“Have a seat while I put the kettle on,” Lazarus offered, “I am afraid that given the…lacking situation with foodstuffs, we will have to forgo anything else of substance. Though I do have my own supply of sugar if you are partial to that.”

Talia nodded distractedly, her eyes roving the space the elf had claimed for his own. The room was about as wide as the inside of one of the wagons if the bunks had been removed. The furnishings were uniform and spartan stone, seemingly carved straight from the walls and floor. Bog standard, as far as havens went.

Where the room strayed from the norm was in the décor. The small things that the elf had added to make the space his.

Officers definitely get some kind of storage allowance I wasn’t told about…

“Did Torval not inform you of that fact when he hired you on?” Lazarus asked.

Talia startled, not realizing she’d spoken aloud.

“Oh um— no. I guess we were pretty rushed at the time. Not that I had anything to use the space for,” she replied, eyes caught on the pillows and fabrics that had been strewn about the space. Deep reds and lush purple silks hung from the ceiling and walls, complemented by a smattering of plush cushions. The dye alone was likely worth a fortune.

Where the walls weren’t covered by drapes, Talia spotted what looked like hand-painted murals sprawled across the stone. The one on her left was old and worn, its colours faded, but she could still clearly make out plant life in shades of green and brown; a garden-scape like one might encounter in the high quarter of Karzgorad. Specks of colour formed the buds of flowers and the spores of fungi, as a swirl of gold and yellow splashed across the idyllic scene in haphazard strokes. Almost like the painter had tried to depict the light of the arcano-sun as a fluid, instead of a beam.

It was beautiful, in a very traditional way.

The wall to the right of the door, on the other hand, bucked all tradition in favour of pure expression. The base of the mural was a dark, dream blue, dotted with spots of gleaming white that gave the impression of a beam of light rippling on the surface of deep water. The painting was unfinished, but the outline of swirling lines half-filled in with bright colours and contrasting shades told a tale of their own. A white silhouette poised mid-dive, hands outstretched to catch something as of yet unpainted, took up the center frame.

Talia’s gaze flicked to the small stand upon which balanced a tray of pots and brushes in various states of cleanliness.

“You paint,” she said, unable to mask the surprise in her voice.

The elf tapped a spoon against the side of a small tin, scooping out what Talia assumed was some kind of tea blend in a cast iron kettle.

“I do. Though I am not particularly good at it. The act is what I find most important. Something to do that is separate from work or worry,” he replied, setting the kettle atop the small mana-powered burner, “It was interesting to be faced with my old work after so many years. As you can see, my inclinations have changed since. I imagine if I ever return, my style will have changed again.”

Lazarus turned on the burner before joining her in the impromptu living room. Cushions had been set on every surface that could potentially serve as seating, with dyed fabric to fill the gaps. He sat opposite her, on a chair that would have been more likely to call a futon if she hadn’t known better.

After the meeting with Calisto, Talia had followed the elf reluctantly, cursing herself the whole time for lingering. Wondering what exactly had come over her. She’d been avoiding this talk ever since the funeral wake, and yet here she was.

You know it was time, Tals. Enough raging and sulking. You’re being an idiot. An immature idiot. Remember when you used to think your strength lay in rationality and planning? What happened to that?

Her subconscious whispered to her, almost mocking. On a reflex, she flexed her psionics, trying to banish ghosts that weren’t there. That they weren’t was more concerning than comforting.

Lazarus pulled his chair forward, closing the gap between them, the scrape of stone on stone dampened by the panoply of curtains.

“Let me see your arm,” he ordered.

Talia frowned but complied.

I thought he wanted to talk about…Was I wrong?

The elf softly slapped away her hand when she started unbuckling her armour, undoing the straps and latches himself. Gauntlet, vambrace, shoulder pad, sleeve. All removed with quiet efficiency.

Talia’s lame arm was wrapped in compression bandages, with stiff rods of stone stuck to her forearm and biceps. The rods would’ve limited her mobility some if she’d been able to do much more than shift her shoulder about.

Talia looked away from the ugly thing, unwilling to accept that it was a part of her.

In his last moments, Zaric had nearly pulverized the bone, leaving her with a mess of torn ligaments and over three dozen different breaks. The limb had looked more like clay putty than flesh and bone. Somehow, it now looked worse.

Lazarus tutted sympathetically as he unwrapped the bandages. Her pale skin was covered in raw welts, half-healed, from where spikes of bone had ripped through it.

“Your talent has been both a blessing and a curse here,” the elf lamented, running delicate fingers over the scars, “If it weren’t for the accelerated healing, you likely would have had to deal with gangrene and internal bleeding, even if I’d been able to put the whole thing back together. But as it is, your bones have fused back together too fast, in all the wrong places.”

His brows drew together and his lips pursed as he pressed against the misshapen lumps of bone.

“Wiggle your fingers for me?”

Talia turned to stare at the unfinished painting on the wall.

“It won’t work,” Talia muttered, “I’ve tried.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Part of her wanted to rage and lash out like she had been since she’d woken up. The other part was numb and tired.

“Try again.”

Talia let the silence stretch even as her biceps twinged painfully, her shoulder shaking from the strain.

“Talia?”

The anger won out.

“I am trying,” she snapped, “I told you. It doesn’t work. I can’t even feel anything below my elbow.”

The little voice inside of her whispered that she was broken. That she would never be whole again. Talia smashed the voice down with a mental fist, resentment at Lazarus filling her throat like acid reflux.

Why can’t he just let things lie?

“Look me in the eye, if you could?”

For a moment Talia considered ignoring him, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. The elf had seen her cry before, but somehow, this felt different. Like she was lesser or something. In the end, she obeyed, mostly out of spite for the bitchy little voices all clamouring for attention in the back of her mind.

Right as she turned, Lazarus chopped right at her elbow with the blade of his hand. Talia flinched, bracing for the pain—

Nothing.

No more than an uncomfortable buzzing sensation in her upper arm and shoulder.

The healer’s thin brows rose into his blonde hair.

“No pain? Did you feel anything?” he asked.

Talia had seen her father administer a reflex test enough times to know that her arm should’ve jerked, broken bones or no. That it hadn’t…

“Just ants in my biceps, and a jolt in my shoulder, but no pain.”

The elf’s face softened.

“I had feared as much,” he said, gently beginning to rewrap her arm.

Talia grunted, wetness streaking down her face, gaze lost somewhere in the middle distance, knowing what he would say. Bone problems were fixable. Just needed time and a good set. Muscle problems too. Especially with her talent. Tendons…tendons got iffy, but it could be done. Nerves, on the other hand…

Nerves were closer to gut wounds. Messy. Unknown. A palliative problem.

“To even have a chance at using the arm again…” Lazarus winced, his hands careful—not that she could feel it—and his eyes kind, “We would have to rebreak it in at least a dozen places, at a minimum. That might get you some basic movement back. Even then, there is no guarantee that nerves haven’t been cut entirely at the elbow. I’d have to open it up and—”

“We don’t have the facilities for that, especially not for a non-life-threatening injury,” Talia finished for him, feeling an entirely different kind of numbness creep in, “At this point, I’m better off just lopping it off.”

The elf paused for a long moment. A flicker of something in his green eyes.

“Is that something you would like to consider?”

Talia stared down at her arm, seeing it for what it was. A useless lump of flesh. Flesh that wouldn’t serve her. She thought about all the things she struggled with now that her right hand had been ripped from her. Writing. Arcanistry. Fighting. Eating. Getting dressed. Suddenly, there was a whole host of instincts and reflexes that no longer did anything. Worse, they just got in the way.

Even a metal hook would be better than that.

“N-Not yet.”

The kettle began to roil on its burner, seconds away from a shrill whistle. Lazarus got up and flicked the trinket off, before returning to finish wrapping her arm.

“Likely for the best,” the healer said as he helped her tuck the useless thing back into her vambrace, “No need to take a risk when the arm is still living. If it does start swelling or losing colour, then call on me immediately. Understood?”

Talia shook her head to clear it of cobwebs before nodding. She wasn’t ready to lose the limb quite yet, but though Lazarus had kept his prognosis optimistic, she knew it would have to go. Probably before they returned from Karzurkul. It was too much of a hindrance. The analytical part of her had already turned to the bright, pragmatic side of things, cooking up an idea that she wasn’t quite ready to give her attention to.

The healer gave her some space while he went to pour tea into a clay mug for her, adding a spoonful of beet sugar unprompted.

Talia took the moment to get her thoughts in order, pushing her feelings back into the box where they belonged. The sensation was almost physical at this point, like the bloat of a corpse. All gaseous and rotting, like flesh melting off bone and screams cut short as hair puffed into smoke and—

Gods I don’t have time for this.

Talia sprung up from the pillow-laden bench, her remaining limbs filled with a restless energy that made her feel twitchy. There was so much she could be doing. So much she should be doing, and instead, she was stuck here stuck in her own head struggling with utterly unimportant things—

“Sit.”

The command didn’t snap or whip at her. It whispered, soft and kind, but just as unyielding. Talia froze, already halfway to the door.

“If you do not sit, Arcanist, I shall have to inform Delvemaster Calisto that you pose a hazard to the safety and success of the expedition. An outcome both of us would like to avoid, I think.”

The elf returned to his seat, clay mug in hand. There was no malice in his eyes, but within them lay steel that Talia felt she would regret crossing. Still, part of her wanted to snap at him.

And say what? ‘You’re not my dad?’ Real mature, Tals.

For the second time, Talia looked around, certain she would find Zaric or Torval leaning in the shadow of one of the many drapes, leering. She flexed her will, banishing them. For the second time, nothing overt happened. She wasn’t seeing or hearing things. She was just…

Lost? Confused? Severely traumatized? Or is it madness?

“Drink,” Lazarus said.

Talia shook her head, realizing that the healer was standing before her with his hand outstretched and that she was sitting on the bench once more. She reached up mechanically, pulling the tea toward her and taking a long sip, frowning as it left a trail of cold down her throat, despite clearly steaming.

Floral…sweet, with an undertone of…

Talia calmly set the cup down on the short table before her, forcing herself not to sputter and spit. The damage was already done. Already she could feel the lightness suffusing her body. Filtering through her stomach and into her blood, racing for her brain.

“Did you just feed me norroot?” she hissed.

But it wasn’t a hiss, was it? More of a low exhale. A curling of air through her nose and into the world around her.

Talia sank into the cushions around her.

“It is the best treatment for trauma, when paired with proper therapy. Though I must admit I am surprised you recognized it so quickly,” Lazarus replied.

“My father used it to help me…manage after my parents died,” Talia said, failing to even muster up a speck of anger, a speck of anything, “I stopped taking it after I learned to meditate.”

“Hmm. And do you still meditate?” Lazarus asked.

“I cycle every morning now.”

The healer’s blonde hair shook from where it intruded on her view of the ceiling. There was another mural there, Talia realized. Fresher, younger than the garden but older than the pool of water. The arcano-sun. Cleverly painted around the room’s sole manalamp. The detail on the rendition was…exquisite.

He was lying when he said he wasn’t a good painter.

“While I can not fault you for seeking out a modicum of control, I think you and I both know that cycling and meditation are two distinct exercises. From what I’ve heard, the trance is more used for blocking out pain than anything. Not what I would call an enlightening or relaxing experience,” Lazarus mused.

Talia nodded. He had a point. A good point.

“Now, why don’t we take a look at what’s been rattling around in that brain of yours and see what we can’t set back into its proper place? You have been through much since last we spoke. The spectacle you’ve been putting on for the past few weeks is…understandable, if regrettable. There is more norroot if you feel the effect wearing off, and I encourage you to make use of it.”

Talia settled herself on the bench lying back comfortably. The lid of the box in her mind cracked open, but the gentle haze of the tea made the leak of emotions…distant. Like watching something happen to someone else.

It was the ultimate feeling of peace, distilled into a brew.

I could get used to this.

She sighed. Her breath tickled her face, sending her short hair fluttering.

I have gotten used to this.

The relief never lasted. Almost like the drug knew when it had helped all it could—or some such other spiritual nonsense. Whatever the reason, Talia knew that her use of the chemical aid was limited. Moments prior, she’d have revelled in that knowledge, so certain had she been that she didn’t need the elf’s help.

Now…

Talia smiled beatifically, unable to repress the tinge of melancholy that came with it.