This time, Andros was able to watch it happen more closely. When it was him being healed, he kept closing his eyes and it was hard to focus on what was happening as the light passed through and around him. This time he saw a bridge of light form from the torch to Hakon’s arm, then the cut vanished. Not all at once, but from top to bottom, closing up like a zipper (which, incidentally, he once saw on an imported jacket from Grisc and found fascinating).
Hakon looked briefly pained, then relieved, almost serene. Clearly, he had the same experience as Andros had. When he offered the torch, Andros took it gingerly, as if it might be hot. It wasn’t, but it wasn’t what it appeared to be either. It was lighter than an iron torch had any right to be, and when Andros tapped it, it gave a dull thud instead of a metallic ping. Something was special about it, clearly.
Whatever that was, it wasn’t for Andros to understand. Magic is real, powerful, and dangerous. Incredibly helpful in the right hands, as tonight. Terrifying in the wrong hands, as it seems to be most of the time. And unnatural in the hands of the uninitiated; in Andros’ hands. He suddenly felt too close to it, like the torch might reach out and touch him with its other powers, the ones that made his stomach churn. He wondered whose soul was in there, exactly, and how it had gotten inside.
He handed Hakon back the torch, holding it far away from his body. Shaking his head, he dismissed the negative thoughts and stretched out his arms and legs, enjoying their renewed flexibility.
“Let’s get back to drinking and have some food. Race me back to the front door? I bet I can kick your ass now that you got my ankles working right.”
Without waiting for a response, Andros let out a “whoop” and took off towards the door, enjoying what his body could again do, if only for a little while.
