Blood Bond

Trees blurred past, the scent of pine and damp earth sharp in my nostrils. My legs pumped, strong and sure, eating up the trail—the familiar woods behind Northwood High. This was it—the final stretch of the Regional Qualifiers, my first real chance at a win.

Focus. Lungs, legs, rhythm. Each breath pulled deep, each footfall precise. The stitch in my side from miles back had faded, replaced by the clean burn of pure exertion. I was flying, weightless, everything dialed in—the terrain, the pace, the next step, the one after that. Just the path ahead, the world falling away behind.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a powerful, driving beat keeping time with my stride. Ahead, the trees opened up. The finish line banner stretched between two oaks, bright against the green. And they were there. All of them. Mom, somehow, not looking tired, her face split by a proud grin. Maya bouncing, waving frantically. Sam, hood down for once, actually yelling encouragement alongside a beaming Chloe. Even Naomi stood near them, her dark eyes shining.

Their cheers reached me, a wave of sound washing over the pounding in my ears. I pushed harder, lengthening my stride, reaching for that finish line, reaching for them.

My foot came down, splashing.

Not dirt. Not grass. Blood. Thick, warm, and clinging. I stumbled, looked down in horror. The ground beneath me wasn't solid earth anymore, but a deep, churning morass of dark crimson. With my next step, my leg sank, pulled down into the murky depths. Panic seized me. I tried to pull free, but the blood clung like mud, sucking me down. It was up to my waist now, cold and terrifyingly familiar.

I saw their faces—Mom, Maya, Sam, Chloe, Naomi—still cheering, oblivious, on the solid ground just beyond reach. I stretched out a hand, desperate, trying to reach them, trying to pull myself out of the suffocating mire as the blood closed over my head.

"Help..."

A weathered hand clutched mine, tight, desperate.

"Leo! Honey, I'm right here! It's okay, you're okay!"

Mom's voice, sharp with alarm, cut through the lingering tendrils of the nightmare. Another hand was on my forehead, cool against my skin.

My eyes snapped open. The sterile white ceiling tiles swam into blurry focus above me. That smell—sharp, stinging antiseptic—filled my nostrils, erasing the phantom scent of pine and damp earth. The rhythmic, indifferent BEEP... BEEP... BEEP beside the bed.

"Just a bad dream, Leo," she murmured, her voice trembling even as she tried to sound soothing. "You're safe."

I blinked, fumbling instinctively for the glasses I knew should be on the side table... yes, there. Sliding them on, the room sharpened: IV pole, dripping bag, the tube taped securely to my lanky arm.

Safe? Maybe. But I was back. Back in the hospital bed. Back in Leo's body. The relief was immediate, potent, yet instantly followed by a cold wave of guilt and fear.

What happened after I collapsed? The last image burned behind my eyelids: Kael, standing amidst the carnage, sword gripped tightly, his face a mask of pale horror. He had seen me as a monster.

Had he… killed me?

The thought sent a jolt of ice through my veins. What happens if I was dead on the other side? How am I suppose to save Mother and Father, Theron… and Astrid.

"Leo? Honey, you okay? You're trembling." Mom's voice pulled me back. Her hand was still cool on my forehead, her brow furrowed with worry lines that hadn't been there... before.

I forced my eyes to focus on her, pushing down the swirling chaos of Aetheria. "Yeah, Mom," I managed, my voice raspy. "Yeah, just... cold. Still feel weird from the dream."

She fussed with the thin hospital blanket, pulling it higher around my shoulders, her touch gentle but her gaze still sharp with concern. I had to focus. I was Leo now. Sick, yes, but home. I had to push the other world away, just for a little while. But the fear for and of myself – for the me left behind in that clearing – the sight of all those desiccated bodies and the echo of Kael's accusing eyes, lingered.

The rest of the morning crawled by in a haze of dull aches, beeping monitors, and the lingering chill of what I had done. Mom tried to distract me, talking about neighbours bringing food, asking if I wanted to watch something on the small, wall-mounted TV, but my mind kept drifting back to the clearing, to Kael's horrified eyes.

It must have been afternoon when a hesitant knock came at the door. Mom opened it, and Maya peeked in. She wasn't clutching her fantasy novel today; instead, she held a crumpled drawing. Mom intercepted her just inside the door with a pump of hand sanitizer.

"Wash up extra good, sweetie." Mom guided her to the small sink in the corner.

Maya scrubbed dutifully, then approached the bed. Her usual bouncy energy was still subdued, but the sheer terror from her first visit seemed to have lessened, replaced by a determined sort of brightness.

"Hey," she said, stopping a few feet away, holding up the drawing. It was a colorful, if a little lopsided, depiction of what looked like a dragon battling a knight. "Made you something."

I managed a small smile. "Thanks, Maya. Looks intense."

"Yeah, well," she shifted her weight, "thought you might be bored." She took another step closer, her eyes scanning the IV pole and the monitor with less apprehension than before, more curiosity. "So... how're you feeling? Really?"

"Okay," I lied, then amended. "Tired. Still kinda weird."

"Weird like how?"

"Just... weird." I didn't have the energy, or the words, to even begin explaining.

Maya seemed to accept this. She pulled the uncomfortable plastic visitor's chair closer. "Well, middle school is... loud," she offered, wrinkling her nose. "This girl Jessica in my homeroom already cried because some boy said she looked funny. And Mr. Davidson, my science teacher? He has this super weird laugh, like a donkey." She demonstrated, letting out a soft "hee-haw" sound before giggling.

Normally, I'd laugh along, maybe ask more questions. But today, the stories felt… small. Inconsequential. My other world, filled with literal life-and-death struggles, political coups, and monstrous magic, felt more real, more urgent than rude boys and weird laughs.

I listened, nodding occasionally, trying to appear engaged, but part of me felt miles away, trapped between the sterile white walls of the hospital room and a blood-soaked clearing in another world. Maya must have sensed my distraction, because her chatter eventually slowed.

"You okay?" she asked again, her voice softer, the earlier brightness dimmed by concern. "You seem... far away."

"Just tired," I repeated, meeting her worried blue eyes. "It's... a lot."

She reached out hesitantly and patted my hand resting on the thin blanket. "Well," she said, attempting a reassuring smile, "Mom says the doctors are gonna fix you up. Right?"

Her simple faith was almost painful. "Yeah, Maya," I said, forcing a corresponding smile. "Yeah, they are."

—

Later, after a dinner I barely touched despite Mom's coaxing, Dr. Sharma returned. Mom, who had been reading quietly in the chair, sat up straighter, her expression instantly tense. He held a tablet, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through something.

"Evening, Leonard, Dolores," he greeted us, his professional calm tinged with something else – curiosity? Confusion? "I have some initial follow-up results from your blood work after the first chemotherapy infusion."

Mom leaned forward, clutching the arms of the chair. "Is it... is it working?"

Dr. Sharma looked up from the tablet, meeting my eyes first, then Mom's. "Well, that's the... unusual part. Leonard, your blood counts are, frankly, quite perplexing."

He turned the tablet so we could see graphs with steep lines. "Normally, after induction chemo, we expect a significant drop in all blood cell counts – white cells, red cells, platelets – as the drugs target rapidly dividing cells, both cancerous and healthy precursors in the marrow. It's a sign the chemo is doing its job, albeit with side effects."

He tapped the screen. "Your counts did drop initially, as expected. But in the hours since... particularly your red blood cells and even some subtypes of your white cells... they've rebounded. Significantly. Much, much faster than we would anticipate."

A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the monitor's steady beep.

"What... what does that mean?" Mom asked, her voice tight.

"Honestly? We're not entirely sure yet," Dr. Sharma admitted, frowning at the screen again. "It could indicate several things. An unusual individual reaction... possibly some form of resistance in your cells to this specific drug cocktail, though that typically manifests differently... or perhaps an anomaly in the initial baseline counts. We'll need to run more comprehensive panels, of course." He looked back at me, a searching look in his eyes. "How have you been feeling, Leonard? Aside from the expected fatigue?"

As he spoke, I reflected on the fact, I felt full, like I had after draining those mercenaries. But that was in my other body, in Aetheria. How could what I did there affect here? Are we connected in this way as well? My eyes drifted over to the IV bag hanging off the pole, still dripping in. Goosebumps ran up my back. Could the source of the hunger be the chemo?

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Just… tired," I stumbled for words and ended up echoing my earlier conversation with Maya. "And my back still hurts a bit." I kept my eyes down, avoiding the doctor's probing gaze. How could I possibly explain this? The truth? They'd think I was insane. I was not quite sure that I wasn't.

"Hmm," Dr. Sharma murmured noncommittally. "Well, we'll keep a very close eye on things. Monitor your counts frequently. For now, rest is best." He gave Mom a brief, sympathetic nod before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the questions and the unnatural results hanging heavy in the air.

—

Later that evening, Mom brought over her laptop.

"Thought you might want to try calling Naomi? Maybe it'll cheer you up." She offered a small, hopeful smile.

My stomach twisted with a confusing mix of longing and dread. I hadn't expected her to visit again so soon after yesterday, especially given her own family's struggles with this place. But the thought of talking to her, even through a screen... "Okay," I agreed quietly.

Mom helped position the laptop on the rolling bedside table. Setting up the video call felt almost automatic, my fingers finding the familiar keys easily as Mom tactfully found something to organize across the room, giving me space. Naomi's face appeared on the screen, initially pixelated then sharpening. She wasn't wearing a mask now, sitting in what looked like her bedroom, posters visible on the wall behind her. Seeing her properly, even virtually, made my breath catch.

"Hey," she smiled, her dark eyes warm, though laced with concern. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay," I managed, the word feeling inadequate. "Tired."

"Yeah, I bet." She fiddled with a strand of her long, dark hair. "So, guess what happened in Bio today? Ms. Evans actually let Kyle partner with Chloe for the cell division lab. Total disaster. I think Kyle somehow managed to stain his slide with Cheeto dust."

She laughed, a light, distinctly her sound from another lifetime. I tried to smile back. "Sounds about right."

"And Sam..." she continued, launching into another anecdote about school, trying to bridge the distance, to pull me back into the normal rhythm of their lives.

But my mind wouldn't engage. The image of the doctor's confusing graphs kept flashing behind my eyes. The feeling of this fullness. The connection between worlds. Is this all from stolen essence?

"...so anyway, that's why Sam owes Chloe twenty bucks," Naomi finished, then paused, her smile fading as she must have seen the distraction on my face. "Leo? Are you really okay?"

I took a breath, deciding to steer towards something tangible, something we could analyze. "Naomi... remember how we were talking about epigenetics? How environmental factors can influence gene expression?"

She blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. "Uh, yeah? From Dr. Jensen's article? Why?"

"It's just... the doctor got my blood tests back after the first chemo dose." I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "They said my blood cells... some of them... recovered way faster than they expected. Like, impossibly fast." I avoided mentioning the fullness or the potential link between us.

Naomi leaned closer to the screen, her aspiring biologist brain instantly kicking in, concern momentarily overshadowed by scientific curiosity. "Really? That is weird. Chemo usually nukes everything first. Rapid rebound... maybe your cells are just multiplying way too fast in reaction? Or... could it be some kind of cellular adaptation triggered by the chemo itself? Like an unexpected feedback loop?"

"That's what I was wondering." I latched onto her theories, relief flooding me that she was engaging with the puzzle, something other than this ability. "Could leukemia cells themselves develop rapid resistance that mimics recovery of healthy cells somehow? Or maybe the chemo triggered some other dormant cells?"

We spent the next few minutes throwing biological theories back and forth – mitochondrial mutations, unusual signaling pathways, weird immune responses. It felt good, almost normal, to be dissecting a problem with her, even if we were both dancing around the terrifying, inexplicable reality of my situation. The Elara part of me, usually disdainful of such Earth science thoughts, remained quiet.

Finally, Naomi sighed, shaking her head. "It's definitely strange, Leo. They'll figure it out, though. They have to." Her expression softened again into concern. "Speaking of treatments... my mom had her check-up today. Her markers are still looking good. Stable." A genuine smile touched her lips this time. "She's doing better."

"That's... that's great, Naomi," I said, meaning it, though a pang of envy hit me. Normal recovery. Stable markers.

"Yeah," she agreed, her eyes meeting mine through the screen. "And you will too, Leo. Okay? You just have to." Her voice was soft but firm, full of a desperate hope that mirrored my own fragile conviction from the day before.

"Yeah," I echoed. "Okay."

After we said goodbye, the screen went dark, leaving me alone again with the beeping monitor and the impossible truth within.

My thoughts shifted from the baffling graphs, the scientific jargon, our attempts at rationalizing, back to the very real scene in the clearing, the way the mist of blood expanded out from me. I was connected to each and every point in the air and to the blood that was flowing in their bodies. The richness of the essence that had come back to me… was intoxicating.

I looked down at my own lanky arm, pale under the fluorescent lights, the IV tube a stark reminder of this body's fragility. I traced the faint blue line of a vein beneath the skin. There is something here… the sensation of this bright pulse that coursed beneath the surface. It felt almost tangible, real.

If I cut it open, could I do it here? Could I send mist of my blood out here in this inanimate world of steel?

A couple of nurses walked past outside, followed by a doctor. If they breathe it in, would I then be coursing through their veins? Could I take over, and draw in the richness of their essence?

Kael's face appeared before me, his knuckles white upon the grip of his sword. I recoiled violently in the bed, shaking my head, trying to banish the thought. No! Monster! That wasn't me. That couldn't be me.

Monster. The word clung, cold and sharp. But even as I pushed the horrifying potential away, a sliver of morbid fascination remained. That feeling of control, of moving through their bodies... how? How had it worked?

Driven by that mix of revulsion and the need to understand, I pulled Mom's laptop back onto the rolling table. My fingers, still trembling, opened the browser. I needed to know. That feeling of blood moving through their bodies... Was it real?

I typed: Human circulatory system diagram.

Images flooded the screen—intricate networks of red and blue branching through transparent figures. Arteries, veins, capillaries... I traced the paths with my eyes, the chill returning as I recognized the flow—the exact channels I had pushed my awareness, my blood, through in the mercenaries, in Kael, in Trevor. It wasn't just random or made up.

But the pathways were only part of it. The control... that required more. I recalled how the dead were harder to control than the wounded. How I had to take over their brains before they could rise. And when the head was cut off, they fell.

I quickly typed a new search: Human brain function map.

Diagrams appeared—complex landscapes of lobes and regions. Cerebral cortex, cerebellum, brainstem... sections highlighted and labeled with functions. Motor Control. Sensory Processing. Vision. Autonomic Regulation. My breath hitched. I could almost feel it again—the sensation of my invasive blood seeping into the different areas of their brains. I recognized the location associated with making limbs move, another area further back that seemed to flicker with the light from their eyes when I took control. It wasn't intellectual knowledge. There was no map. Somehow I just knew where to go, as if I was moving in the confines of a maze that I was intimately familiar with.

I had hijacked their bodies and puppeteered them by taking over parts of their brain, one by one. I was like the cartoonish villain of some low budget superhero movie, one dimensional and clearly identified. The thought made me nauseous. But there was one thing I knew, no matter what, I needed to survive to save them. If I was still alive in that world.

Besides controlling them through their mind, there was more that I could do. I could heal wounds by manipulating flesh. I had forced threads of blood to pull together gaping torn apart meat. Perhaps I could shape them. My blood had seeped into their organs, and the marrow of their bones. Could I force something to grow? That morbid fascination returned, pushing aside the horror just enough for my fingers to move again. I needed to see the extremes nature had already reached. Something vicious. Something hidden.

I typed: Retractable claws anatomy.

Images of cats appeared, diagrams showing the ligaments, the sheaths, the tendons. Simple mechanics, elegant biology. Could I do that? I thought of using my control over blood to force bone to reshape, keratin to grow. Insidious.

I focused on a broader search. What else was out there?

Bombardier beetle. It has internal abdominal chambers storing hydroquinones and hydrogen peroxide separately, and when threatened, the beetle mixes them with catalyst enzymes in a reaction chamber, creating an exothermic reaction—boiling hot, noxious benzoquinone sprayed accurately via its internal organic valve control. Chemical warfare, biologically produced and weaponized.

Spitting cobra. Not just injecting, but projecting. Modified fangs, with discharge openings angled forward, not just down. Specialized muscles squeeze the venom gland, forcing the venom out at pressure, aiming for the eyes. Precise muscular control linked to venom production, turning a bite into a ranged attack.

Octopus. Beyond the ink clouds: Chromatophores—thousands of tiny pigment sacs in the skin, each surrounded by minuscule muscles. Direct signals from the nervous system contracted or relaxed these muscles instantly, expanding or shrinking the sacs to change color and even skin texture with lightning speed, allowing the mind to control physical appearance at a cellular level.

Could my power work with biology on that level? I could sense and direct each blood cell, but this goes deeper than that. I'd need to change the cells themselves. But the fact that I could seep into and take control of various organs, and that I could use blood to pull together flesh suggested there was a way forward.

"Leo? Still awake?" Mom spoke softly from the doorway.

I jumped, startled, quickly minimizing the browser window, though there was nothing truly incriminating visible beyond diagrams of octopus cells. Mom stepped into the dim light filtering from the hallway, already dressed in her familiar blue nursing scrubs, her work bag slung over her shoulder. The worry lines around her eyes seemed deeper than ever.

"It's nearly midnight, honey," she said, her voice gentle but firm. She came over and felt my forehead. "You need to rest. Treatments are hard on the body." She glanced at the laptop screen, now showing just the hospital's generic welcome page. A faint, weary smile touched her lips. "Staying up way too late looking up things again?" There was a comforting warmth in the way she reproached me.

"You need sleep," she repeated, more firmly this time. "And I need to get going. Maya's still at Mrs. Gable's, and I have the early shift."

Guilt twisted in my gut. She was exhausted, worried sick, still holding everything together for both of us.

"Okay, Mom," I said, pushing the laptop away. I met her tired eyes, trying to project the confidence I knew she needed. "Mom, I will be alright."

She held my gaze for a long moment, searching my face, before giving a slow nod. She squeezed my shoulder. "Goodnight, dear."