Heart of Flame

IV. Scars and Stones

No matter how much preparing Sorne had tried to do, she couldn't stop herself from falling to pieces when the bandages came off. The flesh was all an angry red, the surface of her hands unnaturally smooth and completely devoid of feeling other than a tingling tightness and pain. Her nails were gone, replaced just by scar tissue—Amets said that they would never come back. It left her with hands that looked more like claws. She tried to tell herself that at least none of her fingers had fused together, thanks to how the witch had bound up her wounds, but that sort of silver lining wasn't enough to keep the tears at bay. She cried until all she could taste was salt and her face was wet like she'd looked up at the sky in a rainstorm. Her hands were so stiff that she could barely move them, the scar tissue across her joints pulling her fingers into a gnarled shape. The scars themselves extended up her arms to almost her elbows, though the ones on her arms were not as deep as the ones on her hands.

More than once, Amets cut her hands open to remove the scar tissue enough that she could move her fingers again. Every day, as often as she could, she gently stretched them and fumbled through trying to do what had once been so easy that it required no thought: picking things up, brushing her own hair, washing. The healing skin was so delicate that she had to be careful of tearing it. The salves and lotions that Amets had accelerated the healing and kept away the itching, but Sorne still struggled with basic tasks. It was easier when the witch had her wear gloves that compressed the scars on her hands a little and firm wraps of cloth over the ones on her arms, alleviating some of the itch and protecting a bit from damage. Supposedly it would help with the healing as well.

Every morning, Sorne forced herself to sit and look at her hands for a good five minutes. They were ugly now, even monstrous. At the same time, perhaps because of those things, they were a bitter reminder of what Aldana had done to her. It stoked the rage. She was learning how to master it, how to use it. The hate got her up out of bed in the morning despite her struggle. It made her try her hardest no matter how discouraging the slow speed of her progress was. Someday, she would need her hands to strike the match.

Amets managed to weasel a few more weeks out of Luken, knowing full well that Sorne would have no respite when she returned. Still, her chance to heal couldn't last forever.

"Light salve every day, morning and night," Amets instructed her while packing a small bag of supplies for the girl. "Wear the gloves as long as Sorne can. Watch for blisters and tears of the skin. The dark salve is for those. The scars will get stronger with time." The witch finished packing and went over, placing a hand on Sorne's shoulder as the girl stared out the window towards Mauléon. "It will heal."

"I know," Sorne said as she carefully stretched out her hands. With the contractures eased—though she would likely need another surgery in the future if the scars again inhibited mobility—she could open and close her hands. Moving each individual finger still took a great deal of work. Her grip was weaker than it had been, but she was doing her best to regain that strength. She would need it when Luken sent her back to scrubbing floors. Blisters and tears were going to be a very real fact of life in her immediate future. Servants used their hands all day long and she would be no exception. Her expression softened slightly when she looked at the witch. "Thank you for everything, Amets."

Amets patted her shoulder again. "Sorne will repay it someday. Now, every week, Sorne must return so Amets can check on the healing."

"I will," the girl said, giving Amets a small smile. "You can count on that."

The way people looked at her when she returned was expected, but it still bothered Sorne. The other servants stayed away from her when they could, their eyes wide and fearful. They seemed certain that she was somehow contaminated by Aldana's punishment and that his disfavor might spread to them if they got too close. She did her best to ignore it, fingers fumbling as she tried to shine silver.