock.

He brushes their hair back again, gets knotted blood-slick locks out of their face, and they lean blankly into the contact. Hitching sobs are soothed with slight pressure on their chest, the hand there ridged with scars. Major’s never soothed them like this, but then again he’s never seen them writhing and begging, on the brink of death.

“You can’t leave,” Says the first warlock who confronted them. “Not until you heal-”

“I’m fucking done,” Major snaps, hauling Quinn up onto their feet and shoving them toward the door. They stumble and whine, pale from blood loss, but he keeps them upright with an arm around their waist. “Move.”

The group of weird, bossy witches and warlocks parts. In the corner, Neo sulks, watching with ever-curious eyes. A pair of witches stands between him and his victim like he needs constant supervision. One or two of the warlocks look like they want to argue against the healer leaving, but Major holds onto Quinn so tightly that they seem to decide it wouldn’t be worth the effort to pry them apart.

#whump #torture #gore #stabbed #knife #blood #creepy #magic healing #crying #protective caretaker #choking #quinn #major #mine

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oldestandonlygirl3 · 2 years

Text

Prompt #100

"You mean to tell me my 9 bullet wounds, 7 stab wounds, broken arm, and 16 lacerations magically completely healed all by themselves?"

"...yes?"

"You are the worst liar I've ever met."

#writing promts #dialogue prompts #dialogue prompt #magic healing #super powers #heros and villains #if you squint #100 prompts #that's a big number

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cripplecharacters · 2 years

Note

Would curing a character's chronic pain or chronic illness be harmful in the same way as curing most other disabilities? Or is something like that not harmful?

(For context, a major character in my story has worsening chronic pain due to an illness, and I realized that the way a certain method of magical resurrection works could also theoretically cure conditions like what my character has. This would be something that she voluntarily chooses, and is not forced upon her by others.)

Hi, and thanks for your question!

In my personal opinion as a chronically ill person with severe chronic pain, I see pain management and removal of disability entirely as two distinct things. Disabled people don't want to be in physical pain any more than abled people do--that's why so many of us have extensive pain management plans that can involve anything from medications, physiotherapy, controlled exercise, CBD, hot/cold gels or patches, and steroid injections.

That said, I think an appropriate approach to this scenario would depend on which disability/ies you've given this character. I wouldn't have a problem with a character curing their chronic pain but retaining other non-painful symptoms of their disability. For example, a character who uses a mobility aid could cure their physical pain but retain weakness in their legs and still continue using their mobility aid even without feeling pain. Ultimately, I would want this character to still be identifiably, explicitly disabled even after their pain is gone.

If this cure would also remove their entire disability on top of their pain, I'm a lot more wary and would recommend avoiding it entirely. While your character may choose this in text, they're also being written by a human being with biases--fictional agency is kind of a myth in the sense that characters aren't actually real people. For me personally, I'd rather not be in pain all the time, but I actually don't have a problem with being physically disabled otherwise. Most of us don't want to be "cured" of our disabilities, we just want to live in an accessible world that values and respects us as disabled people.

If you have any additional context you'd like to provide about this character or scenario, please feel free to follow up and we'd be happy to provide more tailored advice!

As always, other disabled people with chronic pain feel free to chime in :)

-Mod Faelan

#mod faelan #magic healing #chronic pain representation #cure trope

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starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 1 year

Text

Chapter 10 ~ Nothing left to hide

Hidden Depths AU

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Hidden Depths Masterlist

Genre: Fantasy whump

CWs: lady whump, knife to throat, human remains (bones in a box, brief glimpse :D), blood, life-threatening injury, exceptionally brief reference to past noncon, very awkward conversation regarding relationships, like soo fucking awkward

WC: 3904

Taglist: @kixngiggles @dont-touch-my-soup

A/N: This is the end of the AU! Thank you for following along with my crazy 25k-long 'what if' scenario :') I love you all! <3

Stay tuned for Hidden Depths Arc 2.

Resh

Resh stood so fast the table jerked forward. Oh gods, where had Carr come from? How… how much of their conversation had she heard?

Fortunately, she pulled Nykim back before her knife completed its threatened action. Nykim landed on the stool, where he sat quite still.

“Don’t play games with me, Carr.”

Resh shivered at the silky darkness in his tone, the fierce gleam in eyes more gray than blue.

“I don’t play games, Nykim,” Carr snapped, digging the blade in a little more. “That’s your thing, isn’t it.”

She glanced at Resh. “Turn up the lamp.”

“Carr, I don’t think this is what you think it is. It may have started that way, but…”

He trailed off as the wick flared, illuminating the rest of the room.

On his left was a set-up similar to Mieste’s workroom, with cabinets holding vials and jars full of various herbs and remedies. On his right…

A gleaming assortment of weapons and scary-looking tools hung on the wall and adorned the long, low table beneath them. A chair with leather and iron restraints sat in the back corner. Fibrous tendrils descended from the ceiling around it, pale and writhing of their own accord. Resh shivered and turned around.

The back of the room wasn’t any better. Chains hung over what appeared to be a pit, not that he wanted to go any closer to check. He jerked away from that only to have his attention caught by something rather strange–a large glass box sitting on another table. It didn’t seem to fit the room’s… theme. He tilted his head, wondering what on Valysii it was for. Gods, Resh couldn’t even imagine the expense of that thing. It had to be as big as a person–

What he had initially supposed was some kind of inky liquid moved, exposing patches of pale white. He squinted, trying to make out what it was.

A larger mass of darkness split away, revealing the curve of a… skull? Fucking shit. Hoping he was wrong, his gaze traveled down the box. Goosebumps rose when he spotted a finger bone, the lip of a pelvic bone, a segment of the bones in the lower leg. A faint chitinous hum filled the room that he only now recognized. Insects. Those were insects in that box, not a liquid.

Oh gods. He wasn’t wrong, not at all. Resh swallowed against the bile rising in his throat before he spun around. Nothing could have prepared him for the implied purpose of this chamber. One he’d been sitting in for hours, with no idea…

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Carr said to him before turning on the thief master. “The fuck, Nykim? I thought I made it clear Resh was off-limits. Why?”

The faint hint of betrayal in her voice shocked Resh. And she’d vouched for him? He searched her features, but they were difficult to read, as usual. What wasn’t difficult to see was how little fucking color was in her cheeks.

“This is my house, my pack, in case you’ve forgotten,” Nykim growled.

Resh inched around the table. Nykim sounded pissed.

Carr growled right back. “You don’t usually ignore a beta’s opinions or requests, though, do you? It’s ‘cuz I’m a girl, isn’t it?” When he didn’t answer right away, she yanked on his braid. “Isn’t it!”

Nykim winced when the dagger dug in a little deeper. “Damnit, Carrah. I’ve always known.”

Her face blanched entirely at that. Resh lurched forward, afraid she would pass out, but Nykim acted before he could get there.

In the same move he used to knock Carr’s arm away, Nykim disarmed her and shoved off the stool. Carr stumbled back, eyes wide and fixed on the dagger now pointed at her.

“I did it to fucking protect you!” Nykim shouted, splotches of red forming over his cheeks. He advanced on Carr, who looked like she was barely managing to stand.

Fuck. Resh’s heart pounded as his eyes flicked between them. Should he say something? Or would that make everything worse?

He couldn’t keep quiet while they looked like they wanted to kill each other, though. “I don’t think–”

Carr launched herself at Nykim, nearly knocking the blade from his hand. He kept ahold of it, though, and forced her back. Beads of sweat shimmered on her forehead.

“Protect me… from what!” Carr’s chest heaved, her stamina nowhere near where it should be.

And why would it be, after she’d nearly fucking died the night before! Godsdamnit, Resh needed to find a way to stop this.

Nykim smirked. “Already out of breath. Carrah, what have I told you about conserving your energy?”

She visibly flinched at the name, but Resh thought it suited her. Whatever the reason for her reaction, it didn’t stop her from circling Nykim, looking for openings, he assumed.

“Won’t… allow you… to. Kill him,” Carr panted.

“What? I’m not–” Nykim dropped his guard for a split second, and that was all Carr needed.

She darted in, landing a kick to the side of Nykim’s knee. He dropped to the ground with a pained grunt.

The hand he used to catch himself was the one holding the weapon. Carr stomped on his fingers when his grip loosened and tried to kick the blade away. But Nykim grabbed her ankle, pulling her down with him.

They started grappling for the knife.

“Both of you, stop!” Resh said, stepping forward.

Carr was hurting herself, Nykim was trying not to die–and they didn’t listen to him, because who ever listened to him?

Frustration built inside his chest, a pressure with no valve for release. Resh clenched his fist. It wasn’t like jumping in and physically separating them would work. That seemed like an excellent way to die.

Shoving Carr aside, Nykim wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Before he could so much as lift the blade, Carr returned, digging her fingers into his forearm. Resh saw the spasm that went through his hand, but Nykim maintained control. He grasped the back of Carr’s jacket, trying to drag her off of him.

Plumes of dust from the dirt floor rose in the air around them while they scuffled. An elbow to the gut had Nykim releasing her with a wheezing grunt. She wrenched his wrist back, trying to break his grip. The angle of the dagger had Resh breaking out in a cold sweat.

“Fucking shit, someone’s gonna get stabbed. Knock it off!” Resh roared. His fear triggered his magic, and he acted without thought. Purple light flared, and then the knife was in his hand. A dull ache took up residence in his head, his magic use reigniting the reaction headache he hadn’t fully recovered from yet.

It took a moment for them to realize the blade was gone. Then Carr disengaged, flopping over on her back to press a hand to her side. Her labored breathing was clearly audible in the suddenly quiet room.

Nykim sat up, staring at the blade, then at Resh with narrowed eyes. “Reaper’s pits, boy, why didn’t you just tell me you were a mage?”

Resh gave a strangled laugh as the purple glow highlighting Nykim’s features slowly faded away. “I didn’t think it would matter.”

The disbelief on the thief master’s face would’ve been humorous if not for the concerning way Carr started gasping for breath behind him. Resh threw the knife on the table, where it bounced off Nykim’s blade with a loud clang, and rushed to her side.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, brushing a stray chunk of hair from her brow.

She stared up at him through pain-glazed eyes. “Did you… heal me? Before? Missing wounds. I think.”

Resh shook his head. There was no point keeping Nykim’s secret when the man was kneeling on her other side, eyes glowing green while he did whatever Healers do.

“Oh,” she said, and her eyes fluttered closed.

Her elbow knocked into Resh’s thigh. He automatically shifted to give her more space, glancing down to ensure he’d moved enough. His gaze caught on the way she held her hand over her right side. Her fingers twitched, something dark and shiny coating them. Fresh blood. Shit. He snapped his head up, looking to Nykim for reassurance.

“I may have missed something.” Nykim began unbuttoning the bottom of her jacket, his expression grim. “Or the exertion could’ve torn something. I only partially healed some of those wounds.”

That was not reassuring in the slightest.

Carr released a breathless moan of protest when Nykim moved on to the next button. The motion she used to bat him away was weak, but Nykim didn’t try to push. He pulled back immediately.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Resh said softly, reaching for her. Gods, her fingers were freezing. “Nykim needs to see to heal you. Will you let him?”

Her eyes cracked open, and the pitiful look she gave him pierced his heart. His hand ached from the force of her grip.

Resh looked at Nykim and shook his head. “Is there another way?”

“I can probably get by with skin-to-skin contact,” Nykim said, his voice gentle. “Can I place my hand over yours? The one on your side?”

The barest of nods was her only answer. She kept her death grip on Resh while Nykim worked.

Resh monitored her every breath, barely breathing himself until her stuttered gasps for air eased into a more regular rhythm. Nykim didn’t move, though, still bowed over her body, his large hand completely covering hers.

“Resh?”

Carr’s voice startled him, and Resh realized he’d lost himself, searching through the hidden depths behind her hazel eyes. Heat crept up the back of his neck. “Oh, um. Yes?”

A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Did… did Nykim. Hurt you?”

“He didn’t,” Resh said. He stroked his thumb over her fingers when her brow creased. “I thought he was going to kill me, but all he did was ask a bunch of questions. Maybe he would’ve if I hadn’t passed whatever test he was giving me. At least, I think I passed it? Kinda hard to tell since you put a knife to his throat.”

“Looked like–” She winced. Swallowed. “Like he was about. To stab you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be talking right now,” Resh said, concerned about her continued shortness of breath. He studied her for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest, before looking at Nykim again. The green light behind his half-lidded eyes still bathed Carr’s abdomen.

“I’m… fine.”

Resh turned back to her. “It’s okay to not be fine, Carr. Or would you prefer Carrah?”

She shook her head.

“Okay,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You’ve been through a lot. Almost died. You should’ve been in bed, resting, not down here fighting with Nykim. As long as he’s taking, you can likely add another ‘almost died’ to the tally.”

“Almost done,” Nykim interjected.

Thank the gods. One of the knots in his chest loosened, just a bit. “So don’t tell me you’re fine. Please. It’s obvious you aren’t.”

Her gaze shifted away at that, looking somewhere over his shoulder. Resh sighed; he probably shouldn’t have said that last part.

While he was searching for something else to say, Nykim straightened, releasing a weary sigh. The light in his eyes slowly faded, leaving him looking about as exhausted as Carr.

“I healed as much as I could,” Nykim said, running a hand over his face. “Listen to me, Carr.”

She blinked and turned her head without meeting Resh’s eyes again. Heart sinking, he loosened his grip on her hand, prepared for her to pull away. She didn’t.

“There’s not much time,” Nykim continued. “Someone will find the prince sooner rather than later. We have to get you out of the city before they close the gates.”

Since Resh was watching her instead of Nykim, he caught the way her gaze sharpened.

“Even before you ripped open that wound and tried to bleed out into your abdomen, you wouldn’t have had the strength to get out on your own. Someone would’ve needed to accompany you.”

The set of Carr’s jaw showed she disagreed with that assessment.

Of course she would. Resh almost snorted. Hadn’t Nykim just been telling him how stupid he was for assuming Carr would need help?

Nykim shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Stubborn to the fucking core. Look, Resh here is in the same trouble as you. Plus, an… added complication. I needed to know if I could send him with you or if I needed to kill him. You can glare at me all you want, but that’s how things work in this life, and you know it.”

At that, Carr wrenched her hand away and struggled to sit up. Although Resh hovered, it turned out she didn’t need his help. Another knot loosened.

“Added complication,” she spat. “He saw you heal me the first time. That’s why you were about to kill him when you came for me.”

“What’s done is done,” Nykim said, waving his hand. “The boy is alive, and he’s going to stay alive unless you don’t want him along.”

Resh looked up at that. “I passed?”

“Depends on her.”

“Not even a question.” She said it without a moment’s hesitation.

A warmth bloomed in Resh’s chest that had nothing to do with getting to live. Which was also nice, of course. But he had earned enough of Carr’s trust that she’d not even had to think twice about him accompanying her out of the country.

It was the greatest gift he’d ever been given.

Less than an hour later, Resh found himself seated in a carriage, moving at a brisk pace now that they had passed through the city’s gates.

Across from him, freshly washed and in clean clothes, Carr shifted positions. Again. This time she wedged herself in the corner of her bench seat. It took a significant amount of fidgeting before she got comfortable.

Despite her apparent restlessness, she’d given no indication she wished to talk. When Resh tried to engage her, she only gave one-word answers, so he elected to remain quiet. Instead, he studied her, trying not to be too obvious about it. A glance out of the corner of his eye while gazing out the window, really.

Cleansed of the dried blood that had coated her, it was easier to see just how pale and worn she looked. Her damp hair hung about her face, grown out from the short choppy pieces he’d first seen her with. The longer strands seemed to be a source of annoyance. Resh watched as she pushed them back yet again, revealing the cut above her eyebrow and the bruises crossing her cheeks from that fucking muzzle.

Inside his sling, where she couldn’t see it, his right hand curled into a fist. There had been no time for either of them to process what had happened in that room. Resh was certain that was part of the reason Carr couldn’t be still. Probably why she wouldn’t rest either.

He wanted to respect her choices. But he decided to speak up when she started blinking slowly, sleepily, only to force herself awake with more fidgeting.

“Why don’t you lie down, close your eyes for a bit?” Resh suggested. Despite Nykim’s assurances, he was still worried about her overdoing it.

Carr shook her head, tapping her fingers on her drawn-up knee. “I have months of this t’ look forward to, supposedly. Not gonna sleep through it all.”

She’d lost a lot of blood, and Nykim had said it would take time for her body to replenish its supply. Resh hoped the resultant fatigue would keep her inactive long enough for the rest of her wounds to heal, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

Searching for a topic that might keep her interest, Resh latched onto the image of Carr and the thief master. He had seen them talking while he’d helped the ver–the kids load the carriage. He couldn’t think of them as vermin. Vermin were rats or other pests. Not children.

Which had him thinking about his sister–no, he couldn’t think about Orla now. He would likely never see her again, and that was too painful to contemplate at the moment. A deep breath buried the ache in his chest, and Resh steered his thoughts back to where they had started.

Carr and Nykim’s conversation hadn’t looked tense. Resh desperately hoped she’d forgiven him. It hadn’t escaped Resh that the man had guarded her secret for years. He’d only been looking out for her.

Sucked it had been Resh’s life at stake, but Resh couldn’t really blame him.

“Did you reach an understanding with Nykim before we left?”

“Yeah.” Her response was short. Succinct.

Godsdamnit.

Resh leaned his head against the seat cushion, looking out upon the countryside. They were passing the fields outside the city, so he was treated to visions of farmers tending their crops or livestock grazing. Not very interesting, if you asked him.

Time passed in slightly awkward silence, and they eventually passed through cultivated land into a stretch of wilderness. Resh sighed, relieved to be out of reach of the city.

“Did you mean what you said?” Carr asked out of the blue.

He raised an eyebrow, even while his palms began to sweat. Did she mean–

“When you said you loved me,” she said flatly, averting her gaze.

Shit. Resh rubbed his left hand on his pants. “I… yeah, but listen, I don’t expect anything–”

“Heard that part,” Carr interrupted, pulling her knees up to her chest.

He had no idea what she was getting at, making him sweat even more. “I’m sorry. I’m not–I… I did mean what I told Nykim, but… it seems like maybe–maybe you mean something else?”

Fuck, nothing was coming out right. Resh rubbed the back of his neck, trying to read her and coming up short. His shoulders slumped when she didn’t respond. “If that makes you uncomfortable, I can leave when–”

“No! I don’t want that. I just…” Her arms tightened around her legs as she trailed off.

When she didn’t continue, Resh took a deep breath and moved to the edge of his seat. “Carr, do you want… do you want to be friends?”

He clenched his hands, hoping he wasn’t fucking everything up by asking. It just seemed like she needed some kind of reassurance, and being friends was safe, wasn’t it? And gods, how he wanted to be a friend to her.

When she blinked at him, his breath caught in his throat. Shit, he wasn’t even sure his heart was beating.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered.

Resh offered an encouraging grin, even though his heart was breaking for her. “That’s okay. Our friendship can be whatever we want it to be.”

She looked at him like he was some strange creature that had crawled out of the gutter.

Okay, this was going well. Resh backtracked. “Or, um… we don’t need to name anything at all. We can just be… two people, traveling together.

“And… when we’re done traveling? What happens then?”

He didn’t think her eyes could possibly get any bigger. Or the look in them any wilder. If they hadn’t been trapped in a carriage, he suspected she might’ve run away.

“Whatever you want.” Resh shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. He felt anything but.

The silence was painful while Carr thought that over. The process looked exceedingly difficult; her brow creased and her mouth opened and closed several times before words finally came out. “I don’t… I want you to stay. With me. But I can’t–I can’t be… Fuck!”

Somehow, she curled even tighter into a ball, burying her head between her arms. There was the muffled sound of a frustrated scream, and Resh shot across the space between the bench seats.

“Carr, it’s just me,” Resh said, trying to give her some warning before he laid his hand on her arm.

She twitched but didn’t jerk away. Still, he kept the contact light, something easy to pull back from if she needed to. Fine tremors he hadn’t been able to see but could now feel wracked her body.

“Hey, it’s okay. When I said I don’t expect anything, I really meant anything.” He flushed, desperately hoping he wouldn’t need to elaborate. “I just… I enjoy your company. I want to be someone you feel comfortable around. Someone you can depend upon.”

Gods, he sounded like a fool. He pulled his hand back, pushed it through his hair. Maybe she didn’t want anything that… familiar. Maybe all she wanted was not to feel alone. Either way, it didn’t matter what he wanted. He was the last thing she needed to worry about.

“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to pressure you into anything, because I’m not. If you wanted to settle in separate towns, I would do it. If you never wanted to see me again, I would respect that. If all you wanted was to visit for a quarter of an hour once a season, I would take it. Look forward to it.”

She lifted her head. “You don’t even know me outside of the prison. You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” he said firmly. “I don’t get the feeling you held back any part of yourself in there. Am I wrong?”

Her eyes were wary as she shook her head.

Resh tucked a stray curl behind his ear. He didn’t miss how she followed the motion of his hand, and he sighed. “Look, I know this whole situation is fucked up. I’m sorry you heard what I said, and now you have to deal with that on top of everything else. It doesn’t change how I feel about you, but it’s not something I would’ve chosen to tell you barely a day after you were–” He choked on the words.

Her face closed off. “Does that bother you?” She pressed against the wall, away from him.

“How could it not?” A sharp pain pierced his chest, making it difficult to breathe. “I would give fucking anything for none of that to have happened. You should’ve left me. It should’ve been me. I wish it had been me.”

He bowed his head to hide the tears stinging his eyes. Clenched his jaw against the sorrow that wanted to break free.

There was a long silence while he struggled to pull himself back together. Then, he felt pressure against his shoulder. Carr had moved so silently he hadn’t noticed and was now leaning against him.

“I don’t how t’ do any of this,” she said, staring straight ahead. “I’ll fuck it up.”

The point of contact between them settled him and made his stupid heart jump at the same time.

“I don’t care.” Resh leaned back against the seat and laid his hand on his thigh, palm up. Told himself not to start crying again.

Tentatively, Carr placed her hand in his. “I’ll annoy the shit outta you.”

“Still don’t care.”

“I’ll never be enough,” she whispered.

The words were so quiet they were barely audible, and Resh’s heart contracted at the vulnerability in her tone. Carefully, slowly, he interlaced their fingers and squeezed. Her return grip was just this side of painful, but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

“You already are.”

Masterlist

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a sepia-colored version of the original blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths AU are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

#fantasy whump #lady whump #whump #whump writing #original writing #original characters #alternate universe #hidden depths au #angst #warnings above the cut #magic #magic healing #knife to throat #knife tw #blood tw #life threatening injuries #awkward romance #(kind of :D)#depends on who you're asking lol

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sweetwhumpandhellacomf · 1 year

Text

Your Blood or His - Comf Time

Previously!

I woke up at 4 AM and thought about this for an hour instead of trying to go back to sleep. Read on AO3 here!

CW: Brief description of broken bones healing via magic

---

G’raha drifted in and out of consciousness for the return trip to Elodie’s cottage, forcing himself to stay awake only for the teleportation to the aetheryte at the Lavender Beds. Her home was tucked away in a quiet corner, a small cottage on a large plot of land that was primarily dominated by a vegetable and herb garden.

He stayed nestled up against her in the chair regardless, able to ignore the pain throbbing throughout his body as long as he was still. The sounds and scents of the Black Shroud comforted him, as did the sound of Elodie’s door opening and the accompanying warmth as her chair moved inside. “I know you’re quite capable of looking after yourself,” he faintly heard Thancred said, “but I wonder if…”

“Yes, you can visit for a bit,” Elodie said, and G’raha leaned into the soft vibrations of her voice. “I’m a little worn out, truth be told. Could you put on a pot of lavender tea while I see to him? And help yourself to whatever’s in the biscuit tin.”

The comfortable sounds of friends puttering around the kitchen quickly filled his ears, and he let himself drift again as Elodie took him upstairs to the bedroom. “Let’s get that knee fixed up first,” she murmured. He nodded, not even opening his eyes, but groaning with relief as her familiar aether, warm and light, first brought the throbbing pain to the forefront then numbed it. Faintly, he felt the pieces of his knee shifting back into place. The aether next shifted to his cracked rib, and he felt the ache in his chest ease.

“That should do it.” He felt Elodie smooth his hair back, and he bumped his head up into her hand a bit. “You’ll be able to walk normally in a few days. I’ll get a brace set up for you til then. Do you want to have a bath?”

He shook his head, and was glad that her hand stayed where it was. “I’m afraid I’d fall asleep,” he rasped.

“You are covered in blood, G’raha Tia.” He hummed his agreement, and felt, rather than saw, her smile. “I’ll just clean you up a little, then.”

To the washroom they went, and he forced his eyes open now, tilting his head back and baring his blood-caked throat. Without needing to stand and disturb her patient, Elodie wetted a washcloth at her sitting-height sink and gently scrubbed at the blood, the warm water making short work of it. When she was satisfied, he felt a soft towel pat him dry, and he tucked his head up against her body again.

When they returned to the bedroom, two mugs of steaming tea were left on Elodie’s desk. “Let’s get comfortable,” she said, and he heard the exhaustion at the edge of her voice.

With a bit of help, G’raha sat on the edge of the bed and got changed into some of the clothing he had a drawer dedicated to in Elodie’s dresser, a clean and breezy tunic and trousers that were both free of the smell of blood and fear-sweat. Similarly, she shed her lightly armored coat and battlewear and traded them for a sweater and plain skirt. “Other side of the bed,” she instructed, putting both tea mugs on her nightstand.

G’raha complied, shifting over to the left side of the bed. Elodie sat next to him and handed him a mug, which he held in his hands and hummed as it warmed them. She set about piling several pillows behind him, then gently propping up his injured knee with two more. He sank back into the wall of softness behind him, having a sip of the tea and discovering that someone—likely Alisaie—had thoughtfully added honey for his throat.

Once Elodie was settled next to him, their hips and shoulders nearly touching, he closed his eyes and leaned up against her, a gentle purr of contentment developing in his throat. He heard her open her tome, heard the soft sound of her fingertip on one of its pages, and the soft padding of tiny carbuncle paws walking over to curl up in his lap, its warmth like a gentle flame. He felt Elodie’s arm wrap around his shoulders, and he took another sip of tea.

They were quiet for a few minutes, just taking time to settle in and feel safe. “I’m sorry that I did not heal you right away,” she said, her voice barely interrupting his sleepiness.

“Hm?”

“When your throat was—in the fight,” she clarified. “I very much wanted to, but there was a flash of the Echo… If I hadn’t shielded myself first, I would’ve dropped my tome, and…”

When she didn’t finish, he opened her eyes and looked up at her, and the agony of witnessing a future that must not come to pass was writ upon her face. “I couldn’t let that happen to you.”

“I said I trust you with my life,” he reminded her. His throat was feeling just a bit better from the tea, though speaking still hurt. “And I meant it. You’re my knight in shining armor, Elodie.”

“I’m a botanist,” she said, and he grinned, having one more sip of tea before the herbs, the warmth, and the comfort of his dearest companion was enough to drag his eyes shut. His hands didn’t resist as Elodie took the mug from them, and soon the two were both fast asleep.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #g'raha tia #whump #comfort #magic healing #elodie valeroyant

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astaldis · 1 year

Text

Magic healing

@whumpuary

"Shit!"

Ciri at once knows where she is, however, it is not where she meant to go. She meant to find Triss Merigold, but this is Kaer Morhen, more exactly the kitchens of Kaer Morhen, the old Witcher keep. Has her awfully empty stomach led her astray so she would end up here? Fuck, she needs to get to Triss, and fast, no matter how hungry she is. Time is running out. Not for her, luckily, but for the Nilfgaardian. What was his name again? Cahir?

Ciri closes her eyes and imagines her older mage friend once again, the healer-Sorceress with the chestnut hair. When she feels almost ready to take the jump, suddenly the door opens.

"Ciri, what are you doing here?" The woman in the doorframe stares at her, first in utter surprise, then her eyes widen with horror. "By the Mother of Gods, you are covered in blood! Ciri, what happened? Are you hurt?" Crossing the spacious room with quick strides, she rushes to the ashen-haired girl's side.

"Triss!" Ciri, no less surprised than the Sorceress, looks up at her friend with a smile of relief. So, she managed to arrive in the right place and time after all. "I'm OK," she adds quickly, seeing the worry in Triss's face, "it's all his blood." She glances down at the limp body lying sprawled across her lap. The injured man has not stirred or made a single sound.

"Who's he?" Kneeling down on the kitchen floor next to the pair, Triss puts two fingers against the deadly-pale man's neck to check for a pulse. He is even more covered-in-blood than Ciri and the ghastly wound in his face is still bleeding sluggishly. Judging from the sheer amount of blood he must have lost, the girl is probably holding a corpse in her arms, Triss suspects. Hopefully he is nobody too dear to her, like a lover or a boyfriend.

"A friend of Yennefer and Geralt's. Can you help him?"

"He's a Nilfgaardian," Triss suddenly realises, letting go of the man's neck as if burned by the skin contact. Somebody has removed the breastplate with the golden Nilfgaardian sun and cut open the black garments beneath it, but the man is still wearing enough pieces of the fearsome black armour to recognise it beyond doubt. A Nilfgaardian soldier Yen and Geralt's friend? That's not possible, they would never be friends with one of them! Maybe Ciri was hit in the head and got things mixed up? Well, it ought not make a difference whether or not he is a friend or an enemy, the man is severely wounded and healers are supposed to help people no matter their nationality or profession. However, as much as she has tried, Triss cannot forget the horrors of Sodden Hill, and who was responsible for the worst days of her long life. Men like him, men in black and golden armour.

"He helped Geralt find and rescue Yennefer and me. He saved my life. Please." Ciri looks at her with big, emerald eyes and Triss nods. Right, for Ciri, and because she is a professional who does not let herself be distracted by feelings of aversion and hate. She puts her fingers back in place. Against all odds and her expectations, her sensitive fingertips find a very faint and thready throbbing. A pulse. The Nilfgaardian is alive, but barely so.

"We need help. I'll get Vesemir and the boys. You keep pressing that piece of fabric on the wound, hard. He mustn't lose more blood," Triss instructs and now it is Ciri who nods. She adjusts the hand holding Geralt's blood-soaked neckerchief a little and presses harder while Triss gets up and hurries to the door. Ciri can hear her rushing steps on the stone floor of the corridor and her loud calls for Vesemir, Lambert and Coen. Only minutes later she is back with the two younger Witchers in tow.

"Here, onto the table, quick." With one big sweeping motion of her arms, Triss clears the table of the utensils left there from the last meal preparations. Knives, onion peels, an earthenware mug, a breadboard, everything clatters noisily onto the stone floor. The noise stirs the staring and rooted-to-the-spot-from-surprise Witchers into action. This they clearly did not expect to find in their kitchen. However, one look at the man on the ground is enough to quell any urge to ask questions. Questions must wait as time is clearly of the essence. Together Lambert and Coen grab the unconscious stranger by the arms and legs and heave him onto the table, while Triss has taken the cloth from Ciri's hand and presses it against the Nilfgaardian's chest wound during the procedure.

"Now, step back a little, I need space. And quiet." Triss sends Lambert, who is just about to open his mouth, presumably to crack some stupid and totally uncalled for joke, a meaningful look and he shuts it immediately. Good. The man has finally learned to heed her words. Then, perhaps, he is not as hopeless as she has always thought he was ...

Triss closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and reaches for her chaos. And there it is, the almost painful but exhilarating electric tingling that within the fraction of a second spreads from her breast into her arms and further down into her hands until it hits the very tips of her fingers. She is ready. Let's begin. Triss opens her eyes, removes the bloody rag from the injured soldier's wound and lays both her hands onto the hole in his chest. Concentrating deeply, she starts to murmur a spell, over and over. Slowly, tiny droplets of perspiration begin to appear on her slightly creased brow as she magically knits the many severed blood vessels together again, as well as all the other injured tissues. It is hard, draining work, and soon Triss's nose begins to bleed and she starts to feel weak in the knees from magical exhaustion. Suddenly a strong arm wraps itself around her waist, supporting her. Lambert. Who would have thought that the red-headed Witcher was perceptive enough to even notice her increasing fatigue? Not Triss, that is for sure. What a welcome surprise.

A little later, when Triss has mended the wound enough to stop the bleeding and healed the damage to the knight's lung and everything else that might be immediately life-threatening, she lets herself sink against Lambert's chest with a sigh. Just for a moment, though, there is a lot more work to do before she can retire. If her efforts will amount to anything and the Nilfgaardian will live, remains to be seen. Most likely not, but Triss will give her best regardless, as always.

To be continued ...

Sequel to: If I don’t make it back from where I’ve gone ... https://archiveofourown.org/works/42241590

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