Gideon and Palamedes have grown close over these last few weeks, but sometimes he really misses his own cavalier. This is one of those times. “Gideon, pour yourself a glass of water and sit down,” he says without judgement. He knows he can’t tell her to leave, but he needs all his concentration, and that means he can’t be concerned about whether or not Gideon is going to hurl again.
The bone growth dissolves before his eyes, and Palamedes carefully removes the loose piece of skull, its edges slightly ragged. Did Ianthe not have the slightest bit of pride in a job neatly done? Beneath sits Harrow’s exposed brain—Palamedes has never seen a still-living human brain before, and for the briefest moment he’s merely fascinated. “Let’s start here,” he says, grimacing at a spot where Harrow’s skull has grown something like a bone spur that presses cruelly into grey matter. He readies himself with more gauze, prepared to staunch the bleeding with necromantic and material means.
They work their way through the injuries, Palamedes directing Harrow’s bone magic, repairing what he can and hoping that time will do the rest. Soon, his nerves evaporate—his fingertips sing with adrenaline, and his glasses grow streaked with blood sweat, and he can feel a headache squeezing at his temples, but it’s glorious. He marvels at his own handiwork and Harrow’s—her motives may have been tragic, her theory flawed, the long-term effects incalculable, but God, she’d been precise about what she’d tried to do.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2021-05-23 05:20 pm (UTC)The bone growth dissolves before his eyes, and Palamedes carefully removes the loose piece of skull, its edges slightly ragged. Did Ianthe not have the slightest bit of pride in a job neatly done? Beneath sits Harrow’s exposed brain—Palamedes has never seen a still-living human brain before, and for the briefest moment he’s merely fascinated. “Let’s start here,” he says, grimacing at a spot where Harrow’s skull has grown something like a bone spur that presses cruelly into grey matter. He readies himself with more gauze, prepared to staunch the bleeding with necromantic and material means.
They work their way through the injuries, Palamedes directing Harrow’s bone magic, repairing what he can and hoping that time will do the rest. Soon, his nerves evaporate—his fingertips sing with adrenaline, and his glasses grow streaked with blood sweat, and he can feel a headache squeezing at his temples, but it’s glorious. He marvels at his own handiwork and Harrow’s—her motives may have been tragic, her theory flawed, the long-term effects incalculable, but God, she’d been precise about what she’d tried to do.