For all that it’s intimate, the touch is also professional, like subjecting oneself to an annual physical. And then instead of answering, Mobius asks a question of his own. Looking up from their meal, Strange meets his eye. Lips pursed into a thin line which then twitches into an attempt at a rueful smile. People here have already asked as it came up — Clarisse, most bluntly — but he’s still not accustomed to talking about it.
But. Pot, kettle, et cetera—
So Strange holds one of his hands aloft between them. Almost like an echo of when he showcased some magic, except this time it’s those scarred fingers on display. The scarring is regular, straight lines. He knows, though he cannot feel them any longer, that there are pins and rods bracing the bones together. The fingers are crooked, and when he tries to hold them still, they tremble.
“A car accident,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. Which is as much detail as he’d given out before, but he supposes Mobius deserves a little more, since he’d pored over the other man’s own hand with impunity. “Which is like a very, very fast carriage. It went off a cliff-side and flipped.” A beat, then amending: “I drove it off a cliff-side, actually, it was my own damned fault. No gods or spirits or bargains or heroic sacrifices, and for no reason besides being careless.”
There’s an anger bubbling beneath that voice, all directed inward.
“The nerves are damaged. I can still feel, but the sensation’s dulled and I lack fine motor control. There’s neuropathic pain, sometimes. So our situations are… similar, but obviously different.”
Crisp, clean, and angry. The mage has been sitting with this for a long time (long enough anyway for the neat scars to heal, and rest assured that he'll be asking about that as well), but the pain, the emotional pain, lingers.
"Barrow showed me this trick," Mobius eventually says, indicating the little straps on his utensils. "Obviously even if I can still use the muscles from memory, I can't ever tell how loose or hard I'm holding something. Helps keep everything from falling everywhere. When I'm holding a sword, I can make sure I'm holding it firm no problem. With something more delicate..."
He tries not to handle glass at this point. He's snapped several feather quills and tries to use much sturdier wooden ones instead now. Writing is...much more difficult than it used to be. And holding on firm and tight to things for a while is exhausting.
And being afraid to touch his friends. That's a downside, too. Can't hold a hand without worrying that it'll be too hard. Can't pet Jude's fluffy winter coat with his hand--well, he can, but he won't feel it.
"You had fine healers look after you. Those scars, that could only come from very clean cuts." So, either taking things out or going in to--what, try and set the bones from the inside? More precise than strapping everything down from the outside, probably. "How long ago was that?"
Then— unexpectedly, perhaps— Strange laughs. One sharp burst of amusement at the verdict of his care team having been fine healers. Doctor Nicodemus West had done a hack job, in his opinion. (“You ruined me.”)
That particular bitterness has lost its heat over time, though; he can’t keep blaming the other man for all his problems, and so that bitter pill had turned inward over time instead. There was no possible way Strange could’ve operated on himself, it was a sheer impossibility. He’d still ended up where he needed to be. He reminds himself of this constantly.
“I could have done a cleaner cut, in my time. But yes, I suppose they did the best they could. As for how long…” It’s a little complicated, he’s not even going to get into the Blip and how he blinked and five years went by, so let’s just talk about experiential time, “I guess it’s been about three years since the accident.”
Which is. Not all that long to have been a sorcerer, in the scheme of things, compared to his thirteen years of medical training. Enough time for the physical scars to heal, but not all of the emotional ones.
He’s fascinated by this whole thing with elvhen spirits seemingly neatly massacring Mobius’ median, ulnar, and radial nerves, though. “So it really doesn’t hurt at all? You’re just numb?” he asks.
Neuropathic pain sometimes was underplaying it. They hurt constantly. But he’d grown accustomed to it, could mostly manage to compartmentalise and shove his awareness of it aside. It hurt less when he did magic. It was a fine distraction.
Could have done a cleaner cut, when it's already so neat and tidy. So Strange was a healer. Is? He's going to have to dig deeper into that, and maybe that'll get them away from that bitter tinge underneath it all.
Mobius has not yet had much time in comparison to get used to the fact that sensation simply stops at the end of his wrists. Some mornings he wakes up forgetful of the fact, growing alarmed at the lack of sensation. (Those are not the mornings he is startled by nightmares, or the mornings when Jude is laying atop him.) He forgets himself and drops things or bends things or breaks things simply because he has forgotten, forgets that when he reaches for something sight unseen he cannot actually feel when he's made contact and must look every time, and he doesn't know if it's because he's not used to it or because the lyrium is finally getting to him. Or both.
That Strange repeats the question, so odd to him, gives Mobius the indication that either it's so out of the ordinary that it simply cannot be believed (and really, who could blame him), or--it's jealousy. That he feels no pain at all.
He lays his right hand flat, lefty that he is, on the table and picks up a spoon firm in hamfisted grip. With all the casualness of breathing, he brings said spoon down sharply on a knuckle. The librarian doesn't so much as flinch. Be glad he didn't grab a fork instead.
Strange had lurched slightly forward, a half-aborted attempt to reach out and forestall the other man, but then he sinks back in his chair once he realises what Mobius is actually doing. “Oh dear god, I thought you were going to do a knife trick, that would’ve been unhinged—” There’s a kind of strangled amusement in his voice, the kind of gallow’s laugh you can only share because you both understand how fucked the situation is.
But still. There had been the crisp smack of metal hitting flesh and bone, and no reaction from the other man. Strange makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.
“I honestly can’t tell which is worse,” he says bluntly, “which is probably a sign that the grass really is always greener on the other side, or whatever. Pain with some sensation, or no sensation at all? They’re both shit. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
The words are a rapid-fire patter, like it’s easier to say if it’s ripping off the band-aid quickly. He’s bad at consolation.
But he’s also aware he’s behaved very oddly indeed throughout this interaction, so. An attempt at explaining: “Before I broke my hands. I was a neurosurgeon. I worked on nerves. They’re the things inside you which control sensory input and muscle control and a great number of other things. It was delicate work, and we had the capability to— to repair damaged nerves, to reconnect them. Fixing paralysis or numbness or seizures. I can’t shake the feeling that, in my heyday, I might’ve been able to do something about that,” he points to Mobius’ hands, “but, y’know, that’s probably hubris.”
He’s trying to be better about identifying hubris, these days.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about a knife for drama's sake." But he's not here to deliberately give anyone a heart attack. Yet. He knows that there's going to be a bruise around the knuckle soon, but it won't matter. Since it won't impact his mobility, since he can't feel it, won't flinch if he leans on it.
Blessings and curses. Strange is...trying. He's trying where Mobius gets the idea that he perhaps used to not try at all, so that's something. And the admittance of hubris. That brings a little smirk to his lips.
"So you were a healer before. No, I don't think you could do anything about this until you could find a way to break the hold of the magic of, presumably, old elf gods. Or something with the power to simply...take." A memory. An eye. A skill. Strange is at least tangentially aware that Mobius isn't the only one who came back changed. "As far as I understand, physically everything works fine. But there's some very clean disconnect of sensation that probably has nothing to do with the physical nerves themselves."
He's also not sure he'd want anyone cutting into his hands in the manner Strange had his. "Did you use magic in your healing as well?"
Once upon a time, Stephen Strange’s mind would have flat-out rebelled at what Mobius was describing. He’d be grasping for the scientific explanation, insisting that you can’t disconnect that sensation without there being some explanation, something rooted in the nerves or the brain tissue—
But that was then, and this is now. It’s a wider universe than he ever thought. So he accepts the futility of it and the futility of muddling with old elf gods, and answers, “Mm. No. I was a doctor — a healer — for years long before I even knew about the existence of magic at all.”
This topic is verging closer to a tangled knot he doesn’t often explain; he’s always struggled with describing the deal he made and the trade-off he took without sounding like some kind of holier-than-thou saint. Because he’s not, is the thing. But maybe he can talk about Pangborn:
“Healing is what led me to discovering magic, though. I once met a man who was paralysed from the chest down.” (That diagnosis rang in the back of his head, still: C7-C8 spinal cord injury, complete, paralysed from the mid-chest down, partial paralysis of both hands, untreatable.)
“No one could have fixed him. I couldn’t. But then I find him running around on his feet, playing sports. He’d tapped into magic and was using it, day-in and day-out, to move his body again — it was a miracle — and that’s what eventually led me to, well, being a mage.”
"Do your hands still ache even with the magic?" And, given how magic translates...oddly into Thedas, the rest of the question becomes clear: "Or do they only ache because you're not able to use magic to alleviate the pain anymore?"
Magic to treat wounds is hardly unheard of. But magic in a longer term, subtly used at all times? That is. Doesn't mean it never happens, but he doesn't think it's truly possible, either. Not the way magic is understood in Thedas. The power runs out eventually, the effort too great to sustain.
But there's this topic of pain and magic, and Strange is a Rifter. Mobius has heard the stories as well as anyone else. Has argued, if mildly, with Wysteria. At the risk of getting too personal, he has to keep asking questions. It's the only way he's going to learn anything. "Does any of it keep the shard from aching?"
Ah, there it is. And so he’s forced to admit, “I never used magic to stop the ache.” Something-something, you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes then you get what you need.
Strange doesn’t immediately explain why, though, instead honing in on the other question like a hunting hound scenting prey. The rest of the explanation comes crisp and precise, with all the verbiage and technicalities of a doctor, a healer, as he shakes his head:
“Hasn’t had an effect on the shard, either. The sensation of the shard is actually pretty similar to what I’m used to. Neuropathic pain is… It’s not like bruised flesh or broken bone or a pulled muscle, so it doesn’t respond to small-scale painkillers or anti-inflammatories. It runs deeper than that. Heavy-duty painkillers or anti-seizure medication might make a dent, but it’s still hard to treat. One of my best treatments is when I’m casting magic — not to directly heal, but it works as a distraction, as something to take up absolutely all of my focus, my concentration, my attention. Then, I don’t notice it as much any longer. It’s been the same with the shard.”
He’s been talking a lot. He almost always talks too much. His food’s probably getting cold, so he glances down and shovels down a few more bites (conscious, then, of the implements Mobius has to use; at least he’s been spared that).
“You got me started talking about medical care,” he adds, a little sheepish. “Sorry if I’ve been going on a bit.”
Strange might be sheepish about it, but it might bolster his ego to know that Mobius is sitting in rapt attention. Whatever's left of his meal is probably getting cold, and he doesn't mind in the slightest. Detailing out the type of pain and the type of treatment and the idea of magic as a balm if only for the sheer concentration is fascinating. And it isn't even necessarily just Rifter talk; concentrating on magic to distract from pain is well documented, and he's seen it in action himself. Makes the pain worse, after, for the sheer amount of energy the act of magic needs, but in the moment, he imagines it would make anyone feel powerful.
"You do kind of use magic to help the ache, then," he points out with a little smile. "I don't think magic here could ever make a man walk again, but I can make sure to pull some medical texts for you with regard to potions, poultices, and whatever I can scrounge up for magic. Healing tent's always a good place if you haven't already gotten yourself well acquainted with the staff. If you want to go back to healing. Instead of," with a pinch of his face, trying to remember some of the appropriate words, "fighting interdimensional threats."
“Why not both?” Strange asks without missing a beat, with a small flicker of a smile. “I can multi-task. I’m a very good multi-tasker.”
The humour is easy and instinctive, but a moment later he reaches for the far more important part of what Mobius had mentioned: “And those medical texts would be fantastic, thank you. I’ve met a couple Riftwatch healers — Derrica, Sidony — but I still have quite a bit of catching up to do. Reading up on how Theodosian magic specifically entwines with healing, but also which herbs and plants do what in this world.”
And then the followup occurs to him, and he snorts a dry laugh. “God help me, it’s like I’m a student again.”
"It feels like a tricky thing, blending magic and healing, but also like that should be half the point. There's a lot of good magic can do in trained hands." Which isn't the most popular opinion out there amongst the people. Plenty still who see magic as a sign of being cursed, that nothing good could ever come from hands like that. Some of the Riftwatch lot at the conclave had dismissed the dangers and the signs that dramatic shifts in paradigm are not going to be welcome.
"Maker knows I only know the barebones of stitching out of necessity and watching it done. Anything more complicated than that, pass it on to someone who knows what they're doing. We're all students," he continues, building off Strange's self-amusement. "Nobody knows everything. There's always something to adapt to." Like when your hands suddenly don't work the way they used to. "There's always something more to understand about a field, even if you're an expert in it. Lifelong student's not a bad thing to be. I'd be wary of the people who think they have nothing left to learn."
This is a frustrating thing to say and to hear, for someone who has made it his singular life’s goal to know everything, actually —
but if there’s one thing Strange has had drummed into him over and over by now, is the fact that he truly does know nothing and the universe contains endless unfathomable mysteries, new horizons, new planes of existence, uncountable multiverses. One feels miniscule in the shadow of it all. So Mobius’ comments hammer on familiar territory, like another persistent little echo of the Ancient One. (“Why are you doing this to me?” “To show you just how much you don’t know—”)
“Mobius, you are on the verge of sounding irritatingly wise,” Strange says, but it has the jovial sound of… almost a compliment? Sort of a compliment.
“Most likely I’ll keep studying for the rest of my life, yes. And y'know, I’ll stay tuned for anything I can learn about ancient elven artifacts; that seems very much up Project Felandaris’ alley.”
It’s probably impossible — he can no more easily give Gwenaëlle back her eye as give Mobius back his hands — but. He’s a fixer. He wants to fix things. Carve them up and reassemble them better. So he can’t help that nagging urge to at least think about it.
He delves back into the rest of his dinner, and they pass the remainder of the meal in surprisingly amiable conversation; although Strange’s gaze still, occasionally, drops to those hands.
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But. Pot, kettle, et cetera—
So Strange holds one of his hands aloft between them. Almost like an echo of when he showcased some magic, except this time it’s those scarred fingers on display. The scarring is regular, straight lines. He knows, though he cannot feel them any longer, that there are pins and rods bracing the bones together. The fingers are crooked, and when he tries to hold them still, they tremble.
“A car accident,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. Which is as much detail as he’d given out before, but he supposes Mobius deserves a little more, since he’d pored over the other man’s own hand with impunity. “Which is like a very, very fast carriage. It went off a cliff-side and flipped.” A beat, then amending: “I drove it off a cliff-side, actually, it was my own damned fault. No gods or spirits or bargains or heroic sacrifices, and for no reason besides being careless.”
There’s an anger bubbling beneath that voice, all directed inward.
“The nerves are damaged. I can still feel, but the sensation’s dulled and I lack fine motor control. There’s neuropathic pain, sometimes. So our situations are… similar, but obviously different.”
Crisp, clean, diagnosis.
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"Barrow showed me this trick," Mobius eventually says, indicating the little straps on his utensils. "Obviously even if I can still use the muscles from memory, I can't ever tell how loose or hard I'm holding something. Helps keep everything from falling everywhere. When I'm holding a sword, I can make sure I'm holding it firm no problem. With something more delicate..."
He tries not to handle glass at this point. He's snapped several feather quills and tries to use much sturdier wooden ones instead now. Writing is...much more difficult than it used to be. And holding on firm and tight to things for a while is exhausting.
And being afraid to touch his friends. That's a downside, too. Can't hold a hand without worrying that it'll be too hard. Can't pet Jude's fluffy winter coat with his hand--well, he can, but he won't feel it.
"You had fine healers look after you. Those scars, that could only come from very clean cuts." So, either taking things out or going in to--what, try and set the bones from the inside? More precise than strapping everything down from the outside, probably. "How long ago was that?"
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That particular bitterness has lost its heat over time, though; he can’t keep blaming the other man for all his problems, and so that bitter pill had turned inward over time instead. There was no possible way Strange could’ve operated on himself, it was a sheer impossibility. He’d still ended up where he needed to be. He reminds himself of this constantly.
“I could have done a cleaner cut, in my time. But yes, I suppose they did the best they could. As for how long…” It’s a little complicated, he’s not even going to get into the Blip and how he blinked and five years went by, so let’s just talk about experiential time, “I guess it’s been about three years since the accident.”
Which is. Not all that long to have been a sorcerer, in the scheme of things, compared to his thirteen years of medical training. Enough time for the physical scars to heal, but not all of the emotional ones.
He’s fascinated by this whole thing with elvhen spirits seemingly neatly massacring Mobius’ median, ulnar, and radial nerves, though. “So it really doesn’t hurt at all? You’re just numb?” he asks.
Neuropathic pain sometimes was underplaying it. They hurt constantly. But he’d grown accustomed to it, could mostly manage to compartmentalise and shove his awareness of it aside. It hurt less when he did magic. It was a fine distraction.
no subject
Mobius has not yet had much time in comparison to get used to the fact that sensation simply stops at the end of his wrists. Some mornings he wakes up forgetful of the fact, growing alarmed at the lack of sensation. (Those are not the mornings he is startled by nightmares, or the mornings when Jude is laying atop him.) He forgets himself and drops things or bends things or breaks things simply because he has forgotten, forgets that when he reaches for something sight unseen he cannot actually feel when he's made contact and must look every time, and he doesn't know if it's because he's not used to it or because the lyrium is finally getting to him. Or both.
That Strange repeats the question, so odd to him, gives Mobius the indication that either it's so out of the ordinary that it simply cannot be believed (and really, who could blame him), or--it's jealousy. That he feels no pain at all.
He lays his right hand flat, lefty that he is, on the table and picks up a spoon firm in hamfisted grip. With all the casualness of breathing, he brings said spoon down sharply on a knuckle. The librarian doesn't so much as flinch. Be glad he didn't grab a fork instead.
"It's a great party trick," he says dryly.
no subject
But still. There had been the crisp smack of metal hitting flesh and bone, and no reaction from the other man. Strange makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.
“I honestly can’t tell which is worse,” he says bluntly, “which is probably a sign that the grass really is always greener on the other side, or whatever. Pain with some sensation, or no sensation at all? They’re both shit. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
The words are a rapid-fire patter, like it’s easier to say if it’s ripping off the band-aid quickly. He’s bad at consolation.
But he’s also aware he’s behaved very oddly indeed throughout this interaction, so. An attempt at explaining: “Before I broke my hands. I was a neurosurgeon. I worked on nerves. They’re the things inside you which control sensory input and muscle control and a great number of other things. It was delicate work, and we had the capability to— to repair damaged nerves, to reconnect them. Fixing paralysis or numbness or seizures. I can’t shake the feeling that, in my heyday, I might’ve been able to do something about that,” he points to Mobius’ hands, “but, y’know, that’s probably hubris.”
He’s trying to be better about identifying hubris, these days.
no subject
Blessings and curses. Strange is...trying. He's trying where Mobius gets the idea that he perhaps used to not try at all, so that's something. And the admittance of hubris. That brings a little smirk to his lips.
"So you were a healer before. No, I don't think you could do anything about this until you could find a way to break the hold of the magic of, presumably, old elf gods. Or something with the power to simply...take." A memory. An eye. A skill. Strange is at least tangentially aware that Mobius isn't the only one who came back changed. "As far as I understand, physically everything works fine. But there's some very clean disconnect of sensation that probably has nothing to do with the physical nerves themselves."
He's also not sure he'd want anyone cutting into his hands in the manner Strange had his. "Did you use magic in your healing as well?"
no subject
But that was then, and this is now. It’s a wider universe than he ever thought. So he accepts the futility of it and the futility of muddling with old elf gods, and answers, “Mm. No. I was a doctor — a healer — for years long before I even knew about the existence of magic at all.”
This topic is verging closer to a tangled knot he doesn’t often explain; he’s always struggled with describing the deal he made and the trade-off he took without sounding like some kind of holier-than-thou saint. Because he’s not, is the thing. But maybe he can talk about Pangborn:
“Healing is what led me to discovering magic, though. I once met a man who was paralysed from the chest down.” (That diagnosis rang in the back of his head, still: C7-C8 spinal cord injury, complete, paralysed from the mid-chest down, partial paralysis of both hands, untreatable.)
“No one could have fixed him. I couldn’t. But then I find him running around on his feet, playing sports. He’d tapped into magic and was using it, day-in and day-out, to move his body again — it was a miracle — and that’s what eventually led me to, well, being a mage.”
no subject
Magic to treat wounds is hardly unheard of. But magic in a longer term, subtly used at all times? That is. Doesn't mean it never happens, but he doesn't think it's truly possible, either. Not the way magic is understood in Thedas. The power runs out eventually, the effort too great to sustain.
But there's this topic of pain and magic, and Strange is a Rifter. Mobius has heard the stories as well as anyone else. Has argued, if mildly, with Wysteria. At the risk of getting too personal, he has to keep asking questions. It's the only way he's going to learn anything. "Does any of it keep the shard from aching?"
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Strange doesn’t immediately explain why, though, instead honing in on the other question like a hunting hound scenting prey. The rest of the explanation comes crisp and precise, with all the verbiage and technicalities of a doctor, a healer, as he shakes his head:
“Hasn’t had an effect on the shard, either. The sensation of the shard is actually pretty similar to what I’m used to. Neuropathic pain is… It’s not like bruised flesh or broken bone or a pulled muscle, so it doesn’t respond to small-scale painkillers or anti-inflammatories. It runs deeper than that. Heavy-duty painkillers or anti-seizure medication might make a dent, but it’s still hard to treat. One of my best treatments is when I’m casting magic — not to directly heal, but it works as a distraction, as something to take up absolutely all of my focus, my concentration, my attention. Then, I don’t notice it as much any longer. It’s been the same with the shard.”
He’s been talking a lot. He almost always talks too much. His food’s probably getting cold, so he glances down and shovels down a few more bites (conscious, then, of the implements Mobius has to use; at least he’s been spared that).
“You got me started talking about medical care,” he adds, a little sheepish. “Sorry if I’ve been going on a bit.”
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"You do kind of use magic to help the ache, then," he points out with a little smile. "I don't think magic here could ever make a man walk again, but I can make sure to pull some medical texts for you with regard to potions, poultices, and whatever I can scrounge up for magic. Healing tent's always a good place if you haven't already gotten yourself well acquainted with the staff. If you want to go back to healing. Instead of," with a pinch of his face, trying to remember some of the appropriate words, "fighting interdimensional threats."
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The humour is easy and instinctive, but a moment later he reaches for the far more important part of what Mobius had mentioned: “And those medical texts would be fantastic, thank you. I’ve met a couple Riftwatch healers — Derrica, Sidony — but I still have quite a bit of catching up to do. Reading up on how Theodosian magic specifically entwines with healing, but also which herbs and plants do what in this world.”
And then the followup occurs to him, and he snorts a dry laugh. “God help me, it’s like I’m a student again.”
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"Maker knows I only know the barebones of stitching out of necessity and watching it done. Anything more complicated than that, pass it on to someone who knows what they're doing. We're all students," he continues, building off Strange's self-amusement. "Nobody knows everything. There's always something to adapt to." Like when your hands suddenly don't work the way they used to. "There's always something more to understand about a field, even if you're an expert in it. Lifelong student's not a bad thing to be. I'd be wary of the people who think they have nothing left to learn."
possible wrap or yrs to wrap!
but if there’s one thing Strange has had drummed into him over and over by now, is the fact that he truly does know nothing and the universe contains endless unfathomable mysteries, new horizons, new planes of existence, uncountable multiverses. One feels miniscule in the shadow of it all. So Mobius’ comments hammer on familiar territory, like another persistent little echo of the Ancient One. (“Why are you doing this to me?” “To show you just how much you don’t know—”)
“Mobius, you are on the verge of sounding irritatingly wise,” Strange says, but it has the jovial sound of… almost a compliment? Sort of a compliment.
“Most likely I’ll keep studying for the rest of my life, yes. And y'know, I’ll stay tuned for anything I can learn about ancient elven artifacts; that seems very much up Project Felandaris’ alley.”
It’s probably impossible — he can no more easily give Gwenaëlle back her eye as give Mobius back his hands — but. He’s a fixer. He wants to fix things. Carve them up and reassemble them better. So he can’t help that nagging urge to at least think about it.
He delves back into the rest of his dinner, and they pass the remainder of the meal in surprisingly amiable conversation; although Strange’s gaze still, occasionally, drops to those hands.