#pros: percy has friends who are here to help him through his pain & various stupid decisions. cons: he Keeps Making It Worse

[blorbologist]

Get your hands dirty - Chapter 2

Perc’ahlia | M [for gore n whump] | Campaign 1 AU with choice bits snagged from TLOVM | Percy is the pact weapon + 'Shooting our your palm has fucking consequences' AU

[Chapter 2 finally here after @burr-ell bullied me. Hopefully the third and final chapter will follow soon-ish?]

“Lord de Rolo?” and the words belong to a dream because that title belongs to Father and Father is dead, except Percy can’t wake, can’t wake up  -

Stop. Breathe. Restart.

Dawn breaks late over the Alabaster Sierras: tall toothlike mountains take up so much of the sky, the sun must climb high to clear them. It’s well past that first bite of morning, and so probably hours later than he would usually wake. 

Knocking resumes at the door, more urgently, so Percival hopes his voice comes clear: “Yes?”

“Lord de Rolo,” and she has to be a servant that survived the purge, to put that much deference into the name, “your sister and companions await you downstairs for breakfast.” The they’re quite concerned, sir, is only implied. Which confirms Percival’s hunch. 

He reassures the maid he will be down shortly, but does not move. Instead, perhaps unwisely, he unpeels the white bandages from his left hand. Like if he removes all the gauze he will find the names where he always has. 

They’re still bare. Percival breathes heavy relief until his eyes catch on brutal color in his palm.

Most of it, truthfully, is not his palm - but the pattern of the comforter beyond. What’s left - left - of the flesh so close to the wound is puckered and mottled with a rainbow of color. He’s felt worse than the dull, tight pain. Which is better than the prickling drowning several fingers. (That’s why it hadn’t hurt, when Vex’ahlia took his hand last night.)

Well. It figures that if Pike could not heal the fingers he shot off the carriageboy, blasting a hole in his own fucking hand would be even trickier for Keyleth to repair. His head spins; nerves, tendons, muscles, a mess of tiny bones. 

In a fit of grim whimsy, Percival holds his hand up to the sun, watching it peer through the gaping crater of his palm.

He tries to close his fist around it. Thumb, pinkie and ring finger make a valiant effort of the task. 

The sun remains beyond his grasp.

[Read from begining] [Keep reading on AO3]