Fǫnn glances from one man to the other, and her eyes are troubled. They're both struggling, on the edge of one kind of collapse or another, and her ability to heal these kinds of wounds is limited.

"Well," Loki tells Thor, "we must have a medical file on you, and since this sort of computer is the best we have available here, the details must be entered thus, rather than stored directly within the Soul Forge as Eir once did."

"I don't know how to build one from scratch," Fǫnn says absently, pressing into the scapula. "Though I used to clean the equipment for hours at a time on Asgard when I was starting out. But surely someone on some world must make something like it..."

"We'll stock a proper clinic for you sooner or later," Loki says, typing. "Go on and dictate at any time; I am ready. And if you need my seiðr..."

"Yes, Prince Loki," she's blushing again, and then for a moment she's all dispassionate words, describing what she's seeing in terms only a healer would use or fully understand, naming the tendons that ache, the muscles that have been cut off, the places where the bone has been chipped and the spots that are most vulnerable to infection.

"Your shoulder muscles are compensating, I think, my King," she says at length. "Holding up the prosthesis, trying to accommodate the change. But the bone here must be rounded off, and the veins ligated, and then I can close the end of the stump more evenly. It should really be rested for several weeks without a prosthesis," she looks up at him.

"But I know that may not be an option. Only, promise me you will let me examine it regularly, at least until Eir can care for it."