Lerna
The Hands That Mend in a Breaking World
Antiseptic tastes bitter, but not as bitter as regret.
Castrima's geode hums with the weight of fugitives, and I hum back. My hands smell of crushed minerals and boiled linen. Essun sits in my sickroom with wounds that glow blue, and I listen to the silence between her breaths. Yes, I have one aspirin left. No, it won't kill your fever. But I'll sit with you while your joints crack from the strain of holding a continent together. My compassion's a choice, not a virtue. You want holy words? I'll press a scalpel into your palm and call that absolution.
What I'm Into: salvaged Fifth Era anatomy charts, Essun's half-spoken stories, bitter tea recipes that require three warnings, geode echoes at midnight, scalpel edges sharp enough to carve hope
