She was not the eldest healer in the place - not even on the Artifacts floor - but Rosamund had long since learnt not to judge people for their choices. It still shocked her, from time to time, how little self-preservation some people possessed. Even sensible people sometimes chose to do the strangest things... like setting foot on a boat one apparently knew was cursed. If they had been trying to break it, well - they obviously hadn’t managed it.
There was little enough time to judge, though, nor much to mull over who either of them might be; because what could it matter when a man was dying? Even the minute of movement felt like wasted time; once they came to a stop Rommy could only offer the girl a nod to express that she’d heard what she’d said, and then began checking the patient’s vitals. His airways seemed constricted, his breaths shallow; but half of that could be panic alone, the mental pressure of the curse speeding up the physical. She turned over his hand to double-check his hand again: the symbols on his palm made sense, if that was where the curse had first touched him. Where it was most potent.
But understanding the curse was not the first step here: things had progressed beyond that already. Rosamund redoubled the bubblehead charm to ease his breathing, and then dragged his palms together, face up, to point her wand at the centre of the symbols.
“First I’m going to slow the curse,” Rommy said rapidly, with a confidence she didn’t necessarily consciously have. It was a murmur of explanation to the patient so he wouldn’t flinch away - and a warning to his companion, to prevent her from interrupting the incantation. “I need to stop it spreading so quickly -” and it was spreading fast, pressing on his insides, making his skin hot and clammy; soon she expected he’d be shaking, convulsing - “- give him more time.” She took a deep breath, and focused, and began reciting the counter under her breath, visualising a way to slow the magical venom in his veins, draw it back towards his hands where it had first entered, undo what she could.
There was little enough time to judge, though, nor much to mull over who either of them might be; because what could it matter when a man was dying? Even the minute of movement felt like wasted time; once they came to a stop Rommy could only offer the girl a nod to express that she’d heard what she’d said, and then began checking the patient’s vitals. His airways seemed constricted, his breaths shallow; but half of that could be panic alone, the mental pressure of the curse speeding up the physical. She turned over his hand to double-check his hand again: the symbols on his palm made sense, if that was where the curse had first touched him. Where it was most potent.
But understanding the curse was not the first step here: things had progressed beyond that already. Rosamund redoubled the bubblehead charm to ease his breathing, and then dragged his palms together, face up, to point her wand at the centre of the symbols.
“First I’m going to slow the curse,” Rommy said rapidly, with a confidence she didn’t necessarily consciously have. It was a murmur of explanation to the patient so he wouldn’t flinch away - and a warning to his companion, to prevent her from interrupting the incantation. “I need to stop it spreading so quickly -” and it was spreading fast, pressing on his insides, making his skin hot and clammy; soon she expected he’d be shaking, convulsing - “- give him more time.” She took a deep breath, and focused, and began reciting the counter under her breath, visualising a way to slow the magical venom in his veins, draw it back towards his hands where it had first entered, undo what she could.
