dead heroes

Over a decade ago, another elf hovered above young Aloys, his shadow long and cool. He leaned over the boy, checking his broken nose and dislocated shoulder like he was visiting the butchers. There were no details but his sandpaper voice and the blackness against the light.

"The nerves. Your opponent. He smells them. Pull yourself together," his master spat down. The other slave had been hitting him, and the crowd wanted pieces of him too. Aloys had never been hit by his own before. Someone twisted his arm back into his shoulder. The lights were bleary halos, with stars sprinkling here and there.

'Yes, Master,' he had said through the blood in his mouth.

'You earn your healing or you lose.'

Now, in Arlathan, Aloys' nerves roiled as she stepped closer as if he were brand new to the fighting pits, and the more he thought about how nervous he must look, the more nervous he became. He nodded, and slowly gave her his clenched fist. He shifted to face away from her while she clasped his mangled hand in her own two. He knew the feeling of magical healing well enough. His body remembered what always came before, the memory of pain a carved force. But he let her fix it like she knew how. It was important. Magic was important. She was important. Her magic touching him... He stole a glance at his hand in hers, whilst in the middle of listening to her talk. Hope pressed into her words, into his hands. Aloys regretted flinching, as he came back to look at her face. The way she looked at back at him, careful yet trying to coax a beauty back out of him.

It was only meant to be a light, he said scratchily. He cleared his throat. Pardon, he realized, feeling rude to have turned away or to have been so amateur. But I have only ever done simple spells. A candle, lit. A pen, moved. Never consistently. It fizzles or springs back. It is dangerous. I don't know why. Maybe for never being taught, but, I am here now.