"They? I can fix this," Hecate reminded her, looking at the ugly wounds down Luna's arms. Ugly wounds carved by an ugly soul. Power doesn't have to be like this she thought again, the same words she'd thought at the gods who'd been lording it over mortals more terribly, recently. This man had grappled for power over Luna too, had found it, had tried to leave his arm so she'd always wear it.
Had left his mark. Luna was always be different, now. Hecate could encourage the skin to regrow but she couldn't reform the tattoos he'd taken. And Luna had killed, too. That changed a person.
They were a big wounds, though. She'd have to be careful, cleanse any infection from Luna's blood. She'd healed Luna before, both times from wounds inflicted on her by men, but they were wounds from hands and bodies, not weapons. This would take more out of her, but she had it to give, and she had Qebhet.