“Oh, I could,” he acknowledges, as if he hasn’t been asked that a couple hundred times over the years. “But it made me who I am. Inconvenience and pain are a part of life and this,” he taps his hip as he slides himself into the water, “has never truly incapacitated me.” Just put him on a different path than the one he originally thought he’d be on. And this path turned out to be the right path, so in a way it’s fate. Shrugging it off, he realizes he probably has an unusual outlook on life but then he is terribly cerebral. Philosophical, some might graciously call it.
“I’m a Fixer,” Falke answers, ignoring her self-deprecation for a moment (though he certainly did note it as self-deprecation). “A fixer of bodies and minds. Or I try to.” So he could, probably, fix his hip if he wanted to and maybe Amalia will come to the same conclusion - he doesn’t want to. Full stop. End of story.
The relief begins to seep into his body, every twisted and cramping muscle relaxing under the water’s heat and magical ministrations. Gods, it feels good; his expression begins to melt into one of more ease as all the pain he’d been hiding way starts to fade. “And what do you do? No, a poor question -” Glancing at her again, Falke smiles impishly. “What would you like to do?” That offers the kind of answer that is far more revealing than what one currently does.
