Butler- Healed After Troll Injuries

“Ooof,” grunted Foaly. “I felt that. Visuals are shot. Pain sensors
went right off the scale. Your lungs are busted, Captain. We’re going to
lose you for a while. But don’t worry, Holly, your magic should be kicking
in already.”
Holly felt the blue tingle of magic scurrying to her various injuries.
Thank the gods for acorns. But it was too little too late. The pain was way
beyond her threshold. Just before unconsciousness claimed her, Holly’s
hand flopped from beneath the tapestry. It landed on Butler’s arm,
touching the bare skin. Amazingly, the human wasn’t dead. A dogged
pulse forced the blood through smashed limbs.
Heal, thought Holly. And the magic scurried down her fingers.
…

Butler woke up, which was a surprise in itself. He knew immediately
that he was alive, because of the searing pain permeating every cubic
centimeter of his body. This was not good. Alive he may have been, but
considering the fact that his neck had a one-eighty twist on it, he’d never
so much as walk the dog again, not to mention rescue his sister.
The manservant twiddled his fingers. Hurt like hell, but at least there
was movement. It was amazing that he had any motor functions at all,
considering the trauma his spinal column had suffered. His toes seemed all
right too, but that could have been phantom response, given that he
couldn’t actually see them.
The bleeding from his chest wound appeared to have stopped and he
was thinking straight. All in all, he was in much better shape than he had
any right to be. What in heaven’s name was going on here?
Butler noticed something. There were blue sparks dancing along his
torso. He must be hallucinating, creating pleasant images to distract
himself from the inevitable. A very realistic hallucination, it must be said.
The sparks congregated at trauma points, sinking into the skin. Butler
shuddered. This was no hallucination. Something extraordinary was
happening here. Magical.
Magic? That rang a bell in his recently reassembled cranium. Fairy
magic. Something was healing his wounds. He twisted his head, wincing
at the grate of sliding vertebrae. There was a hand resting on his forearm.
Sparks flowed from the slim elfin fingers, intuitively targeting bruises,
breaks, or ruptures. There were a lot of injuries to be dealt with, but the
tiny sparks handled it all quickly and effectively. Like an army of mystical
beavers repairing storm damage.
Butler could actually feel his bones knitting and the blood retreating
from semicongealed scabs. His head twisted involuntarily as his vertebrae
slid into their niches, and strength returned in a rush as magic reproduced
the three liters of blood lost through his chest wound.
Butler jumped to his feet—actually jumped. He was himself again.
No. It was more than that. He was as strong as he had ever been. Strong
enough to have another crack at that beast hunkered over his baby sister.
He felt his rejuvenated heart speed up like the stroke of an outboard
motor. Calm, Butler told himself. Passion is the enemy of efficiency. But
calm or no, the situation was desperate. This beast had already effectively
killed him once, and this time he didn’t even have the Sig Sauer. His own
skills aside, it would be nice to have a weapon. Something with a bit of
weight to it. His boot clinked on a metallic object. Butler glanced down at
the debris strewn in the troll’s wake. . . . Perfect.

- Artemis Fowl, Chapter 8