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I approach his bed with measured footsteps, starting to feel like a fool for coming here. He’s tired. He’s sick. I’m probably the last person he wants to see.
But you may be able to help. With some small magic.
“What are you doing here?” he asks gently.
Ignoring the way my stomach squeezes, I force myself to speak, a smile on my face. “I wanted to help you, if that’s okay with you.”
He stares at me, a hint of distrust in his eyes. I let him consider me, noting how miserable he looks. I can see the pain he’s experiencing in his eyes, the strain his body is going through. I wonder if it makes his choice easier.
“Yes, that’s okay,” he finally tells me. “If you really think you can help.”
Helping wouldn’t be hard for my magic. Healing would be. “I think I can.”
I kneel down at his bedside, my gaze running over him. What does he need the most? He’s shivering, probably because he’s all skin and bones. His body is running out of what it needs to live. I wonder if breaking this curse on the water will heal him completely or if he’s too far gone.
No, he’s important to the princes. He’s a good man. I can’t think that way.
It takes a second for me to clear my throat. “I’m no healer, but I think I can at least make you feel more comfortable.”
There’s a towel by his bed soaking in lukewarm water. I squeeze it out, so it doesn’t drip on him, wondering if the water’s curse affects touch or just consumption. It doesn’t matter. They need water to live. The focus needs to be on fixing it.
Closing my eyes, I take even breaths, clutching the towel. I might be a loser, but even I can do this spell. “Warm,” I say.
In my hands, the towel warms to the perfect temperature. It’s hard not to smile, knowing the spell went well. I place the towel gently on his forehead, and he makes a little happy sound. I watch his body visibly relax, the tension in his neck and shoulders seeming to melt away.
“How’s that?”
He takes a second to answer, his raspy breath loud. “Really nice.”
Good. But what else can I do?
He’s so thin. There’s a tray of food beside him, completely untouched. I remember my father when he got close to the end. No matter what they did, no matter what they offered him, he wouldn’t eat. His will to keep going simply wasn’t there.
I see a small stone sitting on his nightstand. I take it and close my eyes again. “Hunger,” I whisper, pushing power into the word. I feel it, my magic deep inside of me, sitting up and responding, and the feeling is nice.
As I open my eyes, I take the stone and put it in his hand.
His eyes open wide. “I’m hungry! I’m… actually hungry!” he exclaims and immediately turns to the tray of food beside him, picking small pieces of meat and eating them slowly. “I can’t believe this. I haven’t been hungry in longer than I can remember.”
He smiles at me as he grabs a piece of fruit and eats it hungrily. I nod and smile back. I’m happy to be of service and to be using my magic to actually help someone. And even more happy that he isn’t so far gone that the magic doesn’t work. I remember that point with my father.
“When you get cold, you can just use this towel. It’ll warm you up just like it is right now. And when you know you should eat, hold the stone, and it’ll make you hungry. They’re little spells, but they can help a lot,” I explain.
He stares at me in awe, occasionally wincing in pain from the small movements he’s making to eat. I study him, and suddenly I can hear my father screaming near the end, the spells to dull his pain no longer even taking the edge off.
I lay my hands on his blanket. “No pain,” I say, emphasizing the words, feeling my magic come alive.
A sigh of relief escapes his mouth, and he closes his eyes.
Most people will never know what it feels like to be in inescapable pain. I wish he didn’t know either. It’s a heavy burden to bear.
“As long as you have this blanket, you shouldn’t be in pain.” I tell him, satisfied to have been able to bring him some relief.
When he opens his eyes again, he directs them at me, piercing me with his stare. “How did you know exactly what I needed?” His voice has an edge of wonder that I don’t deserve.
I smile at him, even though the smile is forced, as my memories haunt me. “My dad died from an illness. It was a long time ago, but I’ll never forget.”
He looks surprised. “Really? Witches get sick?”
