It had been long enough. After everything with the Nightmare King, he'd gone through the usual; self doubt, self pity, self loathing, and the inevitable drinking. Trying to fill the void left behind by not being able to play Ria, not having the music, was tough. Then there was Kala, the one who continued to fill the void he'd left in himself all
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"I am Arha," she said, her eyes flicking to his bandages. "You will need those looked at, yes?" Through the Force, she could see damage and itched to do something about it already.
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He watched her pushing her energy, her force, whatever they called it and weaving it through his arms and around the tissue. He was honestly a little envious; he could see exactly how she did it, the subtle manipulations, and he knew he could do it as well, if not even slightly better (no one ever said he was humble), if he could just see the damn wounds. Once again, his lack of proper vision was getting in his way.
Of course, one could argue that if he had proper vision he wouldn't see the energy in the first place to copy the technique, but one would promptly have their drink poured on their head for pointing that out.
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After that she was silent, sinking herself into the Force as much to direct the raw stream of healing as to bolster her own abilities and keep them from sapping her own energy. It was a long process, a delicate one that required total focus and skin to skin contact for it to work properly. Arha blocked the pain as completely as she could--only minute twinges were left--as she spun and connected and rewired the nerves surrounding the damaged tissue to function correctly. She did each arm separately, carefully, rebuilding with the utmost attention to detail ( ... )
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