Carlisle nods, swallowing down his vexation, sending it to boil in his gut rather than cloud his head. He can mull over his ineptitude later. There's work to be done.
"Good," he says, sensing she's not all that keen on being touched. He can relate to that better than most. "I'll make this as quick and as painless as possible." Quick he can definitely do; painless is another subject, but he gets the feeling that after being shot in the head, a little bit of burning as energy surges through her will be trifling to Rey at the absolute worst.
He places his bared hands at her temples and starts channeling, trying to focus on his magic rather than his doubts; they soon consume him anyway. If she knew him, he ponders, surely she'd have said something? She'd have had recognition cross her, a word of relief to see someone of his trade when she was so wounded -- yet, she'd asked if he was a doctor. The Rey he knows knew better.
His fingers curl again, this time against her skin as he screws his eyes shut tighter. This is a punishment, isn't it? These false gods can't possibly know what would torture him the most, could they? They could so easily prey upon his fears -- he had lots of them, so it wasn't that difficult -- but to reinforce his guilt so thoroughly, so... specifically? It was as if they could read his mind, look into his heart and see what it was that would torment him most of all.
Behind his lips, Carlisle's teeth grind together as he forces out more energy, channelling far more than is probably required to heal Rey's injuries, but too distracted by his own distress to notice. He used his curse against others -- he is a miserable failure as a cleric. He has to atone for his sins, but he's been forgotten by those he owes reparations. No one would consider someone so inadequate to be a proper heir to the Longinmouths. His lineage might as well have died with his uncles.
The tension in his muscles has mounted in his arms and shoulders; his face holds an expression of pure, unbridled loathing before he finally feels something, something that draws him from his inward revulsion to the world around him. He releases her and steps back, coughing heavily as ink comes up through his teeth from his gut, the boiling there too hot to contain it.
He utters a reflexive apology as he wipes his mouth on the bandages that now cover his right arm. "Sorry, ah. Sorry. That's better, isn't it?" He asks that flatly without so much as a glance at Rey, his mind still wrapped up in the poor control he has over his own emotions. If he's going to be trapped in a city where a set of false deities feed on such things, he's going to have to learn to manage them better -- not just his fear, but all the others, too.
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"Good," he says, sensing she's not all that keen on being touched. He can relate to that better than most. "I'll make this as quick and as painless as possible." Quick he can definitely do; painless is another subject, but he gets the feeling that after being shot in the head, a little bit of burning as energy surges through her will be trifling to Rey at the absolute worst.
He places his bared hands at her temples and starts channeling, trying to focus on his magic rather than his doubts; they soon consume him anyway. If she knew him, he ponders, surely she'd have said something? She'd have had recognition cross her, a word of relief to see someone of his trade when she was so wounded -- yet, she'd asked if he was a doctor. The Rey he knows knew better.
His fingers curl again, this time against her skin as he screws his eyes shut tighter. This is a punishment, isn't it? These false gods can't possibly know what would torture him the most, could they? They could so easily prey upon his fears -- he had lots of them, so it wasn't that difficult -- but to reinforce his guilt so thoroughly, so... specifically? It was as if they could read his mind, look into his heart and see what it was that would torment him most of all.
Behind his lips, Carlisle's teeth grind together as he forces out more energy, channelling far more than is probably required to heal Rey's injuries, but too distracted by his own distress to notice. He used his curse against others -- he is a miserable failure as a cleric. He has to atone for his sins, but he's been forgotten by those he owes reparations. No one would consider someone so inadequate to be a proper heir to the Longinmouths. His lineage might as well have died with his uncles.
The tension in his muscles has mounted in his arms and shoulders; his face holds an expression of pure, unbridled loathing before he finally feels something, something that draws him from his inward revulsion to the world around him. He releases her and steps back, coughing heavily as ink comes up through his teeth from his gut, the boiling there too hot to contain it.
He utters a reflexive apology as he wipes his mouth on the bandages that now cover his right arm. "Sorry, ah. Sorry. That's better, isn't it?" He asks that flatly without so much as a glance at Rey, his mind still wrapped up in the poor control he has over his own emotions. If he's going to be trapped in a city where a set of false deities feed on such things, he's going to have to learn to manage them better -- not just his fear, but all the others, too.