He walked out of the door, and realized first how quiet the house was. Nothing was stirring, there was no sound—not even a light breeze fluttering and rustling the leaves that lay on the thick trees. It was so quiet that it was frightening. Blake stared around, and remembered something when he walked into the kitchen, over to the stove. She’s not with us anymore, Blake, he thought. She’s…
So he did what he always did. Blake grabbed a piece of paper out of the printer on the counter, and pulled the pencil away from where he’d tucked it behind his ear. He began to draw, allowing his mind—or the angel’s, he didn’t know—to move his arm. He didn’t know what he was drawing; he just wanted to get rid of his anger. He made thin, then rough lines, drew lightly, and then darkened and shaded. He smudged shadows and deepened backgrounds, though he wasn’t sure of what exactly he was doing. He felt like he was letting memories flow from his fingertips, memories that weren’t quite his own.
He didn’t dwell on that, only focused on the drawing. His pencil moved gracefully across the page. He finished quickly with a flourish, and felt like a huge weight was lifted off of him. As if his anger had been retracted from his body, and that all it had left had been a sensation of pure relief. He looked at the sketch finally, and was completely surprised at what he saw.
There was a large field, and there were men in full clad armor that glinted in the sun, brandishing swords and slicing off the heads of odd creatures. Some had horns and liquid dripping from their mouths, but others had no eyes and in place, fangs. The men had fierce looks on their faces, and they all had twirling marks that decorated their bodies. There were sparks that flew through the air and there were monstrous demons that hid in the shadows of trees. Blake noticed something about the men with the marks. They all had a pair of feathery wings that were curled above their heads, around them or sticking out. Their looks were fierce but calm and some were looking up. Blake followed the gaze, and saw that there was another angel that was descending from the sky with a glowing sword in hand. He had shaded hair, and a face with angular features. He had six wings that curled around him, and he was pointing his sword to the sky. It was the Angel Rerilen. He was seeing an angel’s view of some battle, and he thought it was maybe Rerilen’s from a third person point of analysis.
The earth looked cracked and worn away beneath them, and seemed like it was shaking…
“Whoa, you’re good,” said a voice. Blake flinched in fear, and he was already on his feet, holding Spencer by the arm. Spencer slipped out of his grasp quickly and was immediately on the other side of the chair. Blake had forgotten that Spencer was a warrior.
“Never do that again,” said Blake, sitting back down.
“What? Compliment your work? I guess I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a smile.
“Don’t scare me. What if I’d thought you were some creepy demon or Djinni and turned around and killed you?”
“Paranoia?” asked Spencer.
“Never mind,” said Blake, going back to his sketch. “I don’t know what this is. I think it’s an angel memory.”
“What?” asked Spencer. Blake remembered that he hadn’t yet told Spencer about his short dream, and explained it to him. Then, he told him about the recent dream. Spencer pointed at the bottom of the page. “What does that say?”
It read: Perspicuus lux lucis quod animus iacio caligo umbra. “I… I don’t know…” said Blake. “It’s in Latin. I don’t know what it says.”
“Then how’d you write it?”
“I think that the rune did it. Hold on, I’m going to get my sketchbook,” said Blake, and quickly dashed up the stairs. He got into his room, and went over to his bed. There, lying beside several pencil crayons, charcoals and a graphite pencil was Blake’s sketchbook. He walked over to it, and saw that there was something on it. There was a kind of shimmering haze that hovered above the sketchbook, curling around the object. That was when Blake noticed what it was.
It was a Coke bottle.