Island of Dragons (Unwanteds #7)(89)

Sky smiled. “I love you, too.”

They kissed again. And then everything went black and Alex slumped to the floor.





Facing the Truth


When Alex awoke a short time later, he couldn’t focus on the face above him. Everything was fuzzy. He closed his eyes and groaned, and then opened them and tried again.

“Who’s there? Henry?” he whispered. His mouth was parched, and it tasted like stale seawater.

“Hey,” said Henry. “How do you feel?”

Alex concentrated on the question. He wasn’t sure how he felt. After a while he remembered he hadn’t answered yet. “Not great,” he said.

“The medicine will be working soon,” Henry promised.

Alex closed his eyes again and fell into a black cavern of sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, Henry’s face was easier to recognize. Sky was there too, looking terribly concerned.

Alex tried to sit up, but his left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and his arm wouldn’t move.

Henry stopped him from trying. “Just stay still for a bit. How do you feel now?”

Alex blinked. “I feel okay,” he said, sinking back into the pillows. “Better.”

“Good,” said Henry. A shadow crossed his face, and he glanced at Sky, then back at Alex. “I have some bad news.”

Alex stared, still a bit dazed. “What is it?”

“Your shoulder was injured badly. Severely.” Henry spoke in a soft, firm voice. “We were able to patch you up and stop the bleeding, but I’m afraid . . . ” Henry swallowed hard and continued. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to use that arm or hand anymore. I’m sorry, Alex.”

Alex let the words sink in. He shook his head slightly, trying to comprehend. “You mean just for a while, right? Until it heals?”

Henry pressed his lips together. “I mean forever. It’s damaged beyond repair.”

A breath escaped Alex’s lungs as his whole body went numb. “Forever?”

Henry nodded. “I’m so sorry.”

Sky put her hand on Alex’s good arm and massaged it, her face awash with emotion.

Alex hardly noticed. He stared at Henry in disbelief. And then, a little at a time, he began to realize the devastating consequences of the prognosis.

“But . . . ,” he whispered, “that’s my drawing hand. My spell-casting hand.”

“There’s a chance you might regain a tiny bit of movement once the swelling goes down,” said Henry, “but it won’t be much.”

Alex was quiet for a moment. “I do everything with this arm. It’s . . . it’s . . . Don’t you see? It’s what this arm can do that makes me the person I am! How can this be happening?” He struggled to move it, trying to prove Henry wrong. But as much as he could feel himself putting forth the effort, his arm wouldn’t budge, not even a tiny bit. Not even a tremor.

“You’re wrong, Alex,” said Sky. ‘Your arm doesn’t define you. This doesn’t change who you are.”

Alex closed his eyes. He didn’t have the strength to argue. Sky had no idea what this meant to him. What if he could never draw or paint again? How could he ever fight again? His lashes grew thick, and silent tears escaped. After a minute, he asked, “Does Aaron know?”

“Not yet,” said Sky.

Alex opened his eyes. “Where is he?”

“He’s still sleeping—it’s not midnight yet. I’ll wake him up if you want.”

“No,” said Alex. “Send a note to his blackboard. That way he’ll see it when he wakes up.” He turned his head listlessly. “Tell him everything . . . that way I don’t have to.”

Sky glanced at Henry, and they both stood up. “Of course,” said Sky, leaning over and kissing a tear on his cheek. “I’ll do it now.”

“Thanks.” He squeezed her hand. “Get some sleep.” Alex closed his eyes again, dismissing them. He needed to be alone to absorb the news. Without waiting for sleep, he dove headfirst into his worst nightmare.

He’d never considered how much he depended on his left arm. And now he couldn’t help but think he’d lost a giant piece of his identity. His creativity, once unlimited, was practically shut down. He thought of the 3-D drawing of the young dragon that had popped up out of his notebook, and realized he’d never be able to do anything like that again. It tore him up inside.

He thought about spell casting. With his left hand, he was a near-guaranteed shot. Sure, he could cast spells with his right hand in a pinch, but he could never count on them to be perfectly accurate. And he’d never tried drawing with his right hand. Alex pictured himself in the future, once the bandages were gone. He’d wander about the mansion feeling useless, unable to work on his art. Not even able to create precise spell components with only one hand to shape them. If Artimé was ever attacked again, he’d have to opt out of fighting and sentence himself to spending the duration of the war in the lounge. It sounded horrible. His stomach churned thinking about it. Everything had become utterly foreign in an instant.

He thought of Sky, and how he’d never be able to wrap both arms around her again, and a sob welled up in his throat. People would have to help him do everything. He wouldn’t even be able to put his own mage robe on by himself. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. What kind of head mage would he be if he couldn’t even fasten his own robe?