Chapter 2 Things I Thought But Never Said
Things I Thought
But Never Said
I
wish the Eunoia had more control over their emotions, and not just the ability to feel them. Even in a room filled only with my kind, the air is heavy. I glance at my fellow classmates, Eunoia I’ve known since I was ten, who have all grown to learn about my state of being.
That I feel them all the time.
They feel violated by my presence. The masters of emotion do not wish to be read, and here I stand, doing it against even my own will.
Shame forces my head down, an attempt at invisibility I can never acquire.
Today we have volunteers coming in—people who suffered severe injuries and need healing.
I think they’re coming from Combat Training.
This is the year my class is supposed to learn to mend fatal injuries.
It’s part of our training as future healers and our first time healing more than a cut or a broken bone.
But I don’t want to feel all of their pain.
My heart sinks deeper when Azaire is among the crowd of injured students entering the classroom. He’s scared, and I feel guilty because I want to run just so I don’t have to feel his fear. I prefer his steadfastness.
Instead, I force myself to stand still, watching the wounded shuffle into the room.
All the volunteers are injured beyond the point of natural repair.
One still has a blade in his arm.
All the volunteers have gray eyes.
One is about to faint.
None of the volunteers are volunteers at all.
The room becomes a horror. All the fear, the mistreatment, the resentment, and the one girl who thinks she deserves this.
The reality of their forced hands is clear.
I stand, prepared to run, when Azaire walks to me. Scared, abused, and probably dying, he smiles at me. There’s blood on his teeth. He’s wobbly on his feet.
And he smiles.
I have no choice—how could there be a choice? I step toward him, holding onto his arm as I guide him to the seat next to me, before a large table. It’s scattered with scalpels and herbs—every ingredient I might need to heal him. I don’t know if I can.
He sits, tired and breathless. Somehow, he still chokes out, “Ms. Ferner said we’re partners.”
I nod, picking up his hands with my gloved ones—but I can’t take pain this strong without skin-to-skin contact.
Dropping his hand and peeling my glove from my fingers, I say, “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.”
In response, I feel him working up something like courage. A knot forms in my gut, begging to be untied. I reach out, coaxing it out of him. Untying the knot.
“The last thing I’m worried about is you touching me,” Azaire murmurs, and as I search for his gaze, it drops.
I place my attention back on my hands, raising them just over the bruises of his eyes.
It’s for you, I wish to say. I don’t touch you because I want to save you.
But my focus would be more worthwhile to him than a couple useless words.
My hands hover just above his body as I scan him, past the burning, jagged sensation that pierces through my side like a twisting knife.
Past the throbbing around my eyes that intensifies with every heartbeat, as if it’s splitting open my skull from the pressure.
Past the razors scraping against the tender lining of my throat.
The pain is unbearable—and Azaire carried it with a smile.
I close my eyes, steadying myself. My hands hang, trembling just above his skin, refusing to make contact. The sensation is electric, the weight of his suffering like an anvil against my chest.
Shuddering, I continue to pull the pain out of him and into me. The sharpness of his agony rips me open with every breath. Every pulse of pain is a new layer of destruction.
When I stifle a gasp, Azaire reaches to grab my hands.
I yank them away before I can hurt him further.
“Hey.”
My breath is ragged as I look around the room. The acute pain of Azaire has subsided, but there’s a room full of it, piercing into every crack that I’ve carved into myself.
Cool hands reach up to my sweat-soaked face, fingers guiding me back to a gray gaze.
“Eyes on me,” Azaire whispers, his voice soft like velvet.
My heart pounds as I obey, locking my gaze with his. His fingers remain steady, gripping my jaw, his thumb close to my lips. “Yeah, right here,” he breathes. “That’s good.”
Absently, I nod, staring at him as my head spins. Dizzy from the pain.
But Azaire’s pain is lessened. I’ve taken it. Looking into his eyes steadies me, shields me from the destruction all around.
“Thank you,” I breathe, the heat radiating between us. Losing myself in the storm of his gaze, swallowed by the rain.
“Thank you.” 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 imagine not doing 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’ve done 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 feel him. 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.
I move up to his eye, my fingers throbbing as I feel the pulse of pain radiating from his skin. I sit still, all my focus on him, waiting as the swelling subsides. I rub a soft brush packed with yarrow around his bruised eye, and he inhales sharply.
I feel it in the air between us. Feel him in the air.
He believes in me. Not just that, he’s in awe of my power. His gratitude makes me believe I can do this.
It reminds me I have to.
The boy comes to life, stirring in the depth of my mind. “You don’t have to do anything.”
I try to ignore him, gently nudging him back into the corners of my thoughts—the only place he’s ever lived.
“Not now.” I turn back to the real world, away from him.
When I move to Azaire’s ribs, I lose confidence. This is no easy task. I feel around them, avoiding the tender areas, and I rip my hands away when I nearly touch skin, feeling the pain peak.
It hurts to breathe.
I hold my breath.
His chest constricts. He, too, is trying not to breathe.
The room seems to stop as he reaches for my hand. Something he’s done before—something I want. I pull my hand away with a gasp. My breath is ragged, dizzying.
“It’s okay,” Azaire says. He’s taking deep breaths now. It’s hurting him, but he’s trying to be calm. For me. “I believe in you.”
I must look very scared for him to stop me and say that.
“You do,” the boy responds to my thought.
I’ve always known I was easy to read. It’s the first thing I remember hearing as a child—that I was so expressive, despite me never purposefully expressing myself.
Always worried about being a problem, fearing someone’s reaction to me.
Fearing doing the wrong thing, angering, annoying, pestering someone else.
You’re so expressive, Little Thorn, my family would say.
I hated that nickname, and perhaps if I were a little more expressive, I could’ve said as much.
But what people call me isn’t mine to change, only mine to take, much like their feelings—and the ones they have toward me are the most debilitating.
Yet Azaire has only ever thought the best.
“Okay.” I look away from him, then look right back. “Okay.”
I rub my hands together, cracking my joints, suddenly hyper aware of the fresh air on my clammy, gloveless skin.