Page 63 of Runes To Rain
“That wound wasn’t made by a jagged piece of wood; that was made by a blade,” he says.
There is a loud ringing in my ears. The room ceases to exist as rage causes me to dematerialize without intent and reform in the alley behind Lily’s building.
Fuck, that hasn’t happened since I was merely a few centuries old.
Thankfully, with the sudden cessation of pain now that I’mfurther from Chaosta, I am able to get control of myself fairly quickly.
Momentarily, I wonder if creating her and giving her as much of my strength as I did was a good idea, but I shake off that thought. The map is spread out ahead of both of us at this point, and while there are still large gaps, this is the only viable path.
Rage continues to course through me, and I begin to plan. I will find answers, and if it is as I suspect, based on what Fem just said, people will pay. Direct action on this problem will be a refreshing change of pace.
THUSLY ARMED
It is late evening, almost night, of my second day back at the mansion, and I’m lying in bed trying to focus on reading. I am sure the boys must be downstairs working on their magic with Malam. I wish I could be practicing with my sword. I consider briefly how long it might take for Malam to bring me another blade.
Eventually, unable to ignore the need any longer, I rise and go to the restroom. With the movement, additional pain hits me, and I’m glad when I can return to my bed. As I get back to the side of the bed, almost able to lie down again, I hear paper tear as I step on the pile I disturbed the day before. Emotions pulse through me. Emotions that are stronger than I feel they should be. Tears prick at my eyes.
Without looking, I bend down and gather up the pages. Looking at the wall, I stand beside the bed holding them. My fingers clench into fists, crumpling the edges, and I feel a tear slide down my cheek.
I thought about these nearly the entire time I was being held by the angels. I thought of tearing them up or burning them. I also thought of framing them and hanging them on my wall.
I relax my fingers and, without looking, smooth the wrinkles I created. Then I finally look down at the paper in my hands and the sketch on it, a sketch of Dio.
They’re almost all sketches of Dio.
When I was drawing them, I thought it was my anger that led me to sketch him. Or maybe there were interesting lines there in his forearm, or his jaw, things that my eye caught on.
However, while I was incarcerated and had nothing else to focus on, too often it was Dio whom my thoughts turned to. Eventually, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Despite many months to think about it, I still don’t know how to untangle this knot of emotions. He so clearly hates me, and based on my actions, I’m sure he believes that I hate him. I am still angry at him. His actions toward me still feel unforgivable. Yet somehow I’m here, holding a stack of sketches with him as the subject, unable to stop thinking about him.
Not wanting to think about any of it at the moment, I crouch and tuck the papers between two books in the pile under my bed. Then I lay down, propping myself back up on my pillows and covering myself with a blanket.
I’m just done wiping the remaining tears from my eyes when I hear something. The sound of wings fills the space, and shadow materializes, quickly forming into Malam.
He grimaces as he stabilizes himself, and I wonder if he is injured. He has his eyes tightly shut and, without opening them, asks, “Are you fully clothed?”
“Yes, or at least I’m covered,” I say, and he opens his eyes.
I note the sheathed sword in his hand as he moves to the end of my bed and places it there. At a brief glance, I can tell it isn’t the sword he lent me before, and my curiosity piques, momentarily distracting me from the emotions and pain. Before I can move to examine it, he speaks again.
“I won’t be around much for at least the next fortnight," he says gently, “but I’m always here if you need me.”
I look up at him and briefly see rage on his face before he masks it. “Are you alright?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says flatly.
“It’s just, I saw you wince when you arrived,” I say as he glares daggers at the wall behind my head.
“I’m not injured,” he says, his tone still flat.
“Everything else ok?” I ask, thinking of Lily and hoping nothing has happened to her.
“It will be,” he says, and there is a dark and dangerous tone to his voice that I don’t miss.
Since it’s clear I am not going to get any information out of him, instead, I thank him for the sword. He nods briefly, still not looking at me, and then, without another word, dissolves into shadow again.
With him gone, I move gingerly to the end of my bed and pick up the sword to look at it more closely. Like the last sword, it’s a saber, but that is where the similarity ends. The handle of this sword is wrapped in black leather instead of brown, and there is delicate red detailing set into it. The metal handguard is silver rather than gold, and there is a floral pattern engraved on it.
When I bare a couple of inches of blade, I pause, struck by the beauty of it. The blade is made from a black metal, and it continues the floral engraving, only this stands out more starkly because it’s silver set against the black. I unsheathe it fully and see that the entire blade looks like this. I hold it out in front of me and comprehend immediately how immaculate the balance is. I also notice it’s shorter, a better length for my diminutive height.
