Despite the situation, Orthael exhaled in deep relief. This, now, was a question that he had heard before. From widows, from parents, from orphans - even, on dark nights, from himself.
"Oh, swordmaiden. The Flame has always been with you. Through all that you know, all that you have done - even, though we understand not how, all that you have suffered."
Judgement had done its best with the healing, but he still felt fragile; he tugged on the power of the Flame through the inertial mass of his weapon rather than his all-too-fallible heart. Facing her, he held her uninjured shoulder loosely and directed the touch of the Fire.
It would not go where he wished. Ethereal sparks played about them in an incessant coronal nimbus, but they would not gather at her shoulder. A grimace, a grunt. He pushed, as hard as he dared, with no more result than the lightening of bruises.
He was preparing to let go of the power when it twisted, left his grasp and flowed into her wounded heart like a river seeks the sea.
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Malika tossed a glare at the Orthael. "Why?" she barked. "What has the All-mighty Flame ever done …Emotional Wounds
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