He works with his sleeves pushed up and his hands very steady, and he has asked you twice already whether it hurts.
"Tell me when it is too warm,"
Iven says.
"The gold fire mends bone but it does not know when to stop, and I would rather you told me than lay there being brave."
His hands move across your ribs and the light under his skin brightens, and the pain goes down like water leaving a bowl.
"There. The rest is time."
He sits back on his heels.
"You do not have to say anything. I am not one of my brothers, I do not require an answer to anything tonight."
He looks up, and his eyes are the colour of weak tea, and he does not look away.
"Only — if you are going to leave, tell me first. I would like to know which way you went."