The next morning, Thomas couldn't dress without help.
He didn't call for anyone. I saw him standing there, his arm caught in a movement that should have been simple, and went to him. I held the fabric while he slowly worked it over his shoulder.
He let out a breath when we were done.
— Slept on it? — I asked.
— I think I turned over during the night.
I wanted to believe that was all it was.
There were days when he seemed better. Then he would spend too long working or make one wrong movement, and everything would return to his face before he could hide it.
Edwin was by the fire. He looked at us, then went back to stirring the food.
We ate the barley we'd set aside. The portion left in the container no longer looked like a reserve. It looked like the short distance between us and needing to find more.
I suggested trading some of the firewood we'd received from Ben for food.
Thomas started to stand.
— I'll go, — Edwin said.
He knew the route to the water and Ben's house. He still hadn't made the journey to Mara and Harl's place on his own. I explained the path, realized one of my directions meant nothing to someone who had never seen the stone I was talking about, and decided to walk with him as far as the familiar beach.
We separated the wood suitable for the fire, keeping the pieces Thomas had set aside for repairs. We didn't take the whole pile.
Before we left, Edwin asked what he was allowed to accept.
— Food for the three of us. Whatever they can offer, as long as we agree on how much before we take it.
He looked at the bundle.
— If they offer too little, I'll bring it back.
I nodded.
At the coast, I pointed out the direction of the fishermen's beach and waited until I saw him go around the section of rocks I knew. He carried the container and the wood. I returned empty-handed, my walking staff in my hand.
My heel no longer commanded every step. I could still feel it, but I could look farther ahead as I walked.
Thomas hadn't been given the same chance to improve.
When I arrived, he was sitting near the window, a small tool and a piece of wood resting in his lap.
I stopped in the doorway.
He looked up.
— I'm not using the bad arm.
I didn't answer immediately.
I'd brought him into a world where he had to work to eat. Then I got angry when he worked while injured. There was something wrong with that, even if I didn't know how to do things differently.
I put the staff in the corner and sat on the other side of the table.
— There was healing in the game.
Thomas set the tool down on the wood.
I'd spoken before deciding I was going to.
— In what?
I rubbed my hands over my face.
It was difficult to explain something that, to me, had come with a screen, a keyboard, and a chair in a bedroom.
— I knew images of these people. Of the buildings. Before I came here. I could choose things, give orders. They weren't real people to me.
Thomas stared at me.
— Like stories?
— A little. But I made choices inside them.
I didn't know whether that helped or made things worse.
I looked at the tool he'd put down.
— That's why I thought you'd know how to do everything I told you to.
He lowered his eyes for a moment.
— I don't know.
— I noticed.
The words came out too sharply.
— I didn't mean it like that.
Thomas waited.
I took a deep breath.
— There were people who could heal. With light. I don't know if I can do it. I don't even know if I can summon someone who can right now. But I haven't really looked.
The last part embarrassed me.
I'd examined prices, buildings, and wood. I'd thought about earning more, about bringing in another man. The System had taken up so much space in my head that I'd treated it as though I already understood everything that mattered.
Thomas touched his arm with his good hand.
— You can look.
I closed my eyes, opened them again, and let the sight of the house lose its importance for a moment.
I searched for something that had to do with me.
The building images came first. I pushed them aside. I thought about the image of a selected hero, about the difference between ordering someone else to do something and choosing an action for myself.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
A symbol sharpened at the edge of my vision. It wasn't a building or a worker's portrait.
I recognized the light in the image before I could make out the words.
Holy Light I.
I went still.
Below it was the class name: Paladin. First Level.
I'd seen those two words associated with men in armor, hammers, voices that never seemed afraid. I looked at the worn sleeve over my thin arm.
— What is it? — Thomas asked.
It took me a moment to answer.
— There's something here.
I explained the name and what I remembered it could do. I didn't say it would work. In the game, I knew how to press the command. Here, I didn't even know where to begin inside myself.
Thomas offered me his good arm.
— Do you need to touch me?
— I don't know.
I pulled my hand back before touching him.
— Can I try? On the shoulder. If you feel anything wrong, tell me.
He nodded.
I moved to his side. I carefully placed my hand over the fabric, without pressing against the place that hurt.
I searched for the image.
I chose it.
I waited.
The fire crackled behind us.
Nothing happened.
Thomas stayed quiet while I tried again.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Thought of light, of warmth, of wounds closing like a green bar filling back up.
My arm began to ache from being held up.
I lowered my hand.
— It's not working.
Thomas settled more comfortably on the bench.
— Maybe you don't know how yet.
I wanted to say that was obvious.
I bit the inside of my cheek and stepped away.
I went to the door, looked at the empty path, and came back. Edwin still hadn't returned. The house felt too warm, even though my hands were cold.
I could bring finished walls into a clearing. I could make wood disappear. I couldn't ease the pain of someone sitting a step away from me.
I tried alone near the window, palm open.
A memory of the game wasn't an instruction. I could repeat the name as many times as I wanted; my hand was still just a hand.
Slowly, though, I noticed something that wasn't in my palm.
It was difficult to locate. A kind of resistance that I could press my attention against, only to drift away from it without meaning to. When I tried to force it, I lost it. When I stopped looking for it, I lost it too.
I stayed there long enough for my arm to grow tired again.
Then I felt warmth between my fingers.
I lifted my hand quickly.
The warmth vanished.
— Thomas.
He looked over.
I tried again.
Nothing.
The embarrassment was worse because I'd called him.
He waited a moment, then leaned his back against the wall again.
— You don't have to do it now just because I'm watching.
I lowered my hand.
I sat down and drank some water. My mouth was dry, and a pain was beginning behind my eyes. I didn't know how much came from the effort and how much came from holding my breath.
Thomas put the tool away without me asking.
We listened to the fire.
When Edwin returned, I heard him before I saw him. I opened the door and he came in carrying the container.
There were three small fish.
— Mara accepted the wood, — he said. — Harl was with her. I met them both.
He set the load on the table and explained the trade. The bundle he'd taken had stayed with the fishermen. They'd asked whether he worked with us, and he'd confirmed it. He hadn't promised another delivery.
The fish really were small. I looked at the amount, then at Edwin.
— Thank you.
He nodded and went to wash his hands.
When he returned, he moved his thumb carefully.
The scrape he'd gotten carrying the wood had opened again. A thin line of blood showed near the edge.
I watched him for too long.
Edwin noticed.
— Caught it on the binding, — he explained.
He brought water and the cloth. He cleaned his hand and held the fabric over the cut for a moment.
I looked at Thomas.
Then I told Edwin what I'd tried to do.
He listened and moved the cloth aside to examine the small wound.
— Want to try here?
My stomach tightened.
Now there were two people waiting for something from me.
— If you don't mind. But I don't know if it'll work.
Edwin rested his hand on the table.
I sat across from him.
I didn't place my fingers inside the cut. I held the side of his hand, looking for a position that wouldn't pull at the damaged skin.
The image of Holy Light was there when I searched for it again.
I remembered a health bar, and the memory seemed useless. Edwin had come back along the path carrying food. The skin around his fingers was rough, there was an old mark on his nail, and there was a scrape I'd watched happen gradually, first during the work, then opened again by the rope.
This was the hand I was holding.
I breathed slowly.
I searched again for that resistance, unable to explain to myself what I was trying to move.
The warmth came.
This time I didn't lift my hand to look.
A pale glow appeared between my fingers and his skin.
Thomas leaned forward on the bench.
I couldn't speak.
The light trembled. It didn't illuminate the entire room. It touched only part of Edwin's hand and the edge of my sleeve.
I felt something give way inside the effort.
The line of blood stopped growing.
There was still a section of the scrape where I could see the opening. As I watched, that section narrowed.
It didn't disappear completely. A red, tender line remained, with part of the injury still visible.
The light went out.
I let out a breath as if I'd just run up the slope.
The edge of the table blurred for a moment. I planted both feet on the floor and gripped the bench.
Edwin slowly pulled his hand back.
Thomas brought the water closer to me.
— Wait, — he said.
I was trying to find the symbol again.
I stopped.
Edwin examined the cut, opened his fingers, then closed them again without forcing them.
— It burns less.
I looked closely.
I couldn't know everything that had happened beneath the skin. But I'd seen the light. I'd seen the opening shrink while I held his hand.
It wasn't something I could blame on a night's rest or a clean cloth.
I felt like laughing and crying at the same time.
— I did it.
I said it so quietly that I don't know if either of them heard.
Thomas was looking at my fingers.
He didn't ask me to try it on his shoulder.
That made me want to stand and try immediately.
When I leaned toward him, the pain behind my eyes worsened.
I stayed seated.
Edwin pulled the container of fish toward himself.
— I'll take care of this.
Thomas showed him where everything was.
I remained at the table while the two of them prepared the meal. The smell reached me before the dizziness had completely passed. I drank water, waited, and only stood when the house stopped seeming tilted at the first movement.
My first healing had been smaller than a mark I could have made with charcoal on a splinter.
Even so, I couldn't stop looking at Edwin's hand.
During the meal, Thomas asked whether the System showed anything else.
— I didn't really look afterward.
— Look when you're feeling better.
I nodded.
I wanted to know what I'd done, how many times I could repeat it, why I'd found it inside myself. The questions piled up. For once, they weren't all about what I didn't have.
No new level appeared.
When I checked the resources, the gold was still one hundred fifty point sixty-eight. The wood was still one hundred thirty.
That didn't mean the effort had cost me nothing. The pain in my head was still there.
I let the numbers disappear.
That afternoon, I didn't try again.
Thomas rested, Edwin took care of the water, and I stayed with small tasks around the house. Every now and then, I opened my hand and searched for some trace of the light.
There was none.
Before dark, I asked to see Edwin's scrape once more. He showed me. The red line was still there. I didn't declare it healed, nor did I ask him to work as though the wound had never existed.
Then I sat down with the charcoal.
I wrote the name of the ability as it appeared to me. Beneath it, I recorded what I could say for certain: visible light, part of the cut closed, exhaustion and a headache afterward.
I didn't write that I could heal Thomas's shoulder.
I looked at him, asleep against the wall, his arm supported.
I left a blank line for when I had something real to put there.