Page 9 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“Thank you,” I breathe, the heat radiating between us. Losing myself in the storm of his gaze, swallowed by the rain.
“Thankyou.” Azaire drops his hand, snapping me out of his trance. “You aren’t supposed to take my pain.”
He’s right.
It’s not protocol. But I couldn’t imaginenotdoing it.
I shake my head subtly, raising my hands once more.
It’s a shame I have to be thanked for decency. As a child, I loved the Eunoia, what we stood for. The peace Ma and Pa always upheld. But when I look at this academy, at what they’vedone to our message, I suddenly become ashamed I’m a part of it.
My hands freeze above the wound at his ribcage.
My eyebrows set with a heavy frown.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
Azaire shakes his head. Blood continues to dribble from the wound in his side, and I feel it in mine.
I think my rib is bruised.
His rib.
Our rib.
“It’s not important. I volunteered.”
He’s lying. He knows I can feel it—every Eunoia in this room can feel it.
I raise an eyebrow, looking up from his ribs.
“Really,” he insists. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
Azaire’s eyes grow wide again with fear. His gaze glides across the room, and I realize I was too loud.
“You helped me.” My voice is barely audible. “Let me help you.”
“Heal me first.” Shrugging softly, he adds, “We can talk after.”
He’s so gentle, so kind—too kind, too selfless. He doesn’t deserve this. None of them do. A sharp prickle spreads across my hands, as though I’ve pressed them onto broken glass. The uncertainty creeps in. What if I can’t heal him? Will anyone else even try?
“Okay.” I force my doubt aside, pushing forward. I reach for the bottom of his shirt, my hands trembling slightly as I move closer. I’m careful not to touch his skin, though the proximity makes it harder to breathe. “May I?” It’s a soft question, a quiet plea.
Azaire clears his throat, his eyes searching mine, vulnerable, but giving in. “Yeah—yes.”
The space between us closes as I tug his shirt upward, keeping my gaze on his wound. The moment my fingers brush the fabric, I take a steadying breath, just for him, which in turn is kind of for me. He’s all I can feel, with my hands so close to his body and my focus on him.
More than his emotions—I can feelhim. Every beat of his pulse, every shift of his body as he holds the shirt up. It’s just the two of us in this fragile bubble now. And then, I see it. His abdomen, marred with bruises—each one a reminder of the pain he’s endured. But it’s the deep cut along his side that makes my breath catch. It’s still bleeding, the crimson trickling down his skin.
What if I can’t heal him?
I have to try.
I tug my glove back on and fill the gash with yarrow—a dried and crushed herb—stopping the bleeding and accelerating the healing. Then I place my hand over his side. Heat from the exertion of my energy floods my palms, healing the wound. Not completely.
At least it’s stopped bleeding.
