Blake awoke from the Angel memory, and was suddenly charging at Alteon again. He rolled under the monster’s stomach, and stabbed, and then jumped out. Alteon screamed, but shot all of his tentacles at Blake. In one swift movement, Blake sliced them all, and threw a wall of flames at them. The tentacles became lifeless stumps, and fell away from Alteon’s body as he yelled in pain again. Blake jumped up, and felt something lift himself up. He saw a quick blur of white behind him, and momentarily thought it was a demon. He ignored it and jumped higher into the air, the Angel that was helping him pulling him up to the ceiling. Then, it let him go. He felt his heart thrust into his throat and thought that he was about to spit it out. He spun faster and faster until everything around him was a blur, like a blurry photo of something he couldn’t make out. He clutched the sword with his hands, and felt it connect with something. He stopped spinning, and flipped backwards off of the creature. He looked at his sword, which was interred in Alteon’s forehead, where a red symbol was. He screamed in pain and fell back, the sword protruding from the other side of its skull. Blake went and pulled the sword out, and Alteon fell back. He lay in a crumpled heap in the middle of the pentagram, and began to crack.
His whole body shattered like glass, and each individual piece melted away, coalescing into a puddle of black liquid. The liquid began to grow thinner and thinner until it was seeping into the floor. The Djinni essence sank into the floor in the middle of the pentagram, and disappeared.
Blake felt the Angel leave his body, but he knew the runes were still there. A voice spoke in the back of his head, and for a moment he thought that it was his conscience. The words were like a gentle song or a beautiful lullaby, one that was so sweet that it could have been like a siren’s song. His conscience spoke softly, and Blake thought to himself quietly. His conscience was proud? But he realized it wasn’t actually his conscience, but rather someone speaking four simple words in the back of his mind: You’ve done well, Blake.
He felt like he had begun to fall through a sheet of darkness that had swallowed him up in its powerful embrace, and had plunged him into itself, making him completely exhausted. His surroundings wavered like he was looking into a shimmering pool of water that had ripples running across it because of a large rock. He felt like he was submerged neck deep in dreams—more asleep than awake.
And Blake’s eyes closed, those words ringing in his ears, darkness closing around him.
lake looked at Rerilen, who was smiling at him. His jet black hair blew across his face in the wind, and his golden eyes were more prominent. His facial features were angular, and yet smooth at the same time. Shadows played lightly across his face, and it looked like sparkles of silver and gold were dancing around him. He stretched his magnificent wings out, and they reached a long span. Blake was itching to sketch him, maybe in chiaroscuro—the art of light and shadows—or maybe a dramatic photo with black and white, and then have him wreathed in gold. Rerilen walked towards him, and then looked up at the sky. He snapped his fingers, and then Blake was gone.
Blake found himself staring at a statue of an angel, only it was completely unlike all others. The angel had hollow eyes, and the shadows that crossed his face made him look eerie. Blake looked at the front of him. One wing was feathery, and the other looked somewhat different. Blake walked up to it, and pulled out a paintbrush. He then went to work. He painted the angel as if he’d seen it before, and he had: in his mind’s eye. He pictured all of the colours that would make up the statue, made one wing white and soft, like feathers, and then painted to other one black, with complex veins running through it. He felt casual, as if he was supposed to be able to do this kind of thing, and as if he knew completely what he was doing. When he was finished, he smiled at his masterpiece. It was beautiful and saintly, but there was something missing. He took out the black paintbrush and began creating dark shadows where they would normally be, and smudged them at the end to look more real.
He was finally finished, and he backed away. The pedestal it was standing on shook, and the stone on the angel began to crack. It split and shattered, falling away to the ground. Then, on the pedestal was the Angel-demon creature that Blake had painted in all its eeriness and vivid colour. One wing was white and feathery, while the other was black and bat-like, a membranous, vein-filled, like that of some fantasy demon that fought the Angel. It had a horn sticking out of the right side of its head—the same side of the demon wing. Its whole right side was skeletal, and it had a fang pushing out of the corner of its mouth. The left side looked human and beautiful, like an Angel should. It moved toward Blake, stepping off of the pedestal. The Demonic Angel lifted its hands above its head, and the space between its palms became distorted. It warped and seemed to fold in on itself, forming some kind of rift in the atmosphere. A void began to open up in the very fabric of space in his hands, and darkness gathered like a swarm of black flies. It thickened, and threads of violet began to mix with the opening void.
All of a sudden, Rerilen was there, sending a spear of crackling golden energy at the creature. It pierced the Demonic Angel’s chest, and it stumbled back. Rerilen’s blade materialized into his hands, and he outstretched his six wings widely, and spun the sword between his fingers like he’d done it thousands of times before. Blake thought he saw something familiar in Rerilen’s eyes. It was like a piece of Blake. Rerilen smiled crookedly—the same way Blake always did—and he charged at the monstrous Angel that Blake had painted to life…
Blake awoke with a start, and immediately grabbed him sketch pad from under his bed.
He was back in his room, and everything was back on the ground again, just as it had been before Blake had accidentally placed it all onto the ceiling when his spell backfired. He realized it was only about noon, but because he’d used up so much energy in the morning, he’d had to have slept for about three hours. He pulled a pencil out of an art box he had and began to draw.
He drew something simple: a Coke bottle. He even made it look more complex by adding shadows and the level of the Coke, and even the slight bubbles that had risen to the top. He hadn’t been able to do any drawing ever since he was introduced theatrically to Lucien Whityon and Cyton Faire. He finally finished his drawing, and decided to add some colour. He used a dark, caramel-like colour for the Coke, did the cap and the wrapping red, left the logo white, and put every design that a Coke bottle had. When he was finished, he looked at his drawing. Nothing happened. He thought he saw it shimmer, but nothing really happened. He got out of his bed, leaving the sketchbook on his pillow.
How anticlimactic, he thought.