"I cannot do this." It was for Morgan's sake as much as his own, he might know the High Sigils at heart, but he did not have the Art to craft them properly.

Otherwise he would have.

But if otherwise had been the case he would not have needed to.

She sagged against Morgan, hands moving through the air as if she was seeking something, anything.

Something to steady her. Something to keep her safe.

But there was no safe now, was there?

Nothing safe.

Was she sobbing?

Perhaps.

Morgan looked at the man for a moment.

He closed his eyes and put the tip of the blade to the woman's foot, using her lack of concentration to hold her in place with a push of Will as he carved the sigil into the flesh there.

And when it was done, he sighed and tossed the blade away, stepping away from her.

He wanted to hold her. To tell the sobbing woman it would be okay.

But that would be a lie. He just hoped he did it wrong. So she'd just rip him apart.

It seemed correct. Not that he would know, not that he could know. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

Maalech had ripped up all the cards by now, the tatters of her life lying in front of him.

Just like she was.

"Can..." he cleared his throat, because his voice was unsteady enough to spook him "Can you heal the sigils but leave the scars?"

Scars and Spirit. She didn't need the physical pain at least.

She had been trapped. Tied. Eight of swords. Not move. The fool and the ace of swords.

Swords. Daggers.

She felt the dagger curl around her but not touch, whimper at the touch, shrivel as ordinary iron cut her flesh, tied her up, tied her in.

One foot. Next foot. Both hands.

Soles and palms. Deep cuts.

Blood.

She could not touch her own face now, still trapped, by now unable to reach beyond what held her her. escape. Impossible.

Morgan scowled and sealed the wounds, ugly scars blooming out of the wounds like sick flowers.

He frowned deeply, looking back up at Maalech, "Are we done here?" The man's voice was a low, rasping sound.

"Yes. If you are certain she is contained. I cannot see." The frustration put an edge to his voice, it was obvious that he was throughly disturbed.

"Her memories are returned. All of them. Now... she will need to be placed somewhere safe to be allowed to heal."

Somewhere away from him. She was not unskilled with sharp objects.

Blankness. Dreams. Preferable.

She was just a woman now, a limp body in a fancy dress with enough jewelry to feed a starving family for a year. Out cold.

Her face was younger, sharper... the skin tanned and the hair such a dark red it was almost brown. She had been trapped. One shape. One form.

Reality no longer played with her.

Unconsciousness was a blessing.

Morgan looked down at her for a moment, "She's contained. Just. Just a human." he knelt down and brushed some hair from her face, frowning at the... the everything.

"I'm sorry, Aly," he whispered to her. And then he stood up, sighing a little. "...fuck."

And then he tilted his head to one side, nostrils flaring a little, brow furrowing.

Maalech let out the breath he had been holding, but kept his face serious.

"Bring her... somewhere. In this plane. There is... I suppose the risks are smaller here. And some places might remind her of home. Just... not here." Please.

"She will manage. She is surprisingly crafty."