Wounds Becoming Scars

I shut the door behind me, Jen’s excitement still lingering in the room. It is mid-afternoon, and she has just left for her date with Alex, the warlock. I still do not know what he looks like, though she had certainly tried to paint a picture. "Classic tall, dark and handsome," she had said, practically vibrating beside her wardrobe. "Dry sense of humour. Very good hands." "Hands?" "Artist hands." "That did not clarify as much as you think." She had only grinned. Now the room feels oddly quiet without her. I open my laptop and sigh. Why did I say all swaps had to go through me? This is insanity. Because they are single patrols now, Astraea says. It matters who the swap is with. You cannot have three omegas out there with no counterbalance. I stare at the highlighted request on my screen. That beta needs to find another beta or an alpha, she continues. Otherwise it leaves two weaker wolves covering the other sectors. True. If anything goes wrong, it falls on me. It falls on the system, Astraea corrects. You are maintaining the system. That is probably meant to make me feel better. It does not. I arrange my screen with my emails open on one side and the e-rota on the other. It takes an hour to work through the requests. By the end of it, my shoulders ache, my eyes feel dry, and I have developed a deep personal grudge against anyone who writes "quick swap?" without offering an actual solution. I need to get out of the room. My gaze drifts to the film camera resting at the end of my desk. This is as good a time as any to start exploring ideas for my project. I still have not settled on a theme, while plenty of others already have. Freedom would be easy enough to find on campus. Light too, if I wanted to chase it through windows, water, trees and old stone. But balance keeps returning to me. Weight and correction. Control and trust. The exact point before something tips too far. I pick up the camera before I can think better of it. I have not spent much time in the botanical garden, but it is made for photography. It houses plants that would never normally grow in this country, or even in this realm, all kept alive by the faerie who lives here. Sen. I have spoken to her a few times. She can read auras, and she is empathic, which means she often seems to see too much. Hopefully, she will not be here today. A couple of students are leaving as I step inside. Even on a weekend, it is simply a nice place to be. Afternoon sunlight pours through the vast domed roof, warming the air until the colours seem brighter and the scents richer. I smile faintly. There is something about this place that makes me feel lighter. Almost careless. I study the angle of the light, then lift the camera. Digital cameras did most of the work now, but film required more thought. Light, timing, exposure. Just enough to reveal the subject without losing its edges. I adjust the settings as one of the large Fae blooms tilts towards the sun, as though drinking it in. In the viewfinder, I frame it carefully: stem drawing the eye upwards, petals curled back, sunlight catching the stamen. That fits light and freedom, Astraea observes. I press the shutter, holding myself as still as possible. Lycans have excellent balance, so taking a blurry photograph would be humiliating. Landry would laugh at me. Would he? Astraea asks. The other day, he was wary because you were wary. He knew you were bracing for him. As I should. As you did, she corrects gently. "Wounds are becoming scars." The voice makes me jump, and I am suddenly grateful for the strap holding the school camera around my neck. I turn to find the caretaker of the garden standing nearby in a flowing mint-green dress. With her long white hair and luminous complexion, she looks almost angelic. Sen. One of the few faeries left on earth, and entirely in a league of her own. With her here, the strange peace of the garden deepens, as though it begins with her and moves outwards. "Excuse me," she says softly. "I did not mean to startle you. Lycans are usually more aware of what is around them." "I was thinking," I mutter. "I know." Her smile is small but knowing. "You are healing from your past." I draw in a slow breath. It is not often anyone refers to it so plainly. Most people know better than to touch it directly. But I do not mind it from her. Somehow, speaking to Sen always feels a little like therapy, except with more plants and less opportunity to lie. "It is Sen, isn’t it?" I ask, a little apologetically. She nods once. "Some wounds take longer than others," she says quietly, her gaze drifting to the side of my chest. As though summoned by the look alone, a dull ache stirs beneath my ribs. I take another breath. "Maybe once I leave this place," I say, stepping back and lifting the camera towards another cluster of unusual blooms. "Distance does not heal everything," Sen replies. "Not truly." "An apology is never coming." The words leave me too plainly. Sen’s expression softens, though there is something knowing in it too. "I would not be so sure." Then she drifts away without another word, leaving me with the camera, the flowers, and the uncomfortable possibility that she knows something I do not. I spend almost two hours in the garden before the light fades too much to keep shooting. It is still early for dinner, and Jen has not come back yet. I change into gym gear better suited to weights than running, then head for the school gym. It is enormous, far larger than any normal school gym would ever need to be. Then again, normal school gyms are not built for Lycans. There is rarely a time of day when you will not find at least a couple of us in here, and at this hour, you could throw a towel and hit one. Unfortunately, it is busier than I would like. Being a female gamma in a room full of stronger wolves can still feel competitive, even when no one says anything aloud. Luckily, over the years, enough of the regulars have come to respect my persistence. Or at least my refusal to leave. "Lyra! How are you doing?" I glance over and find Mr Woodward, Exton’s head of physical education, supervising a small group of juniors near the free weights. He is not just a teacher, though. During the summer months, he is heavily involved with the Supernatural Olympics, rumoured to be returning next year after last year’s hiatus. He is a kind man. When I was younger, and much smaller, he had stepped in for me more than once in this room. The fact I had blended early had not escaped his notice, and eventually I had told him why. Most Lycans blended in their early teens. Girls usually around thirteen, boys closer to fourteen. Nine was unusual. Not unheard of. But unusual. Almost always, it meant trauma. The Goddess sending a wolf early because the child needed them more than they should have. That was how Astraea came to me. Strength when I had none. A force that kept me moving forwards when stopping might have swallowed me whole. Gratitude stirs unexpectedly in my chest. Mr Woodward’s kindness still catches me off guard sometimes. I push the feeling aside and smile. "I’m good," I say honestly. "The headmaster made me patrol lead." He nods at once, pleased. "I heard. It was a good choice," he says, though his eyes shift for a fraction of a second, as if he is thinking about the nephew who missed out. It is still hard to believe this kind, encouraging man is related to someone like Landry. "I’ve got time on Tuesdays and Thursdays," he adds. "If you need help setting up before lunchtime combat, just say. I reckon you’ve looked at that apparatus more than once this week." He is not wrong. I have looked. Repeatedly. With interest, longing, and the faint frustration of someone without enough hands or authority to move half of it safely. "I’ll hold you to that," I say, smiling. "Good. You should." I head towards the resistance machines, still faintly unsettled by the offer. Sometimes I have to remind myself that people can simply be kind. That not everything comes with a price attached. Towards the end of my workout, I spot Owen at the bench press. Local beta attraction at two o’clock, Astraea observes. I am allowed to notice objectively attractive people, I reply. Owen sits up, dragging the hem of his tank over his face before reaching for his water bottle. He is attractive. Obviously. Broad shoulders, easy smile, steady sort of confidence. The kind of boy half the school probably noticed without needing to have a full internal meeting about it. I, naturally, am having one anyway. He catches me looking, but thankfully he just smiles instead of making it awkward. "Is this what you do for fun?" he asks, wandering over as I set down a heavy kettlebell. "Apparently," I mutter, still a little breathless. "Forty?" he asks, glancing at the kettlebell. "I’m building back up," I reply, a touch defensively. "That was not criticism." His grin widens. "That was concern for the floor." "Try telling the kettlebell. It seems unconvinced." He laughs, then nods towards the weight. "I can see why you get under his skin." I frown. "Whose?" "Josh’s." The satisfaction is immediate, which is probably unwise. "Good," I say. "I’m glad something does." By the time I get back to the room after dinner, Jen is still nowhere to be seen. I shower, change into an old T-shirt and soft joggers, then curl up on my bed with my laptop. I tell myself I am going to look over the patrol rota again, or maybe make notes on my photography project. Instead, I end up half-watching some mindless programme with the volume low, my thoughts drifting in and out. The room is dark apart from my bedside lamp when the door suddenly swings open. Jen slips inside with a grin so bright it could probably be seen from space. I look up slowly. "Well," I say, shutting my laptop. "That looks promising." She presses her back to the door like she needs it to hold her up, one hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. "Oh my God." I blink at her. "That good?" Her hand drops, and she lets out a breathless laugh before kicking off her shoes and hurrying further into the room. “Lyra,” she says, like my name alone cannot possibly carry the weight of what she needs to tell me. “It was so good.” I smile despite myself and shift upright, folding my legs beneath me. “Go on then.” She does not need telling twice. “He was funny, but not in an annoying way. Properly funny. And he listened — like, actually listened — and he remembered things I said ages ago, which should not be as attractive as it is, but apparently it is. And he looked really hot tonight. I know I said that already, but in normal clothes rather than uniform? Honestly unfair.” I laugh softly. “So, your impossible warlock turns out to be real.” “Very real,” she says, dropping onto her bed with a dramatic flop. “And just… I don’t know. Easy. I felt so relaxed with him. Like I did not have to think too hard about anything.” It is not the excitement that makes me look properly. It is the wonder beneath it. “And?” I ask, because there is clearly more. Jen rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, smiling to herself like she is replaying it. “He walked me back from his car,” she says. “And we stood outside for about five minutes pretending we were both just saying goodbye, when obviously neither of us wanted to go in yet. But… curfew was calling.” I smile. "That sounds a touch painful." "It was a little bit," she admits, laughing. "But then he kissed me." Silence falls. I tilt my head. "And?" Her eyes slide to mine, and her whole expression softens into something more vulnerable. "It was..." She exhales, smiling helplessly. "It was amazing." Something in my chest gives a small, strange pull. Jen sits up a little, tucking one leg beneath her. "I know that sounds dramatic, but I do not care. It was not just nice. It was..." She searches for the words, one hand pressing lightly to the centre of her chest. "I felt awake. Like every nerve ending had decided to start doing its job all at once. I do not know how else to explain it. I just felt so alive." I do not say anything straight away. I just watch her. She looks different somehow. Not literally. Still Jen, still glowing, still beautiful in that effortless way she always is. But there is something warmer in her now. Something opened. "And you liked him before today?" I ask quietly. "Yes," she says at once. "But now..." She bites her lip, smiling again. "Now I really, really do." I let out a small breath through my nose and close my laptop. "That’s great," I say, and I mean it. Jen studies me for a moment. "What is it?" "Nothing." I look back up at her. "I’m just glad you had a great time." "It was more than great." She narrows her eyes slightly. "But why are you looking at me like that?" "Like what?" "Like you’re trying to solve me." I huff a quiet laugh. "I’m not." She points at me. "You are." "Fine, but I’m not trying to solve anything. I just..." Jen grins, though her expression softens a second later. "You’ve never had that, have you?" The question is gentle, but I still feel it. I look away for a second. "No," I say simply. Jen is quiet for once, and in the silence, I become a little too aware of the ache her happiness has uncovered. It is not jealousy. Nothing as ugly as that. Just curiosity. The echo of some quiet, buried want I had not realised was close enough to reach. The idea of somebody looking at me like that. Wanting to stay. Wanting to kiss me because they cannot quite bear not to. To feel lit from the inside, the way Jen does right now. To feel alive. I swallow and force a small smile. "Well," I say, lighter now, "I’m glad you’re having a romantic final year." Jen smiles, but she does not let me escape entirely. "You could too, you know." I huff. "I would rather wrestle a wet badger." "Oddly specific." "Emotionally accurate." "Naturally." She reaches for her pyjamas, still glowing softly with the memory of her evening, and I turn back towards my laptop as though there is anything on the screen worth looking at. There is not. For a while, neither of us says anything. Jen hums quietly to herself as she gets ready for bed. I sit in the lamplight, thinking about wanting to stay. About being wanted enough that leaving feels difficult. And, annoyingly, about the fact that I have absolutely no idea what that would feel like.