Astrid shook her head. “It shouldn’t, no. Sleep will recover what I’ve used easily enough, and the wards will hold without needing to be reset until late tomorrow morning. If it will take some of your pain, it’s worth it.”
She rose from her spot near the fire and crossed back to kneel in front of him, exhaling softly in preparation. She seemed to stare straight through him again for a moment, then with an upward glance to make certain he didn’t have a problem with it, rested her hands against either side of his torso, along where the worst of the hairline fractures were. Her touch was featherlight, careful not to add to his pains. Her expression was one of concentration, and her eyes once more began to glow.
The words she spoke were nothing that he would have ever heard before, a language that sounded ancient and carried an almost palpable weight when she spoke the words. Her hands took on the same glow as her eyes while she worked, and that light sank into Woodsly’s body. Almost immediately, the sharpness that came with each breath he took faded, and the residual aches lessened until they were nonexistent, but she didn’t stop at his ribs. Bruises on his skin disappeared, cuts sealed, and bullet wounds closed, leaving only the barest hint of scar tissue behind. Almost as quickly as the light melded into him, it had drawn back to its original source.
Unseen, hidden by thick long sleeves and the length of her skirt, his wounds spread over Astrid’s body instead. Bruises bloomed everywhere on her skin, followed by the other partially-healed wounds she had taken from him. Her jaw locked when her breath sent pain like knives through her chest and sides. She silenced when the work was done, doing her best to contain the pain. Magic always came with a price, and that price was determined not by her, but the powers that were.
Astrid sat back carefully, keeping her breathing easy and on the shallow side. The last thing she wanted was for him to realize what the price had been for his healing—she doubted he would approve. She could handle it; pain was an old friend, easier born when the choice was hers to make. At least she couldn’t be forced to give it back. What was done was done. She was satisfied. “That should do it.”