Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
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I HEARD THE CRACK of his voice as Jersen pressed his fingers against Denfer's face, cleaning the wounds, surveying the bone of his nose. I watched him trying to stand up, stay away from Jersen's painful touch. Instead, his body fell down on the floor shivering, even though it wasn't the coldest night. The muscles of his jaw quivered, and my heart stopped at the sound of his yelp of pain as Jersen attempted to put the broken bone of his nose back into the right place.
Jersen's hands emitted a light blue haze that soon encircled Denfer's face; a soothing, mending force that could alleviate any excruciating pain and heal almost all kinds of injuries—that was what he'd said a few moments ago. Denfer's lips became a straight line as he fought to hold back a cry—he utterly failed. I turned my gaze to his right hand, the one without the burns, and tied my fingers around his, squeezing them a little.
A few moments passed and his face was clean of blood, the broken bone of his nose completely healed. Yet he didn't look better, not in the slightest way. He just continued coughing, his bad hand on his chest, Jenser's hand on his back.
"Thank God he's already dead and has magic because with so much smoke he inhaled earlier, he should have been gone by now," Jersen said, as he was about to insert the injection in Denfer's forearm. I didn't dare consider what his death would mean to me.
I glanced down to our interlaced fingers, then focused on him again.
Sweat was strolling down his now empty of color face, but he still managed to hold my stare. He was shirtless, with Jersen observing the burns. The muscles of his chest tensed, his breathing pattern turned shaking, uneven.
And I knew that he wouldn't remember the pain tomorrow, but even those impending moments of hurt made me brush my thumb across the back of his palm.
"Why—" The word came out with such difficulty that I silently wished Jersen wouldn't allow him to finish his sentence. But the healer nodded, waiting for him to complete his previous thought before he moved the injection closer to his body. "Why would you want to sacrifice yourself for us?"
Jersen opened his mouth in disbelief and awe and surprise.
I could feel Denfer's eyes travelling all over my face, waiting for an answer while at the same time waiting for the pain to end. I didn't want to expand his time of suffering.
"Because your people deserve to live in a better place," I said, my voice steady despite my raging heartbeat, my words firm despite the fears.
I didn't tell him that he deserved something better than all the hatred he received. I didn't tell him that he was meant to be drenched in hopeful emerald and not in wrathful red. I didn't tell him that every morning I woke up to the sound of rain, I just wanted to change it, not caring about me being the one who would have to go through Hell to do that. After all, I deserved to be in Hell and not here, with him. I deserved to be in Hell for the way I'd left my parents behind, for the way I'd destroyed Denfer's drawing, and for being too selfish to immediately consider helping them. But first of all, I deserved to be in Hell for still hoping that maybe . . . I wasn't being selfish, but human.
