Chapter 3 I Love Backwards
I Love Backwards
T
here’s a knock at my door. One I can’t ignore. Frantic worry on the other end presses into my silence like a plea.
“Wendy!” someone shouts. I think it’s Lucian.
I rise, stepping toward the door and reaching for the knob. The boy in my head cuts me off, his voice slicing through my thoughts. “Don’t open the door.”
At his words, I stop—even though I have a feeling I shouldn’t. “Why not?” I ask.
“It will be too much for you to take.”
“Are you there?” Lucian calls.
My hand settles on the knob.
“Don’t,” the boy warns.
I push him away, and he evaporates like smoke in the wind.
Then I open the door. Two bodies stagger into my room—Lucian holding up Azaire. He’s broken and battered—but worse than the bruises, he’s unreachable. Completely cut off.
A blank slate.
An empty page.
Azaire—the steady boy, the peaceful man, unable to be felt.
Is he about to die? Is that what this means? Or is he already dead? It’s only upon death that I’ve been unable to feel a person.
They were gone. There was nothing to feel.
I never saw them again.
Dead.
I can feel the boy at the edges of my mind, waiting to swoop in and tell me he was right. This is too much to take. It’s the last thing I need to hear right now. Even the figments of my imagination don’t know what’s good for me.
“Oh my gods.”
I don’t realize I’ve fallen into the dresser until Lucian asks, “Can you heal him?”
Air clogs in my throat until it becomes impossible to take in. I stare at Azaire—the burns on his arms. The barely-there breath in his chest.
The empty mind. The lack of emotion.
It makes it impossible to focus on anything other than Lucian. The prince is desperate. Beneath it, he’s guilty. That is the emotion I feel the most of, until slowly, the desperation dissipates, and all I can feel is Lucian’s guilt.
I hate guilt.
It seeps through like gas. Poison through the cracks in my doors. The lock is not tight enough.
The knob is ever turning.
I am everyone else before I’m myself.
I focus on Azaire, searching for anything. He’s not dead. He’s still breathing, however little air he’s taking in. Isn’t that steadiness still there? Even now, with uncertainty pressing in, he’s still himself, isn’t he?
But there’s nothing there.
“He’s going to die,” the boy says. “Just like Xander.”
“Why can’t I feel him?” I ask Lucian. My lip quivers, and I pull it between my teeth, needing for it to still.
Lucian’s voice is a whimper. “Please.”
I try to override my faculties. Deflect Lucian’s guilt. Suppress the boy’s words.
But nothing can keep the boy out.
He hovers like a rain cloud, waiting to be released.
“You shouldn’t have opened the door,” the boy tells me. “You aren’t ready to bear the pain. Not this time.”
From the corners of my eyes, I see him, as if his shadow lingers in my room. I flinch, searching for his figure, but he isn’t there. He couldn’t possibly be. He’s trapped within the confines of my mind.
He is my mind.
I take a deep breath, warding against my insanity, even as I argue with myself. “Azaire would certainly die without me.”
“He’s going to die either way, love.”
The words are a heavy blow. There’s no other way to say it than: they hurt.
And Azaire hurts, more than I could possibly imagine. He’s barely holding on to life. Taking so little breath that I can’t feel him.
Even in my mind, my voice shatters as I ask, “You don’t believe in me?”
“Do you believe in you?”
For a moment, I am nothing but still. Frozen as I watch Azaire, dangling in Lucian’s arms—and I shift under the weight of expectation.
Of undesired outcomes.
“I have no choice,” I answer, despite the boy being right. I don’t believe. I think Azaire is going to die. I’ve never been able to save a soul.
But I have to.
I’ve never had the chance to try to save someone I care about. Now, I do. There’s no choice, and even if there were, I wouldn’t choose any different.
“Put him on the bed.” I nod to Lucian as I turn away from the mess. I approach my closet, pulling out my tray of herbs, then hand Lucian a bottle of valerian root, instructing, “Put this in his nose and mouth.”
It’s imbued with magic and should keep Azaire unconscious, which will keep me focused in case he wakes while I work.
I hover my hands over Azaire’s body—just as I had in class—feeling for the worst of it.
I can’t feel any of it.
After a deep breath, my heart still does not slow.
But I won’t stop trying.
I pick up his hand. It’s burnt to nothing but raw skin. There must be severe nerve damage. What if I can’t fix that, and he never uses his hand again?
His injury courses through my body, burning me. My hand grows sticky beneath my glove. Is it my magic, his wounds, or my worry?
Moving my attention away from Azaire, I flick through my glass jars once more, searching for a salve made of comfrey to even the burns. As soon as I locate it, I rub the brown substance into Azaire’s hand. The skin sizzles.
I smile.
It sizzles. That means it’s healing. The blood in his veins is still moving.
It’s the smallest of victories, the slightest sign of lasting life, and I clutch to it, moving to the burns on his wrist, then his shoulders. The welted and raw skin slowly smooths.
I release a breath of relief, taking off my gloves.
Green tendrils of energy coil around my fingers, like living vines, each one sprouting jagged thorns.
I lower my hands, desperate to conceal my power from Lucian.
I’m sure he’s witnessed many Eunoias harness their abilities before—and none of them have thorns.
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.
“Of your emotional 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’ve done it; I’ve healed him physically. His mind is silent, but he’s alive.
Lucian says nothing. After all I’ve done, a bit of anger pricks at me.
I deserve more than silence, don’t I?
“What happened?” I ask.
Lucian’s guilt floods back to the surface, a wind that cannot be tamed, despite me doing my best to repress it.
“It’s not safe to talk here.” He looks away. As if he knows that eye contact will heighten my power, and he doesn’t want me to find the truth.
Raising an eyebrow—that no one will notice—I ask, “Then where?”
“Past the barrier. By the coast.”
Past the barrier. He says it cooly, as if the barrier is there for no reason.
But we’re within that barrier for a reason. It’s our safety net. It’s what keeps the bad things out.
I glance at Azaire. Maybe the bad things have already gotten in.
“You’re growing perceptive, Little Thorn,” the boy says mockingly.
I shake him away.
“Fine,” I mutter as I walk to the door.
Lucian remains behind me, hesitant to leave Azaire. He’s filled with a mix of guilt and a protective urge, and it gives me pause.
I catch Lucian’s gaze and try to free myself from his emotion: “He’ll be safe here.”
Lucian nods subtly, understanding. When I open the door, he follows.
We walk to the shore, the turquoise tide calm as it rushes past my feet. But when I face Lucian, his hesitancy hits me. Whatever he has to share, he isn’t sure how to tell me.
No, he’s not sure he wants to tell me, yet he knows he has to.
I open my mouth as if I have something of my own to proclaim. But at my sides, my fingers twist and curl, weaving through the air, pulling the truth from him—unraveling a seam, each thread loosening and slipping free, until the shirt is nothing but bare strands.
“They’re back,” Lucian says with a sigh. The intensity behind his words knocks into me. My fingers still. “The monsters are attacking again, and it coincides with recent revelations of the Arcanes.”
I step back instinctively, my gaze darting to the woods just beyond the rocky coast. The barrier—it’s right there. I could flee to safety in a heartbeat, disappearing into the protective shield before anything could catch me.
But I know there’s more he has to say.
“The monsters are attacking, and you’re taking me beyond the barrier?” I ask, incredulous.
“There’s none in Visnatus.” He wants me to calm down.
“That could change at any minute!”
“I can take care of it if anything happens,” Lucian tries to assure me. But he doesn’t believe it himself. The guilt clings to his skin like sticky sap in tangled hair.
“Why are you involving me in this?” I ask. I don’t want to think about monsters anymore. But I fear this is as important as Lucian believes. Monster attacks are important.
The boy hums to life in my mind, always watching. “Or, might I add, important to you.”
“Someone was taken by the Arcanes,” Lucian answers. “I tracked down the one person who might be aware of a detail I’m missing.” He pauses, again, weighing his options.
I feel like a hangnail, dangling on a thread of skin, waiting for whatever information he may or may not reveal to me. Will it tear me off or stitch me up?
“Your mother was involved,” he finishes.
I freeze. My blood thickens to sludge, heavy and slow. My legs turn to dust, barely holding me upright. It’s a struggle just to stay standing. All I can do is cling to whatever remains of myself, trying to keep it all together.
“You shouldn’t have opened that door,” the boy says—as if he’s prophetic. As if he foresaw this moment long before I did.
“Go on,” I mutter to Lucian.
“Eighteen years ago, a woman faked her death. Supposedly, your mother knows why. We were told to find her.”
I pick viciously at the fingers of my glove. “Was she the one taken by the Arcanes?”
“Yes.” The remaining words hang uncomfortably on the tip of his tongue, like a stubborn spice that lingers long after the meal. He’s not proud that he told me anything at all. A man who wishes to handle everything on his own. Something I know well.
But I do not find kinship in it.
“What was her name?” I demand.
“Isa Althenia.”
The name rings like the bell of my childhood door—a familiar sound I can barely recall.
When I don’t answer, Lucian grows weary. He needs my help, yet he doesn’t want me involved. It’s nice to know I am not the only one who is a paradox. It still fails to make me feel less alone.
“Because you are alone,” the boy says. “But you need not be lonely. That’s why I’m here.”
I glare at Lucian, confused as to how I feel. Grateful that he’s brought me a piece of my ma? Angry that he didn’t want to share it with me?
“Next time, don’t be vague about matters regarding my mom,” I say. “But you were sent on a fool’s errand.”
“How so?” The worry seeps into more than Lucian’s tone. It’s in his tongue, his skin, and in turn, it’s in mine.
I straighten myself, prepare myself. These are words I hardly say. Words I don’t wish to carry as truth.
But it’s the truth, and denial won’t change a thing.
“My mom is dead.”