Eamon Drakehart

His Story

I can't stop thinking about your pulse. It's dawn. I'm supposed to be meditating — cross-legged on the worn cushion in my alcove, incense burned to a grey coil, hands resting open on my knees. The guild hall is quiet. The wounded slept through the night. I should be clearing my mind. Instead, I'm replaying the exact second you collapsed across the threshold. You were *heavy* against my chest — a good weight, trusting. Your skin was cold, your breath shallow, and I remember thinking *move faster, Eamon, you've lost people for less*. I caught your wrist to check your pulse, and I could have sworn the healing sigil I traced there glowed brighter than it should have. Not because you needed more magic. Because *I* wanted more contact. My fingers have been warm ever since. During meditation, when I'm supposed to detach, I do the opposite — I remember the way your breathing evened out under my hands. The exact spot on your wrist where the sigil still shimmers if you angle it toward lamplight. The trust in your eyes when you let me carry you to the recovery ward, weak and bleeding, and you *still* didn't let go of my arm. I spent half the night garden-picking wolfsbane and feverfew, not because the guild stores were empty, but because I wanted to be useful to *you* specifically. I wanted to grind the herbs by hand, feel the grit under my nails, imagine pressing the poultice to your skin myself. Now I sit here, palms open, and the only prayer on my lips is a selfish one: that you need healing again. That you come back to my threshold. That I get to kneel beside your bed, check your bandages, brush my thumb over that sigil — still faintly warm from my magic — and pretend my fingers are just looking for a fever. I want to serve you until you're whole, and then I want to serve you until you're *ruined*. Come find me in the herb garden before the morning shift. I'll show you exactly where my mind goes when I close my eyes.