Rise Of The Scoundrel

10. Deceiver

The windows of the medical unit sat ajar, allowing sunlight and the smell of the ocean to flow through the room. Birds sang on a fragile branch just outside, their small whistles being the only sound other than the heart rate monitor. It was healthy and consistent, as was his oxygen level. It had been so for two days, but he still wouldn't wake up.

"Maggie, you need to rest," Hannah's voice came from beside her.

"I'm fine," she insisted with a hoarse voice.

Hannah groaned in annoyance, setting a tray of food down on the small wooden table beside her stubborn friend. "No, you're not," she insisted, taking a seat near the window.

Maggie gazed at Asher's messy dark hair, her eyes trailing downward until they rested once more on his tightly bandaged shoulder. The endless amount of blood had made puddles across the floor as they carried him in, Maggie and Jackson setting his limp body onto a metal table.

"Get me a chair!"

"Someone grab his arm!"

"Why? There's nothing wrong with it."

"The one that's not attached to his body, idiot!"

She wasn't sure when or how the mess had been cleaned up. Her focus had been on him. Keeping him alive before he bled out on the table before their eyes. She had done her absolute best, absorbing the wound at such a quick rate she'd surprised even herself. Healing herself, however, was where her talents faltered slightly. She had yet to master simultaneous renewal, the ability to absorb and heal so seamlessly that the Mender felt nothing. Experiencing even a fraction of the pain Asher had endured sent her into a hellacious state of panic. Instincts had told her to immediately stop what she was doing in self-preservation, but she had fended off the natural reaction.

By the end, Maggie could barely feel anything. She had been drained of all possible energy and felt as though she had become a shell of herself, barely able to function and pouring sweat from the level of exertion and excruciating pain.

"Maggie, stop!" Her mother insisted.

"No," she growled and turned to her with wild eyes. They were filled with agony, the skin of her own shoulder tearing and resealing before their eyes. Her shoulder cracked, causing her to cry out, but her hands remained on the fleshy gap between Asher's shoulder and his loose arm. The arteries, muscles, and tendons were slowly forming to their natural state, but it would take a great deal of time, and unwavering resolve. She had that. She had to have it.

"He would do this for me. I'm doing it for him."

What hurt the most was when she realized she wasn't talented enough to heal such a severe injury without it leaving a scar. Yes, she had succeeded at the most vital part, reattaching his arm, but she wasn't able to erase the evidence entirely. Asher was left with a physical reminder of that day, and there was nothing she could do about it. It wasn't a simple line, either. It was a thick, white jagged line that encircled his shoulder, going under his armpit. Though he was completely healed, she hadn't removed the bandage yet. She couldn't bring herself to remove it and expose her failure.

Her fists clenched around her knees which were pulled tightly against her chest. She had been sitting by his bed for two days and had no intention of leaving. Bathroom breaks were practically races and meals were kindly brought to her by one of their friends. They were taking shifts, at least one of them watching over both Asher and herself. She felt bad having given them the impression she needed such treatment when Asher was the one who nearly died, but she was thankful for the support.