40. Thirty Seven
Thirty Seven
Creed
Here I am again, wearing a hole into the rug with all my pacing. I expected the two of them to be back by lunch, but that was two hours ago. With the recent turn of events, having an optimistic mindset is proving to be difficult.
Not to mention, my latest discovery has been eating away at me all day. I left everything as I found it, save for the journal on the kitchen table, and the pictures of Eden’s mother that’s tucked into my back pocket.
When the door swings open, I nearly crumple to the ground of the entryway. Thank God.
Eden and Cecil stand side-by-side, equally haggard and wary. Eden tugs at the sleeves of her shirt, and Cecil shifts a stack of books in his left arm. Luckily, there’s no sense of urgency or panic. Which is good, but now I’m pissed.
“Where were you!? You said you’d be back for lunch!”
Eden has the decency to look sheepish, though I doubt she had much say in their itinerary for the day. I prop my hands on my hips and look expectantly to my brother. Eyes rolling, he sets the books down on the foyer table.
“Sorry, mother,” he signs, looking anything but apologetic. He attempts to squeeze past me, but I thrust my arm out. His shoulders rise and fall on an exaggerated sigh before he gives me his attention.
“Well?” I question, looking between the worn leathers. “What are those?”
Eden approaches, mouth curving into an uncomfortable smile. “Can we eat first?”
I groan inwardly, a hair's breadth from expressing my impatience, when my eyes snag on what hangs around her neck. Delicate, gold, with a dangling bird.
My jaw drops so quick I fear I may have dislocated it. Exclamations and questions set off like fireworks in my mind, and my hands flourish wildly in front of me as they try to keep up. After many attempts at forming a coherent thought, all I manage is,
“Holy shit.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yes, you’ve said that,” my brother responds, stretched out on the rug along with Eden and I.
The old texts are spread out, the three of us forming an almost circle around them. Eden’s father’s journal has since been added to the mix, but my discovery pales in comparison to the treasure trove of information the two have brought back with them.
Half-eaten bowls of stew are pushed off to the side, and I don’t even have the mind to fuss over all the wasted food. Who can eat when you’re questioning everything you ever thought you knew of the world?
Over the last few hours, we’ve passed around the books, taking turns reading and wrapping our minds around their contents. The idea of there being this third-party higher power has really blown my mind in ways I never thought possible.
In true Cecil fashion, he’s more doubtful than Eden and I, his expression bored and impassive as he scans the texts.
“We need to find something to help her,” he said when we first sat down. “Anything that could be relevant.”
While I don’t believe I’ve found the key to solving Eden’s accidental murderous tendencies, it’s all exceptionally fascinating.
Beside Eden, out of our reach, lies her mother’s journal. When we spread the books out before us, she subtly put the scrap of leather to the side. Cecil tracked it, as did I, but neither of us mentioned it.
The book titled Fatum is open in front of me. Resting on my elbows, I scan through the pages, though much of it is written in a language I don’t understand. Every once in a while, a paragraph will be translated to English in the margins.
Through Life, nor Death, can power be destroyed. It is a current, ever moving and evolving. It floats in the ether, awaiting a host. When the time comes, and it will, its Gift will seep into the soul, making a nest there.
To deny one’s power, is to deny oneself, and unimaginable torment ensues.
Subtly, I shift my gaze to Eden, her face curtained by dark locks. The same page has been open in front of her for at least twenty minutes, and I highly doubt she is working on her memorization skills. It’s all too familiar now, the way she escapes into herself. She’s absent—her thoughts elsewhere.
Unimaginable torment, that’s what the book says. Is she… harming herself? By keeping her “Gift” trapped inside?
Without a word, I slide the text forward, knocking Cecil’s book out from in front of him. His eyes narrow in agitation, but when I incline my chin towards the page, he pulls it closer and scans it. I watch his gaze flick back and forth, rereading the same two paragraphs.
Finally, he sighs, and meets my awaiting stare.
Though it looks to pain him, he raises his right hand and signs, “OK”.
Project Get-Eden-To-Accept-Her-Creepy-Powers is a go.