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Harry glanced down at his and Bran’s interlaced fingers. As always when they were out in public, the younger dragel was wearing gloves. It was a keen reminder that things weren’t always so simple when it came to Bran.
“Was it hard when you were younger?” Harry asked, nodding down at the gloves to signify what he meant.
“When I was a baby, I couldn’t stop crying and no one could figure out why,” Bran said, swinging his legs beneath him. “Not even the best Healers. It got to the point where my Mera was considering asking the Kalziks for—I don’t know. Their opinion, advice—something.” He shrugged. “And then I grew enough to talk. To ask questions—about things my family circle knew I couldn’t know about, unless I had gotten the information from someone else. When they asked how I knew, I tried to explain it.” He chuckled. “I did a really bad job of explaining it,” he admitted. “But finally, one of the Kuroes—Shadow Healer Clan—figured it out. And then it got a bit easier. Touch was limited to that which was absolutely necessary unless I initiated it. And when I turned ten, they found someone to help train and harness my ability. The pain of the initial touch never goes away, but it doesn’t linger as long as it used to, mostly because I know how to process the experiences now.”
“Process?”
“Analyze?” Bran offered up. “Go through the experiences, one by one, the memory, the emotions associated with the memory, stuff like that.”
Harry stiffened. “You do that with everyone’s experiences you receive?” he asked carefully.
“Eventually,” Bran said with a shrug. “If I don’t, the pain lingers. And frankly, after doing it every day for four years, it’s habit by now.”
Harry swallowed nervously. “Have you—processed—mine yet?” he asked.
Bran paused. “No,” he lied.