“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?
Turning his head to look at his bandaged shoulder, his limp arm, his lifeless fingers that wouldn’t move no matter how hard he strained, he thought about Artimé and his beloved people, and what it was that they needed most.
He knew the answer without having to think at all.
? ? ? ?
Sometime after midnight, Aaron awoke to the message. Quickly he dressed and went down to the hospital ward, and found his brother awake. He sat down beside Alex’s bed. “I heard what happened,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“Not really,” said Alex.
“I’m sorry.”
Alex couldn’t answer.
They sat together in silence for a while, and then Aaron pulled the rolled-up robe from inside his vest. He looked at it for a long moment, then held it out to Alex. “Maybe this will cheer you up,” he said, ignoring the pang in his chest. “Me handing this back to you means you’re alive. That was the goal, wasn’t it? You defied the odds.” He smiled gently. “I’ll bring the Triad spells book to you in a bit. Or I can put it on your desk if that would be easier for you.”
Alex looked at his brother and didn’t take the robe. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re it.”
Aaron frowned. “I’m . . . what?”
“You’re the mage of Artimé. And you’re staying that way. I need you to keep the robe. I . . .” Alex’s voice faltered. “I can’t be what Artimé needs me to be anymore.”
Aaron stared, shocked by the resolution in his brother’s voice. His eyes widened. “That’s ridiculous.” He shook the robe at his brother halfheartedly.
“No,” said Alex. “I mean it.”