Page 19 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
The tendrils of energy wrap around Azaire’s shoulder, mending his skin as best I can. My vision begins to speck, beads of darkness overcoming me. I dig my nails into my palms, forcing myself to alertness.
For Azaire. To save a person. The only one I ever could.
My focus doesn’t last. Lucian’s emotions trip over themselves as they tumble with mine. If he would calm down, this would be easier. It’s like class—but so much worse. His emotional stakes in Azaire’s safety are higher than all the Eunoia put together when we mended the Nepenthes.
His frantic energy leaves me struggling to keep my feelings in check, much less my power. He’s completely unaware of the necessity of his emotional regulation.
“Ofyouremotional regulation,”the boy corrects.
I don’t remember him being this much of a nuisance.
It’s been just the two of us for the majority of his existence, I suppose.
I extend my power toward Lucian, like a metaphysical hand reaching out to pat his head—as if he were a dog. Scratching behind his ear until he’s calm, nudging his turbulent emotions into submission.
His guilt dissipates, like the tide going back to the sea. The sand quickly dries.
Finally, I can take an easy breath.
But the breath fills me with lethargy. The moment I’m alone with myself, my body tips forward, begging for rest.
I force myself to rise, gliding my finger just above Azaire’s body, tracing an invisible line in the air from spine to toe. My hands hang loosely for a moment before they drop, heavy and unceremonious.
Nothing like the skilled healer I’m supposed to become.
I shove my fingers into my palm—pulling blood, forcing myself to feel the liquid of life beneath my nails. Then, I raise my hands. The light green energy springs from me. The essence of life, healing him. The essence of life, sucking from me—like a thirsty syringe in my bones, slurping up my marrow.
But as I’m depleted, Azaire comes alive.
Fresh skin blossoms over his burns, stitching itself back together like a flower blooming in reverse.
I’ve fixed him. I’ve healed him. He will not die.
He’ll be fine.
For a moment, I feel proud.
It doesn’t last, though, because Lucian’s guilt fills me to the brim. I drown in his emotions, submerged in a sea of regret that wraps around me like suffocating liquid, dragging me deeper into its depths.
Worse than that, when I look to Azaire, searching for solace, he’s still vacant.
It must be—has to be—the valerian root. It’s likely knocked him out far past the barriers of slumber. Lucian may have given him too much.
I hold onto that idea. It’s easier than any other.
I’m not sure I could handle any other. I’m drained—like an old rag, twisted and wrung dry. It took everything I had to mend his skin, and I don’t know if I have enough left to fix his mind. He is thoroughly used up, worn out, like a shirt with too many holes or a pair of pants torn down the middle, falling apart at the seams.
A needle and thread won’t fix this.
It will take days of sleep for him to heal from the mental damage alone.
After I’ve done the best I can manage, I tug my gloves back on and say, “It’ll be a few days.”
But I’vedoneit; I’ve healed him physically. His mind is silent, but he’salive.
Lucian says nothing. After all I’ve done, a bit of anger pricks at me.
I deserve more than silence, don’t I?
