“But I already told him you would.” Mirelle’s voice is patient.
“Oh Mother Earth. You’re so bad.” I scowl at her. “You had no right.” Still, part of me comes alive. I remember how amazing it felt to help Mirelle. Could I do it again? For another being?
“I’m sorry.” She cocks her head. “But it’s important. And you did say you wanted to be more warrior-ish, right? This is helping fighters. He’s waiting over there.”
She gestures past our little lunch grove, and I see him—a tall, handsome warrior, waiting under a tree, his body language tense. Like he’s waiting for something bad.
“Fine, but, Mirelle, you owe me.”
“Okay.” She takes another bite of her apple and sets it down. “Can we go now? I told him you’d do it really quickly.”
“Oh Mother Earth. You owe me more than one thing. Like seven things.”
“That’s fair. We can leave our stuff and come back.” She waves at our food.
From a distance, this young male looks as upset as I feel.
As we approach, he looks up and the expression on his face, of such anticipation and hope, makes me forget my anxiety. All I know is that I want to help him.
“Greetings.” He raises his fist at a 90 degree angle, as is tra
ditional for Zandians who are meeting for the first time. “I am Sparr. Mirelle”—he nods at her—“says you may be able to help me with an… issue.” He swallows. I can tell that his Zandian pride makes this difficult for him. They don’t like to ask for help.
“I don’t know if I can.” I take a breath. “But I can try.”
“She’ll do the thing,” promises Mirelle, and touches his arm.
He frowns. “I am not accustomed to close contact in such an intimate way. Mirelle explained that you need to hold my hands.”
“I understand.” I nod. What I did with Mirelle was definitely intimate, in a way that Zandians don’t usually engage. “Perhaps you can sit further back. You do not need to hold my hands. Just listen to my voice and practice the breathing I will teach you.”
“That will be acceptable.” His voice is stiff. He looks around, as if checking for privacy.
“We can go to the fight dome.” Mirelle points. “It’s close and will be empty at this hour.”
As we walk, I try to sync myself to this being’s essence. He’s nervous, but strong. Young, yet not headstrong; I can see it in the way he walks and holds himself. He’s actually reticent, I think—not just with his words, but his actions. Like he doesn’t trust himself yet.
Like Mirelle, he learns the breathing techniques quickly. Unlike her, though, he does not want to close his eyes and relax.
“I keep my eyes open.” He fixes them on me, his shoulders tight. “I need to be alert at all times.”
“I understand.” I glance around. “Perhaps Mirelle can keep guard while you relax.”
He considers this. Frowns. “I am not sure.”
“It’s all right.” Mirelle goes to the door. “Trust me, Sparr.”
He hesitates, then nods. “All right.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, tightly. “Now what?”
“Now we just breathe.”
As we sit there, at first I only feel broken energy. But slowly, as I talk, I sense that my voice is relaxing him, because the current between the two of us starts to hum. Not aloud, of course, but in my imagination. I can see it in my mind, strands of glowing blue and yellow light connecting our chests..
“Relax and focus on the Zandian star.” My voice is soft like honey. “All you see is the star.”
His eyes flutter and relax. Finally he’s sitting there without all of his muscles clenched.