He isn't sure why he has this ability. He's had it as long as he can remember, although he doesn't know how it developed. In fact, there's very little he knows about it, only that it's given him the chance to be helpful in the most extraordinary way.
He first discovered it when he was ten. He'd found a wounded cat lying in a darkened alleyway, motionless save for its twitching whiskers. He knelt down beside it, his hands running gingerly over the cat's body until he discovered the cause of its discomfort: a broken leg.
He remembers touching the wound and wishing he could help somehow. And then he remembers blinding pain, excruciating discomfort, and a made-up story about tripping and falling when the medics asked how he'd broken his leg.
He supposes that wasn't the first time he'd taken a wound onto himself. He vaguely remembers instances where he had wished he could heal and then found he could, though he can't be sure how much was due to his gift and how much was just bad luck.
But the incident with the cat opened his eyes. He had a gift, one that let him perform miracles. So why not use it?
Of course, there are some limitations. The pain of every wound increases a thousandfold when he transfers it to himself. Bruises feel like fusillades of bullets pummeling his body, headaches like war sirens blasting in his mind. So he only heals wounds he can bear without too much discomfort. Scrapes, deep bruises, the occasional broken bone or pulled muscle.
He can't cure illnesses, either, only wounds he can see and touch. He has to maintain physical contact with the wound for the entirety of the healing. If he lets go, the transfer remains incomplete, and the wound returns to its original owner.
And he never heals in plain sight. In this war-ridden world, someone with his ability would be a coveted ace-up-the-sleeve for the armies, ruthlessly hounded by every general to use his powers for the "greater good." (But there is no greater good anymore. He knows it, the army generals know it, everyone in the whole damn world knows it.)
They aren't difficult rules to follow. He just has to be a little more careful with what he thinks, who he touches.
All in all, it's not a bad price to pay.
He meets her during a citywide lockdown. It's rumored the enemy is flying bombers overhead, and citizens have been advised to head to one of the city's three war shelters.
He doesn't follow the advice. There's no one left for him to stay alive for. Instead, he uses the invisibility afforded him by the lockdown to heal as many wounds as he can. He can't heal everyone (he can only bear so much pain), but if he's able to stop the suffering of even one man, he calls it a success.
He's just finished healing a man with a gash in his arm when she approaches. "You healed him," she says, startling him. "How?"
He hadn't heard her approach, consumed by pain as he was. Immediately, warning bells sound in his head. He hesitates, thinks about running, settles into a fighting stance, makes sure she knows she doesn't want him as an enemy. In response, she tilts her head back, looks him in the eye without flinching, and settles herself firmly in the dust.
They stare at each other for several minutes. Her eyes are open, honest, curious. Her face is innocent, and there's a small smile stretching her lips. Despite himself, he feels his defenses crumbling. There's something about her that draws him in, coaxes him to confide in her.
Finally, he makes his decision. She's already seen enough to report him to the armies. And he's been alone for so long, hasn't known friendship or love or happiness in over a decade. He denies it to himself, but he yearns for some kind of human connection beyond the transfer of a few wounds. And if he thinks she'll report him, he reasons, he can be out of the city within the hour. Swallowing his trepidation, he tells her everything.
She smiles and crouches next to him.
They settle into an easy partnership. Some days they steal food together, laughing as they run from angry vendors. Some days she watches as he heals the wounded and takes care of him as he recovers. Some days she shows him parts of the city he never knew existed. And some days, they simply talk about themselves, their childhoods, their thoughts on the war.
He notices the symptoms but he can't pin down their cause. His heart overflows with happiness, he feels like he's flying, and his body thrums with more delight than he has ever felt. It's a foreign combination of emotions, and the uncharted territory terrifies him.
All he knows is that for the first time in his life, he's not alone.
They're camped on her favorite rooftop, the one she says gives the best view of the sunset, when he decides to be courageous. Without looking at her, he presses a small necklace into her hand, a simple pendant made of glass threaded onto a strip of leather. He knows his face is burning red.
"What is it?" she asks in a hushed voice, as though she's already guessed at its significance.
"It's my only memory of my mother," he explains, still looking away. "She gave it to me when I was just a child. Before she..." He swallows. "I want you to have it," he says instead, and finally glances at her.
Her smile is radiant as she hooks the bauble around her neck. "I love it," she says fervently, and leans forward and kisses him, a quick peck on the lips that nevertheless sends a flurry of warmth down his spine.
The next time the sirens wail, he makes his way to the nearest war shelter.
Two hours later, he's forcibly dragged out by four men in army fatigues. She stands by and watches, her eyes colder than ice.
It's been a decade since he was betrayed by the person he trusted most, and he's risen through the army ranks with ease. He's quick with a gun, agile in the field, and more cunning than half his teammates combined. He's a lethal weapon, unerring and determined, deadly to enemies and astonishing to allies. But that's not what he's known for.
No, he's known as the soldier with the magic hands.
It doesn't matter that the senior officers adore him and the newest recruits worship him. It doesn't matter that he's saved more lives than anyone else in the unit. It doesn't matter that his peers regard him with utmost respect. None of it matters, because none of them sees him for him; they're all drawn to the power of his gift.
He hates it.
He shoots instinctively when the shadow rises from the ground. His finger tightens around the trigger before he can consciously process what he's doing. He barely hears the gunshot in the overpowering din. He's already turning away, keen eyes seeking out his next target, when his victim turns, the sunlight glinting off an all-too-familiar glass pendant around her neck.
He shouts wordlessly as he rushes towards her crumpling body, the gun falling limply from his hands as he reaches out in a futile attempt to push her out of harm's way. He reaches her within seconds, though it feels like hours to him. Ignoring the melee around him, he drops to his knees beside her and cradles her head in his lap. A tear traces a path down his cheek and drips from his chin, but he ignores it.
"No," he whispers, already seeking the damage he's done. He spots the injury immediately; it would be hard to miss the dark crimson stain spreading across her uniform. He reaches over her, his arm trembling, and presses down on the wound.
She realizes what he's doing a moment before the process starts, and he hears her say, "No, you can't-!" But he's already started, and he won't stop now.
His own stomach sings with such blinding pain that he nearly passes out. But he steels his courage and pushes through the blackness threatening to dominate his vision. If he doesn't, she will die at his hand, and he can't allow that.
It won't be much longer now. She's already growing stronger, and he can feel her trying to dislodge his hand from where it rests on her stomach.
Meanwhile, his vision narrows rapidly, threatening to blind him, but he staves it off for just a moment longer, enough time to find her face, look serenely into her eyes, and whisper, "I always loved you." Then, with a smile on his lips, he surrenders to the darkness.
She's crying too, but he can no longer hear it.572Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTnG7MMQp2g
