The Power of a Few

Awake ~ 14

    Zalon woke up with a gasp. He flew out of his bed, twisted his body toward the door, and made a dash for the exit. But before he could burst out and attack, hard wood met his soft forehead.
    He fell backwards onto the bed with a soft groan.
   "Smokes, that hurt."
    He laid there for a few minutes, waiting for his throbbing head to calm down. His thinking was foggy, and the branch-like-roof was spinning. He shut his eyes, trying to bring his surroundings back into focus. The moment he did, the aerial view of the room glowed to life in his mind. He saw himself lying on the bed, clothes torn, face mask slipping, and skin pale.
    Yikes, I look sick.

    Then the image widened out, by his own will, to show the rooms surrounding him. He froze.       There were people.
    Five. He counted. Two adults, and three children.
   He recognized one as the woman from his dream. Had that been a dream?

   His mind clicked into survival mode and a plan of escape formulated.
Regain balance and check vital signs.
Prepare for all possibilities of attack.
Decide. Run or attack.
   Running felt like the better option at the moment, he wasn't looking so good. He raised a hand to his sweaty forehead.
   Running a fever. Hallucinations are a possibility.
   As he laid there, unmoving on the bed, he tore apart the situation. Step by step, a final plan formed in his mind.

    He opened his eyes. The room wasn't spinning. Good. Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, trying not to make a single noise.
    You can't rush through this, like you did the other times. He told himself. Go slowly, Zalon. Defense first, offense second.
    Quite the opposite of what his Ward had taught him, but Mel's brutal attacks had given him enough common sense to decide for himself.
    Once he didn't feel lightheaded, he slowly stood to his feet, knees bent, legs tense, ready to pounce. The ceiling was low. He rubbed his forehead and felt the egg-sized lump that had formed there. He winced as his fingers brushed over the bump.
    Slowly, Zalon. Slowly.
    He moved towards to the door, walking on tiptoes, not trusting the floorboards to remain silent under his weight.
    I could just teleport. He thought.
    But then he remembered the glowing hands, the lady's face. Her eyes seemed... ancient. Zalon realized that whatever plan he could make, she had already thought. He was out-brained in this fight. And those hands... what were they were doing.
    Then it suddenly occurred to him. The arrow. He reached behind him, feeling his back where the arrow had pierced his skin and muscle. Nothing. Now that he thought about it, his back didn't hurt. Wasn't even sore.
    They... healed me?
    From his training, he knew that the arrow had been poisoned, and his fever attested to that, but just a minor symptom to what should've persisted for weeks.
    Whoever healed me, their Gifts are limited, but powerful.    But who had healed him? Most likely one of the people standing on the other side of the door.
    You don't know what else they have up their sleeve, so better not take any chances. Rushing into a battle blindly would be foolish. Life-threatening.     He considered his options. Played them all in his head a million times. His heart beat at his ribcage, threatening to break free. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and he could feel his temples pulse.
    This wasn't like him. He could hardly remember the last time adrenaline had overtaken him like this. He shut his eyes and slowed his breathing. His hand started to quiver.
    Zalon. What is wrong with you? 
      When he opened his eyes, the room was spinning again. His vision blurred. He felt himself fall backwards, and he crashed onto the stand beside the bed. 
      He was forcing himself to breathe. 
     Slowly. Slowly, Zalon. 

    He heard a soft thud and realized the door was open. He saw the fuzzy outlines of people. His brain could barely register what was happening.
    "Myra!"
   The word broke through to his mind and he forced his eyes open.
   There was a girl leaning over him. Her short brown hair draped over her face as she looked into his eyes, worry clouding her brown eyes. Her brows bunched with concern.
    He saw her mouth moving, forming words, but he couldn't hear her. She repeated the same sentence a few times. He urged himself to focus with the last amount of strength he had, and the words broke through.
   "Who are you?"   
    He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he whispered, "Zalon."