Page 23 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“Says thelife bringer,” she hisses, as if it’s an insult. “What can’t you do? Make a tree sing?”
“It’s what Icando, actually.”
Calista continues to glare, her gaze falling to my hands. Realization sparks, as if she’s never noticed my gloves. Even after eight years of knowing one another. Even after years of sharing a suite.
Every other Eunoianeedsphysical touch to bend emotion.
But not me.
She leans back, smiling. “You control people.”
“Scared yet?” I glance down.
But I don’t feel her retreat. Her interest only grows. I start to hope—foolishly—that this is the beginning. That I’ll make a friend, have a person to talk to. Spend time with.
I try not to focus on the impossible.
Until Calista says, “The opposite.”
And she means it.
Chapter 5
When I’m Done Dying
Now
I
wake on the floor, a pillow resting on top of my back. The door to my room is made of a precious stone from my home world, Eunaris. It’s supposed to block mental magics from passing through: in my case, emotions. It works for other Eunoia. It doesn’t always work for me.
I nearly pulled out my hair last night. Ever since Desdemona arrived, it’s been harder than usual to adjust. A new feeling in such close proximity takes a bit of time to get used to, and she’s the worst of them all.
She’s in constant, budding fear. Emotion is worse when it’s suppressed—even more so when you fear the emotion itself, and Desdemona does.
I toss the pillow, one I’d wrapped around my head in a foolish attempt to silence something beyond the mind, onto the bed. Then, I rise to my feet. Normally, I’d tidy my room, but the last few days have taken a different course than the usual.
I grab my bag and race out of my suite, straight to Azaire. I check on him everyday—heal him everyday. Sometimes for only a few minutes. Itryto make it only a few minutes. Though, I tend to stay longer, hoping to see the wiggle of a finger, the twitch of an eye.
I’ve yet to see him awake.
Resting beside him on the bed, I begin to take my gloves off. My bare hands hover over his body, and today, I beg my magic to reach him—to rouse him.
“So sentimental.”The boy takes my attention.“The human body is so frail. Easy to break. So very difficult to fix. This will only end when it breaks you.”
“Are you suggesting Idon’tsave him?”I ask the boy out of anger, the green tendrils gushing from my fingertips with the influx of feeling. I pull my hands back, not wanting to deposit anger into Azaire’s broken being.
“Not at all,”he echoes in my mind.“Your conscience is far too feeble to withstand that.”
But I’m not doing this for my conscience. I’m doing this because Azaire deserves to live.
“I’m going to save him,”I say with finality and go back to healing Azaire, proving a point to my own mind.
The green light wrapping around my hands and Azaire fills the room. I try to mend him on a level deeper than the body. I try to reach his mind. To fix it.
It’s tiring, but in the mornings after a night’s rest, I have enough energy to spend. This healing doesn’t hurt, not like when I repair physical wounds. It’s different. Exhuasting. The coma that’s taken Azaire lures me in, and I fight it.
It’s a difficult task, and it takes focus, but somehow, it feels like his mind guides me through the worst of it. Today, as my eyes begin to flutter shut, energy rushes through my veins, filling my head.
