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Chapter Text

"He's… not here?" Damn, her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. There was no hope for it, though, but to keep blustering through the awkward conversation. She placed a delicate furrow in her brow and feigned a mild curiosity. "Oh, was he hired for a job?" Vorstag had told her he had so much coin, he wouldn't need to work for years, but of course that had been an exaggeration. He was so thrifty, he would surely take the next enticing job that came along, even if he already had amassed a small fortune. Cautiously she fished for information, trying to decide if she would have to wait for his return, or try to hire him away from another employer.

Ogmund had told the boy not to leave Markarth, but he never listened, not when it truly mattered. And here she stood, with an obviously dreamt up excuse of a job just to spend time with him, and he was nowhere to be found. He failed to hide his self-satisfied smirk as he answered her, "No, no, no. Nothing like that. He was feeling stifled, ya know, just sitting around here all day with nothing to do. So last week he decided to go hunting, to keep his instincts sharp and his sword arm practiced. He won't be gone for too long, Lady Gerhild, no longer than another week at most."

"Oh," she said in that annoyingly small voice. She wondered what was the matter with her, as she couldn't stop sounding like a lost little girl. Absently she answered him, "Thank you, Ogmund. Good day." Hastily she beat a retreat from the inn, barely waving off an offer of a mug of mead from Kleppr. She needed air again, an effect that was beginning to become slightly disturbing in its frequency and intensity. And always Vorstag at the heart of it.

Once outside in the late afternoon sun, she glanced around for a quiet place to stand unobserved. She needed to think, to decide, to plan… to do something—anything!—but remain in Markarth. She was tired of the City of Stone, of its steep streets and Dwemer construction, of the rumors and politics and cliques. She had done here all that Jarl Ulfric had asked her to do, and more! And she had other obligations to fulfill. It was past time for her to move on.

She slipped past the marketplace to the stairs beyond and sat down on the bottom step. It was quieter here, cool and dark in the shadows between the stairs and the mountainside. She closed her eyes and listened for a moment to the sounds of the city: Degaine begging for alms, Kerah showing a necklace to a customer, Hogni proclaiming his meat as the bloodiest in the Reach. Two guards paused during their patrols to exchange gossip, and an off-work miner called out to his friend to join him for a mug of mead. And far overhead a bird cried out its joy of flight, the sound resonating within her breast. Aye, it was past time for her to move on. And she didn't need to wait for Vorstag before leaving.

After all, it wasn't as if she needed his permission before leaving the city. Nor did she need his help in her mission. In fact, she didn't need anyone's help in penetration a tomb and retrieving a relic from a grave. She'd done so already in Bleak Falls Barrow; Ustengrav couldn't be any worse.

No, the only reason she had ever considered taking Vorstag with her, was because she wanted to practice seduction, and he was a convenient target. But, truthfully, he wasn't the only male in Skyrim, nor in Markarth. He was just… there, within easy reach, and she was impatient to start practicing. She didn't need him with her; she didn't need him period.

Opening her eyes, she slapped her palms on her thighs before standing up. Ghorza had just finished her new armor, and she had spent the morning at the Blacksmith's for a final fitting. Everything was in readiness for her to move on from here and fulfill her promise to the Greybeards. And that was what she was going to do. No more stalling, no more distractions; she'd leave the following morning. If an opportunity arose where she needed to seduce someone, she'd have to practice then. She was confident she could handle it, since she had been charming her way out of trouble for most of her life.

She had her armor, her pack, and her cleverness. Nope, she definitely didn't need Vorstag. Her shoulders square and her chin set, she entered her home to begin preparations for her departure.

The sun was just rising, the rays poking over the horizon to cast the underside of the heavy clouds a deep red. Vorstag paused long enough to make a face at the coming storm. He was going to get wet.

If he was smart, he would stop now while he had the time, build a shelter, and sit it out warm and dry. He didn't want to take the time, however. Markarth wasn't too far away, the peaks of the tallest buildings visible in the dim morning light even though it was still a league or more distant. And he wanted to get home. He wanted to dance while his friend Ogmund sang for his supper. He wanted to sleep tonight in his bed at the Silver-Blood Inn. And he wanted to find out if Gerhild was still in residence at Vlindrel Hall. He had tried for a week to clear his head and get her out of his blood, and he had failed magnificently.

He snorted softly to himself, giving a half-hearted kick to an unoffending stone. He hadn't seen Gerhild since her party. He had stayed away from her, though not out of choice. If he had things his way, he'd have courted her properly by now, showered her with little gifts, recited stanzas of prose describing his feelings, all those silly things women loved to have men do for them, perhaps even catch her coyly wearing an Amulet of Mara…

He shook his head. Gerhild wasn't a silly girl, waiting for someone to come and sweep her off her feet. She was a young woman, wise beyond her years, though woefully underdeveloped emotionally. He wanted to do things the right way with her, and she would scoff if he attempted to play the fool. And she would fight if he tried to press his suit for her hand. She needed careful handling, if he wanted to get anywhere with her. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her, not if he could help it. He loved her. So he had stayed away, and waited for her to come to him.

Yet for all his intentions of wanting to do things the right way, he had to ask himself why he had allow others, like Ogmund and Rhiada, to believe there was something between them. The false impression would only serve to sour her favor towards him, setting him even further back than the little progress he had made. Then again, perhaps that was why he was doing it; if he pissed her off too much, she might finalize their relationship in a negative fashion. He would lose her forever, but at least he wouldn't feel stagnant. He might even be able to move on, find another girl with deep violet eyes and dark gold hair.

So he had invented the excuse that he was feeling his muscles getting flabby from lack of exercise, and left Markarth without a word to her. If he was lucky, she was already gone. Though he kept himself from speculating what her actual intentions had been, he knew she hadn't come to Markarth to make a new home for herself. And he figured she had finished her business by now, whether she had come here to deal with the Forsworn, or for some other matter. She would leave soon, leave and continue whatever line her business was in. He didn't want to think about it; he only tried to be away from Markarth so he wouldn't see her leave. He was afraid of himself, of what his actions might be, if he had to watch her go.

And now, despite all his resolve to distance himself from the frozen-hearted young woman, he found his steps quickening to try to reach the city before the storm. He knew he wouldn't make it when he glanced to his side and saw the clouds had finally burst over the low-lying hills. He prayed to the Nine that she had left during the week he had been gone, and lowered his head as the first sheet of rain marched across the road.

The sound was deafening, the wind howling through the scrub brush and stunted trees, the drops pounding on his head and the dirt beneath his feet. Visibility was low as well, the rain falling almost sideways as the wind blew it into an opaque curtain that obscured anything beyond a few feet. Even the daylight was darkened, making it feel like it was twilight rather than morning. He thought again about building a shelter, but he was too stubborn for his own good. He continued to battle the weather, setting each foot carefully in the treacherous mud that had once been a road.

It was in this manner, with his head bowed to the weather, that the first sounds of something being wrong penetrated his ears. The sounds were strange, faint, and out of place; vaguely he thought he could hear the ring of steel on steel, the moan of a wounded man, the fearful whinny of a horse. A crack of lightning sounded, the accompanying flash running horizontal to the ground, and he knew someone ahead was using a sparks spell. He quickened his pace, almost slipped, and decided it was more prudent he remained on his feet if there was trouble not far from him. Unsheathing his iron war axe and pulling his shield off his back, he crept closer to the sounds of fighting.

The forms that solidified from the shadowy rain made his heart drop into his boots. There were people fighting, a good sized group of at least a half dozen, all but two of them dressed in odd-looking, ankle length leather robes with strange masks over their faces. He didn't have more time to look them over, as it appeared that one of the two victims was already wounded and favoring his left side. Vorstag cursed, but he had yet to be noticed by the strangely garbed bandits. Knowing he couldn't leave the two outnumbered, he shrugged off his pack and prepared to join the fight.

The closest was a man, a Nord by the size of him, the other a youth, perhaps his son, judging by the lithe and flexible build. He didn't think the two of them could handle so many bandits by themselves, especially as the man was the one who was bleeding. The bandit attacking him raised his hand and a bolt of lightning shot out, catching him in the shoulder and sending him spinning through the air, his sword falling from his hands. The bandit picked it up and, in a large overhead swing, brought it hammering down against the man's hip, shattering bone and ripping flesh.

"Ha!" he heard the voice echo from within the bone-like mask as the wounded man tried to crawl crab-like on the ground, "I think you're bleeding."

Vorstag didn't wait to hear what the man would retort, but ran the bandit through from behind. As he fell to the ground and slid off his sword, Vorstag got a clear look at the wounded traveler. "Argis!"

He knew, damn it, he just knew the youth was Gerhild.

The two men didn't waste time in greeting, but Vorstag tossed his bow and quiver to him. Argis accepted the bow, his face bitter but reluctantly grateful, and tried to pull himself out of the fight to a safe distance. There was a boulder along the side of the road; if he could get to it, he could brace himself against it and steady his aim with the bow, picking off bandits from a distance.

Vorstag didn't care what Argis was planning, only that he had to reach Gerhild's side and help her finish off the bandits. One was facing her, swinging desperately with a dagger in one hand and firing flame spells from the other. The two women were exchanging blows, swinging and blocking, their weapons striking and shooting sparks, and every once in a while a jet of flame firing out even in the heavy air. They moved too fast for the others to get too close, as Gerhild defended herself with her war axe and dagger. She was calm, her focus on her attacker as well as the others circling around looking for an opening. It frustrated the bandit, who finally paused and yelled, "None shall stand to oppose Lord Miraak!"

Vorstag didn't wait to hear what else she might spout. He battered her shoulder with his shield, her leather armor no match for the force of his blow. With a quick and well-practiced flick Gerhild swept the tip of her dagger across the bandit's throat, the wet sound of slicing through arteries and windpipe drowned out by the pounding rain. She acknowledged him with a look, and then spun to face another of the bandits.

Unfortunately, Vorstag drew the attention of the chief bandit. "When Lord Miraak appears, all shall bear witness," the beefy woman growled at him, stepping up and swinging backhanded at his chest. He sidestepped and was nearly hit by her sparks spell. He ducked and rolled across the ground, coming up in a crouch and facing the chief. One of the other bandits took that opportunity to swing at him from behind, slicing across his back and shoulders with his dagger. He grunted and arched his back, feeling his armor take most of the damage, and tried not to wonder if any of his skin had been sliced.

The chief tried to cut him with her dagger again, but he easily caught her by the wrist. He yanked, pulling the bandit off balance, and brought his axe up with him as he stood, adding the force from his legs to his blow, and connected with the underside of her strange mask. At the same time an arrow buzzed past them, glancing off her mask to graze the side of his face. He snarled, ignored the sting, and shoved her with his horned pauldron, stunning her and sending her spinning into the mud.

The bandit behind him hadn't been idle, and Vorstag paid for his lack of attention when a blow fell against his arm just above his armband. Immediately his whole arm went numb, even to the point where he had to drop his axe. He cursed, the words lost to the rain and the growl of frustration accompanying his anger. He spun and struck at the bandit with his shield, the metal edge punching into the front of his face. The bandit dropped back into the mud, his nose crushed to a pulpy mess and the bits of cartilage spraying deep into his brainpan.

By this time the chief had regained her feet, her mask split to reveal the lower half of one side of her face. Both hands were trying to readjust the dented bone-like material on her head to where she could see. Vorstag didn't give her the time, dropping his shield and picking up his axe in his left hand. After spinning it once to settle it in his grip, he stepped into his swing, slicing through the air and approaching her from the side and underneath the mask. Fingers flew away to be buried in the mud, and her jaw split lengthwise from the blow, falling open and bleeding copious amounts of blood. He kicked her solidly in the chest, dropping her onto her back and watching her flail like a turtle as she choked on the blood pooling in her mouth.

He turned around on the spot, looking at the carnage around them, trying to determine if anyone still needed to be killed. Two bandits were still alive, though far enough gone in their death throes to be of no importance. The only other person standing besides himself was Gerhild, also looking around as if lost. Their eyes locked, and for a moment they simply stood there and drank in the sight of each other, the rain battering down on them and washing away the blood.

"Argis," her voice was the first to recover, and for a moment he thought she had gotten them confused again. Then he realized she meant to ask what had happened to her housecarl. He turned towards where he had last seen the man, saw the deep groove where he had dragged himself through the mud, and followed it to the side of the road.

A moment later and their steps were following the trail, coming up to find a very pale, though still conscious Argis fumbling with his bow. His head lolled on his shoulders as he looked up at Vorstag and grimaced. "Sorry about the arrow. I was aiming for the chief."

"Next time, wait until the helmet's out of the way," Vorstag bantered good-naturedly. "Let's take a look at your hip."

Argis hissed, pain exploding through his body as they eased him onto his side. "By the Nine… er, Eight!"

Gerhild politely ignored the slip of his tongue and smiled gently, trying to put him at ease. She brushed his hair back from his face, leaning over him to provide a little shelter from the rain. "Lie still, Argis. Let Vorstag take a look. Try not to move."

Argis grunted but allowed them to view his injury without comment. Vorstag peered beneath the rent in the armor without moving anything, his eyes squinting through the rain and his brows scrunched. He tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, "Um, Gerhild, I know this sounds obvious, but did you think to bring any healing potions?"

"Several," she nodded. "They're in the packs on the horses."

He looked up and blinked through the rain. "What horses?"

"Exactly."

Vorstag turned his face to her, then dropped his gaze back down to Argis. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow, a look of pain on his gray face. "Shit," he breathed, the wind and rain whipping away his words. She had read his lips, and though she didn't comment she did share his sentiment.

"Stay here," he commanded, as if she might even consider leaving Argis' side, "And try to keep the rain off of him. I'll be right back."

She didn't ask where he was going, though she was curious, because she trusted him when he said he would return. Instead she focused on her housecarl, doing what she could to ease his discomfort and protect him from the elements. She found Vorstag's shield nearby that she propped up with Argis' sword, providing a makeshift lean-to that kept the worst of the storm off his hip. Next she undid her belts and shrugged out of her coat, spreading the oiled leather across his head and shoulders, propping it up with arrows from the quiver.

Finished she shifted back to admire her handiwork, and admitted it was slipshod at best. The rain still fell across his legs, but from his hip to his head he was dryer. It would do for the time being, though the sooner they got him out of the rain the better. She ignored the cold rain pelting her own skin, now protected only by a thin tunic, and set about looking for other wounds on his person.

Vorstag returned shortly after, distracted at first when he saw Gerhild leaning over Argis, her thin tunic soaked through making the fabric practically transparent. Her breasts, full and firm, were looming over Argis' face as her hands reached behind him to undo the buckles of his armor. Vorstag nearly dropped his sack before belatedly noticing that Argis was in too much pain to even open his eyes much less become aware of his Thane leaning over him, her torso barely concealed. Besides, he knew Argis better than that. He kicked himself for his hesitation, swallowed the lump of jealousy in his throat, and finished approaching.

"Here," he said, passing over his satchel after she had looked up and acknowledged his approach. "You're gonna have to put up the tent. I'll do what I can for his leg."

She took the bag from him, her eyes narrowing as she took notice of his numb arm. She didn't argue, but dug into the bag to find the canvas and other parts of his tent. She handed over a bottle that was in her way, not sure if it was a healing potion or ale, but deciding he could figure it out for himself. After she had what she needed, she moved a few paces away towards the nearest patch of even ground and began pitching a tent as quickly as the wind and rain allowed.

Vorstag tried not to watch her, but when she bent over he had a near perfect view of her ass. He groaned, wrenched his eyes away and down towards Argis. The housecarl was still conscious, though trying desperately not to move in the slightest. Vorstag braced his head against his leg as he brought the bottle of mead to his lips. "Take a few sips. It'll help keep you warm, keep your strength up."

Argis swallowed, then smiled and opened his eyes. "Nord mead. My favorite." He groaned when Vorstag lowered his head. "How bad it is?"

Vorstag knew he should lie, but he didn't want to mislead the honest man. He paused while rummaging one-handed in his pack to answer, "You won't be dancing anytime soon."

Argis grinned, but he couldn't manage a laugh. "You're the one who can dance, Vorstag. I've got two left feet."

"Well, there's your problem," he said as if that solved everything, pulling out another smaller bottle. "A little time, a few of Bothela's potions, and you'll have one left and one right foot. Here, drink this next."

Argis tried to shake his head. "No more mead."

"It's a healing potion," Vorstag countered. "Come on, every drop. That's a good boy."

"Bastard," Argis muttered after swallowing, but it was without heat. "Did you mix that yourself? It tastes like sabre cat piss."

Vorstag smiled tightly down at him. "You would know what that tastes like. Didn't you drink that as a babe? Wasn't your mother a sabre cat?"

"A snowy one," he countered, closing his eyes again as he leaned his head against Vorstag's leg, "Which is a lot higher class than your mother—a lowlands cat."

"At least my father wasn't a mudcrab." He put a hand at Argis' throat, feeling for his heartbeat.

"Nope. Neither was mine. I had a mammoth for a pa. Your's was a slaughterfish." His voice was already fading, which worried Vorstag. He glanced up as Gerhild came back, the tent ready for them.

"If you two are finished discussing your family trees, we should get inside."

Vorstag nodded, but when he made to lift Argis shoulders, she shook her head and pointed towards his feet. "Take his legs. I'll take his head; I've got two good arms."

He didn't argue, but he did make a face out of principle.

It took more effort than either of them wanted to admit, and Argis grit his teeth so hard he nearly cracked a tooth, but they eventually got themselves situated inside the small tent and safe from the weather. It was cozy, the three of them huddled inside a tent made for one, but no one complained. Gerhild slipped back outside long enough to gather up Vorstag's pack and their other items, such as her coat, and set them off to the side to drip dry.

Next she started working on Argis, making Vorstag keep him still while she removed his armor and clothing and examined the wound on his hip. The healing potion was starting to work, but it wasn't near strong enough to finish the job.

"How bad is it?" Vorstag asked softly. She lifted her head, not wanting to answer, but he continued. "He passed out a few minutes ago; we can talk freely."

She looked down at her housecarl, her expression unreadable, before she answered. "Bad," she sighed, the one word fading away into the shadows. "The bone's broken, vessels cut, muscle ripped apart. He's gonna need more healing potions if he's gonna make it."

"I only had the one," Vorstag admitted, his voice still soft.

She nodded, her mind working quickly as she considered their options. "Alright," she said, her voice taking on a tone of authority as she reached for her armor. "Stay here with him. I'll try to hurry."

"Where are you going?" he asked, as concerned for her as he was for Argis. "To Markarth? In this weather? You'll never make it in time."

"I'm going to look for the horses," she belted her last buckle and flipped her hood into place. "They probably didn't go far, not in this storm. With a little luck, they even stayed together. Soon as I find them, I'll return with more healing potions. Try to keep him as still as possible. Wouldn't want him to cause more damage than what's already been done."

"Gerhild!" he grabbed her sleeve, desperate to keep her from going but knowing they had no choice.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what he wanted to say, what thought or intent that eluded his words and stuck in his throat. She did know there wasn't time. She pulled her arm out of his grasp, but offered as a balm, "I'll be as quick as I can." Then she turned away and spoke a Thu'um.

In the blink of an eye she was gone, the tent flap still open but her form lost to sight. Vorstag wondered what had happened, how she could have disappeared so quickly, but realizing that she had Shouted, he decided he wouldn't ask her when she returned. It would be enough for him—and Argis—if she found the horses in time.

He looked down at the other man, someone he once idolized, but who now was proven to be as human as any other man. He was frail and weak and just as easy to kill as a mudcrab or a torchbug. Sighing, he brushed some of Argis' hair from his face, pulling out a lock that had worked into the corner of his mouth. When his hand moved away he was shocked to find one brown eye staring back up at him. Slowly he blinked, struggling to bring Vorstag's face into focus. "…think I passed out. Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing much, just your Thane stripping your leggings off. She wanted to have sex, but decided against a threesome."

"Ah, so it's you and me, eh? Just like old times."

Vorstag's grin was tight, forced, but he was pretty sure Argis couldn't tell. "Aye, just like old times." He cleared his throat, knowing it wasn't the time, but afraid there might not be another chance. "Look, Argis, I wanted to thank you, for covering for me."

His brows scrunched up in confusion. "Covering for you…"

Vorstag closed his eyes, hating to have to say it. "During Gerhild's party. About our tattoos."

The sound coming from his chest was pained and convulsive. "Shit, Vorstag, don't make me laugh." His hand reached out and groped for his armor, finding an armband and holding on tight. "Don't mention it. Ever." Vorstag swallowed and nodded, not sure how to respond, but Argis continued talking. "Like you, I was curious, ya know? Willing to try something new. But not serious about it. And no offense, but I'd rather not do it again." He leaned back against Vorstag, his head resting on his lap, as a mischievous smile graced his lips. "Not that it wasn't a memorable experience…"

"Ah, I understand," he grunted, "You're fishing for a compliment. You want me to admit it was the best month of my life, just you and me in Riften."

"Wasn't it?" he asked, his face contorted into a playful pout. The next moment it contorted in pain. "Gods!"

Vorstag leaned over him, checking his wound. "You're bleeding again. Try to lie still." He rummaged quickly in his pack to find the small towel he used to clean his armor and weapons, and pressed it against his hip to stem the bleeding.

"I need a stronger healing potion. That's all. Then I'll be fine…"

"Gerhild's getting some," Vorstag answered, but Argis had already passed out again.

Time seemed to flow slowly past him, a marked contrast to the fierce pounding of the rain against the canvas shelter. Yet he knew it was the inactivity that gave the false impression he was spending hours waiting. He tried to occupy himself, but between supporting Argis' head and trying to slow the bleeding with only one good arm, there wasn't much he could do but count the staccato beat of the storm against the tent. He sat, still and silent, trying to pick out anything—any little unordinary sound or tremble through the ground that would signal Gerhild's return.

It was in this tense state that she found him, his eyes fixed on the tent flap as if he had spent the past several minutes daring it to open and reveal her frame. The relief on his face was strong, making her even more concerned for her housecarl. She couldn't do anything for him yet, however, and simply passed the saddlebags inside while saying, "Here. I'll be right back."

Vorstag didn't bother trying to speak with her, thinking she would Shout and disappear quickly like she had the last time. Instead he focused on doing what he could for Argis. Gingerly he shifted Argis' head off his lap and crawled over to the bags. He fumbled with the closures for a few minutes, working awkwardly with only one hand as his right was still numb and tingling. As he shifted the bag he began to get a sinking feeling in his gut. By the time the mouth was opened, his suspicions were confirmed.

Gerhild poked her head inside the tent at that point, to find him staring dejectedly into a soaked bag. His face was hopeless as he lifted it up to her. "They're all broken."

She stared at him for a moment, not wanting to understand what he had said but knowing what he meant. She looked at the bag, wet and soggy and sitting in a puddle that was not all rain water. She could hear the contents slosh as he let go of the top, allowing the bag to waver and settle like a bloated bladder of wine.

"Shit," she breathed, still staring at the worthless bag of liquid and broken bottles. "When our horses bolted, the one carrying the potions lost its footing and fell off the side of the road down towards the river. It broke its leg. I had to kill it. I guess the bottles were crushed on the way down…"

"Where's the other horse?"

She looked up at him, blinking as she tried to fathom what he might be intending. "It was still on the road, not much further along. I have it tied up just a few yards that way." She gestured with her hand, but kept herself firmly planted in front of the entrance. "What are you thinking?"

"I'll ride back to Markarth for more healing potions."

She was shaking her head before he finished. "There isn't time. Argis has lost too much blood."

Vorstag nodded, trying to remain emotionless so he could think clearly. "I know, but what else can we do?"

She swallowed, making a face that looked like she had possibly eaten a rotten egg. "I hate to do this, but there isn't another choice."

"Do what?"

"I'm not very good at it," she continued, pushing her hood off her head and focusing her attention on Argis. "And it's gonna take a lot to heal him. I might not be able to…"

"What are you going to do?" he repeated, taking her arm as she shifted closer to Argis. Her other hand was already reaching out as if to hover over his hip.

She didn't answer, already focusing her mind and her will on the man beneath her splayed fingers. Vorstag let go of her, watching carefully and strangely fascinated as her lips moved in a silent recital. He didn't know what she was saying, if it was some sort of silent Shout or a strange prayer, but he knew she needed to concentrate if she was to succeed. He tried not to make any noise or sudden movements, trusting her and adding his own prayers that she would be able to do whatever it was she was doing.

A golden glow appeared in the air around her hand, forming itself into a wispy smoke or vapor that wrapped and twisted between her fingers. Still focused, she moved her hand over Argis' hip. The golden vapor, sparkling in light that wasn't there, left her hand to drift down like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight. The gold penetrated his hip, and slowly before Vorstag's eyes, bone and flesh and skin all mended, not even leaving a scar behind.

"Was that…" he hesitated, repulsed and fascinated at the same time, realizing he had just witnessed magic. He scolded himself for his prejudice, as Argis would have died a slow and painful death if she hadn't done it. Making his voice sound more open and grateful, he finished, "…some sort of healing spell?"

She looked at him, her eyes bleary and unfocused, and nodded numbly. Then the deep violet orbs rolled up into the back of her head and she crumbled to the ground.