[ Amelia murmurs softly to Chris and Hawke too takes comfort in it. He's not the only one who can step in and help Chris heal, lift him where he shouldn't have to lift himself. He can, there is no doubt in his mind of that, but they can bolster him instead and he's able to allow some of that at least. It's good.
Taking a breath and a moment of hesitation, Hawke meets Chris' eyes directly before placing his palm as gently as he can against the angry tender flesh at his side, making certain Chris is ready for the pain that he knows will blossom there like the worst sort of thistle or stinging nettle, hot and unrelenting. The green glow returns to his touch and Hawke murmurs quietly under his breath. Meaningless words of magic, rudimentary focusing syllables meant more for their rhythm to keep a caster focused than for anything else. He can't afford to mess this up, not when he can feel how Chris stiffens and clenches, know the amount of pain he's in just from that, let alone the rest of his wounds.
The mana is cool, flowing from Hawke's fingers and into Chris' body, fuseing bone and knitting flesh. It gets the job done, but with none of the finesse of a trained healer or the soft warmth of a spirit helping to return the body to how it should be. This is Hawke's sheer will weaving Chris back to right.
He meant what he said, though. He knows where the pieces go.
It's an interminable handful of seconds but the pain begins to ebb as Chris' body realizes it's got less to panic over, that things are largely back in place. Even the angry red and purple bruising is less, muted to the duller and more sickly tones that mean it's well on it's way to gone. Not there yet, but the span of moments has done weeks work.
The entire time, Hawke's gaze is level with the words on Chris' body, faded but still legible, and he resolves to carve one into the son of a bitch that did this.]
There. Can you breathe alright?
[ He looks up, worry still etched on his face in nigh permanent relief at this point and he reaches up to take the sheath, move it away, and cup one hand against his friend's cheek. ]
I'm sorry, I wish I knew a way to make it not hurt so much.
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Taking a breath and a moment of hesitation, Hawke meets Chris' eyes directly before placing his palm as gently as he can against the angry tender flesh at his side, making certain Chris is ready for the pain that he knows will blossom there like the worst sort of thistle or stinging nettle, hot and unrelenting. The green glow returns to his touch and Hawke murmurs quietly under his breath. Meaningless words of magic, rudimentary focusing syllables meant more for their rhythm to keep a caster focused than for anything else. He can't afford to mess this up, not when he can feel how Chris stiffens and clenches, know the amount of pain he's in just from that, let alone the rest of his wounds.
The mana is cool, flowing from Hawke's fingers and into Chris' body, fuseing bone and knitting flesh. It gets the job done, but with none of the finesse of a trained healer or the soft warmth of a spirit helping to return the body to how it should be. This is Hawke's sheer will weaving Chris back to right.
He meant what he said, though. He knows where the pieces go.
It's an interminable handful of seconds but the pain begins to ebb as Chris' body realizes it's got less to panic over, that things are largely back in place. Even the angry red and purple bruising is less, muted to the duller and more sickly tones that mean it's well on it's way to gone. Not there yet, but the span of moments has done weeks work.
The entire time, Hawke's gaze is level with the words on Chris' body, faded but still legible, and he resolves to carve one into the son of a bitch that did this.]
There. Can you breathe alright?
[ He looks up, worry still etched on his face in nigh permanent relief at this point and he reaches up to take the sheath, move it away, and cup one hand against his friend's cheek. ]
I'm sorry, I wish I knew a way to make it not hurt so much.