Ugh. Writing anything lately is like pulling fucking teeth. (Case in point, I wrote that sentence hours ago and couldn't find it in myself to write anything further.)
Been having nightmares, which is always fun. I suppose there's something to be said for being predictable, but that doesn't mean I particularly enjoy it.
Build up to Blaine's death, because I can't, you know, write something upbeat for once. I blame it on listening to an excess of Duncan Sheik, and the heat. It's impossible to be upbeat in this weather.
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He knew most of the apprentices by name; all of them ended up in the infirmary at some point or other. Theirs wasn't a safe or easy profession, and training left scars.
"Thank you, Healer Torkehaav." The girl called herself Mist, though her mother had named her Cecily, and Blaine had been there to cut the cord when she was born. He wondered when he'd gotten so old, sometimes. She flexed her fingers carefully.
"My pleasure, Lady Mist. Your hand won't be back to full strength for another few weeks- don't strain it, or I'll put you on probation for stupidity."
"Aye, sir." She grinned. "As you say."
"Off with you- get out of my infirmary, I'm sick of seeing you here." He pushed her towards the door and she ran out without another word.
Blaine slumped against the examination table, head bowed. Mist's hand had been completely crushed- an accident with a locked vault, the sort of thing that happened more often to thieves than assassins. He stared at his own hands, which still surprised him with their lack of scars. His reflection in the mirror still startled him on occasion, though that was as much because he avoided mirrors out of habit as it was his appearance.
He clenched his right hand into a fist, and uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one. Then he clenched his left- but his fingers would only curl weakly towards his palm.
He touched the examination table, then tried to pick up a crucible- and he cursed when it slid through his fingers. He wasn't quick enough to catch it before it shattered on the floor.
Fighting down panic and despair, he took down a scalpel from the rack along the wall. He couldn't feel the edge of it along his palm, couldn't feel the tip of it pushing into his fingers. Just numbness, and the sight of blood pooling beneath his hand.
Maddel found him on the floor some time later; he'd sliced his hand to ribbons and hadn't bothered to stem the bleeding.
"What the fuck are you doing?" The elf knelt beside him and began binding the cuts with magic and bandages. "Idiot."
Blaine smiled weakly, and ran his good hand through his graying hair. "I think I'm dying," he said quietly. "What do you think?"
Maddel paused and stared him in the eye. Blaine could feel the soft brush of aether against his senses while the Masterhealer examined him.
"Well?" Blaine asked, after Maddel was silent for a little too long.
He looked away, frowning, and tied off the bandages around Blaine's hand. "I think you're right."
Blaine laughed humorlessly. "I hate it when that happens." He leaned his head back against the cabinets and stared at the ceiling.
Maddel sat back on his heels and lit a cigarette. "You only just noticed?"
"Aye."
"It's just the hand for now, but it'll spread- extremities first, then-"
"I'm aware of how it progresses, thank you, sir." Slow nerve death, his borrowed body grinding to a halt. He'd be bedridden within a matter of weeks, and then it would be a race to see whether his brain would die before his internal organs. Slow, messy, and inevitable.
"You'll have to tell your family."
His family. He almost laughed. "Not yet."
"Torkehaav." Maddel's voice was serious enough to pull Blaine's eyes away from the ceiling. "Don't be a fucking coward. You have to tell them."
"I'll tell them." He looked away. "But not yet." His good hand scrabbled for purchase against the counter, and he pulled himself to his feet. "I need a few days off, sir."
Maddel sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "Fine. You have three days, and if you try to disappear, I'll hunt you down and drag you back myself."
"Duly noted." He touched Maddel on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, old man, I'm sorry."
"Get out of here before I hurt you, Torkehaav. You know full well I'm not above hitting someone who can't hit back." Maddel's glare was fierce. "And don't you dare apologize to me again."
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." He left Maddel staring at the shattered crucible on the floor, and pretended he didn't see or feel the hurt in the elf's stance.
Theoretically, he could live for months while his body broke down; the thought sickened and infuriated him. Some gods held suicide to be a sin, but his had never been one of them. It was time to pay the Avatar a visit.
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