Tuesday, September 20, 2005

   Chapter 8: Down the Acheron River (part 1)
Pen found himself again at the very first crack of dawn. He got up from his bed as quietly as he could and went to the window. The port was still asleep.
Lucifer was also still sleeping. He was curled up into a little ball, his wing covering him. He was scowling. Pen could feel the darkness in his thoughts… it was a dream… but the black-eyed boy could not reach it. Shaking his head, he turned back to the window.
“Pen, you’re already awake?” he heard Lucifer say. The angel was sitting up on the bed, looking at him. He was so tired, his eyes were still only half open.
“Yeah,” Pen answered. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
“What time is it?”
“Five thirty.”
Lucifer flopped back down on the bed. “You weird guy. I swear I just saw your eyes in my dream.” He closed his eyes again and had fallen asleep in a matter of seconds. This time, his face stayed smooth and peaceful. Although a part of Pen regretted waking him up, he was also somewhat grateful; whatever Lucifer had been dreaming, it had not been pleasant.
Pen considered the angel’s last words to him. Was it possible that he had touched Lucifer’s mind? He had no access to it now, and yet he knew that the way he had been drawn by the darkness was real.
Softly unsheathing Lucaya, he took a seat on the wooden floor and balanced her across his knees. The new light of the suns shimmered on her surface, as well as the patterns of magic as it skurried along the blade. He watched the sword for a long time, even as the suns broke over the horizon and bathed the world in light. When Lucifer woke up, he still wouldn’t budge.
“It looks like you’ve already got a real sword,” the black-winged angel said. He was laying on his stomach at the edge of the bed, looking at Lucaya. “I’ve really been looking forward to creating my own sometime.”
“Do you want to go to Havoc, too?” Pen asked him, picking his sword up by the hilt. It was common knowledge that Havoc students had to make their own swords.
“Not nessessarily. I guess I wouldn’t mind if I got in, but it really seems like a lot of trouble to go though. As long as I learn how to fight and protect people better, I’ll be happy. Maybe I’ll improve my magic skills in the process.”
Suddenly, an idea struck Pen. “Can you read angel magic symbols?” he asked, starting to get to his feet.
“A little. Why?”
Pen sheathed his sword with one hand, while simulateusly pulling a piece of paper out of his backpack. He handed it to Lucifer. “I found this thing in the Archives library, but I can’t read it.”
Lucifer took a moment to decypher it. “Okay, let me show you,” he said, sitting up so that Pen could also see the paper. He pointed to the two ledgible words, then running his finger along as he read off the symbols. “Awaken power: Senots Tsefinam sih Yawa Gnis. It’s followed by the symbols for fire and air.”
“What does it do?”
“I dunno… “awaken power”? That’s what it says, anyway.”
“Can you translate the symbols into letters for me?”
“Got a pencil?”
Pen went to his backpack and pulled out a smooth, almost straight stick into which a tiny groove had been cut on the side. This was filled in with a black, metal-like substance that made a mark on paper. After a few weeks of use, the edge would be worn short, so that the wood had to be cut back with a knife.
Lucifer got out of bed and took the pencil from him. He put the parchment up to the wall so that he could write, neatly lining up the translation with the symbols. For the last two, he just put arrows with the words “fire” and “air” as labels.
“Here, is that okay?” he said, handing back the pencil and paper. Pen looked over the words.
“Senots Tsefinam sih Yawa Gnis,” he read, memorizing it. “I wonder what it means.”
“Sorry that I couldn’t be of more help,” Lucifer told him, slipping into his shoes. “I’m gonna run down to the bathroom, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Pen sighed, sitting down on his bed. After the angel had been gone for a minute, he gave up on trying to make anything of the strange symbols. Folding the paper back up, he stuck it into his backpack again. Not knowing what else to do, he drew his sword.
There wasn’t much room to practice, but it was enough. Pen closed his eyes to concentrate: he imagined a wiseman before him, preparing to spar. In his imagination, he blocked a high strike and a low one, flipping his sword wherever his opponent’s was. He went faster and faster; only by memorizing the movement, he would be able to use it without having to think. Thinking wasted too much time in a real fight. You had to move as your mind did.
Comments (1)