more upset.
“ Enjoy your shower,” I spat, and with one thought I sent him flying away from me. He hit the shower curtain and crumpled into the shower as I turned the hot water on over him. I looked at his startled face for a moment before slamming the door between us, my hands still in balls by my sides.
Five
I sat with my back against the sliding glass door that led out to the tiny balcony. The balcony I wasn’t allowed to enter that was filled with fresh air I wasn’t allowed to breathe. I sat this way so I didn’t have to look out onto the city of Santa Fe and dream of leaving my prison. With my back toward the world, I couldn’t be reminded of all I was being forced to sacrifice. Of course, it couldn’t take away the thoughts, but it didn’t make them quite so sharp.
My head leaned against the cool glass, my eyes closed in concentration. My hands sat on my folded knees, fingers extended. I allowed my magic to pulse and flow into the air and used my mind to control the objects that littered the ground in front of me.
A top spun gracefully on its point, a block changed color in a rainbow of hues, the carpet they sat on grew in length while fluxing and bending around the other two objects. All the while, a flurry of conjured snowflakes danced and spun around me as I sat cross legged against the glass.
It was probably a little excessive, but I needed to keep my mind off of my fight with Ilyan.
Ryland’s drawing had dug up my passionate hope that he was trapped, and not erased. And Ilyan’s offhand comments had just as quickly dashed them. I was trying so hard not be mad at him, but I was fighting a losing battle.
I closed my eyes tighter as the water from Ilyan’s shower stopped, my anxiety increasing the speed of the top, the influxes of color, and the movement of the carpet. Without opening my eyes I could still see the objects moving in front of me. It was just as Ilyan had taught me while I lay dying. My magic served as my second eye, the whole room visible within my mind.
The door to the bathroom creaked open and my mind glanced away from its work to see Ilyan exit the bathroom. His blonde hair was wet and hanging down to his shoulder blades, soaking the top of his yellow, button up shirt. I returned my sight back to the objects in front of me, increasing my workload to include the carpet in the color changing cacophony. I accelerated the snowflakes that danced around my head until they were a white blur.
The distorted mass of white and color all became too much and I shut off my internal sight to sit in the blackness, the cool glass pressing against the back of my head.
Ilyan’s soft hands wrapped around my fingers, distracting the flow of my magic. His touch was gentle against my skin, his hands held tight to mine. I felt the top fall to the side and the snowflakes instantly melted back into the air as my magic disconnected from them.
I looked up at him, ready to bicker or battle or whatever he had in mind after I threw him into the shower, but instead his eyes were closed. His face was calm as he sat before me, his tall frame folded gently.
“ I was thirty-two when Ovailia was born, an old man by human standards at the time. I remember running to Prague to see my parents, leaving the monastery I lived at in the middle of the night. There had been some complications with the birth, but I was told my mother was healing fine. I was still worried, which is why I didn’t wait to go to them. I ran into her room expecting healers and burning oils, but my mother was alone. She looked so fragile in her giant bed, her small frame swallowed up by blankets. She placed this tiny baby in my arms, a girl, with hair that looked like sunlight. That’s what Ovailia means, ‘light of the sun.’”
Ilyan looked at me, his face blotchy enough that I knew he had been crying in the shower. His grip tightened on my hands, keeping me close to him. He knew me well enough now that he
“ Enjoy your shower,” I spat, and with one thought I sent him flying away from me. He hit the shower curtain and crumpled into the shower as I turned the hot water on over him. I looked at his startled face for a moment before slamming the door between us, my hands still in balls by my sides.
Five
I sat with my back against the sliding glass door that led out to the tiny balcony. The balcony I wasn’t allowed to enter that was filled with fresh air I wasn’t allowed to breathe. I sat this way so I didn’t have to look out onto the city of Santa Fe and dream of leaving my prison. With my back toward the world, I couldn’t be reminded of all I was being forced to sacrifice. Of course, it couldn’t take away the thoughts, but it didn’t make them quite so sharp.
My head leaned against the cool glass, my eyes closed in concentration. My hands sat on my folded knees, fingers extended. I allowed my magic to pulse and flow into the air and used my mind to control the objects that littered the ground in front of me.
A top spun gracefully on its point, a block changed color in a rainbow of hues, the carpet they sat on grew in length while fluxing and bending around the other two objects. All the while, a flurry of conjured snowflakes danced and spun around me as I sat cross legged against the glass.
It was probably a little excessive, but I needed to keep my mind off of my fight with Ilyan.
Ryland’s drawing had dug up my passionate hope that he was trapped, and not erased. And Ilyan’s offhand comments had just as quickly dashed them. I was trying so hard not be mad at him, but I was fighting a losing battle.
I closed my eyes tighter as the water from Ilyan’s shower stopped, my anxiety increasing the speed of the top, the influxes of color, and the movement of the carpet. Without opening my eyes I could still see the objects moving in front of me. It was just as Ilyan had taught me while I lay dying. My magic served as my second eye, the whole room visible within my mind.
The door to the bathroom creaked open and my mind glanced away from its work to see Ilyan exit the bathroom. His blonde hair was wet and hanging down to his shoulder blades, soaking the top of his yellow, button up shirt. I returned my sight back to the objects in front of me, increasing my workload to include the carpet in the color changing cacophony. I accelerated the snowflakes that danced around my head until they were a white blur.
The distorted mass of white and color all became too much and I shut off my internal sight to sit in the blackness, the cool glass pressing against the back of my head.
Ilyan’s soft hands wrapped around my fingers, distracting the flow of my magic. His touch was gentle against my skin, his hands held tight to mine. I felt the top fall to the side and the snowflakes instantly melted back into the air as my magic disconnected from them.
I looked up at him, ready to bicker or battle or whatever he had in mind after I threw him into the shower, but instead his eyes were closed. His face was calm as he sat before me, his tall frame folded gently.
“ I was thirty-two when Ovailia was born, an old man by human standards at the time. I remember running to Prague to see my parents, leaving the monastery I lived at in the middle of the night. There had been some complications with the birth, but I was told my mother was healing fine. I was still worried, which is why I didn’t wait to go to them. I ran into her room expecting healers and burning oils, but my mother was alone. She looked so fragile in her giant bed, her small frame swallowed up by blankets. She placed this tiny baby in my arms, a girl, with hair that looked like sunlight. That’s what Ovailia means, ‘light of the sun.’”
Ilyan looked at me, his face blotchy enough that I knew he had been crying in the shower. His grip tightened on my hands, keeping me close to him. He knew me well enough now that he
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