122
You don’t know what Ashur means by a paper cut, but you do know that even a paper cut will have let the blight into Ashur’s veins.
“We’ve got to get you back to headquarters,” Tarquin says. “The Grey Wardens can help; they’ll—the Joining—”
“No,” says Ashur. “We have work to do.”
“You can’t just say no!”
Ashur says evenly, “My place is here. I know magic that can slow the blight.”
Tarquin looks like he’s about to start shouting—muscles tensed, jaw clenched—but a pleading look from Ashur silences whatever he might have been going to say next.
Instead, Ashur holds his hands up, the soft glow of healing magic already at his fingertips. “Mae,” he says, “would you mind?” and she steps in to support Ashur from the other side, adding her energy to his to strengthen the spell. It takes longer than most healing magic, long enough that your feet go numb from standing still and you shift awkwardly from one to the other, feeling useless in your inability to help. A quick glance at Tarquin tells you he’s no happier, but even he can’t make Ashur do something he’s set his mind against.