I looked at drops of ink. Oil. Blood. Tears. Mixing into water.

The ending result was quite murky.

It was black, it was red. It was salty. It felt greasy.

What would you call such a mixture?

.

.

.

I waited.

.

.

.

And a bit more.

I call it,

Tinge.

A Tinge is a faint trace of something.

Combined together, you could call it tinges.

But it's not just that, is it?

It's a single tinge of a tear.

A single tinge of oil.

A single tinge of blood.

A tinge of ink.

I looked at the fallen corpse of a man. One whom I did not spare. And wondered what they were a tinge of.

And left it at that.

Why were my thoughts clear today?

The rain?

The trace of oil?

Bleeding ink?

Spilt blood?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

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Why.

It was a murky feeling. I watched as one of my chains picked up their pen.

"It took more than half a dozen tries to get you to wake up. Every time blood is spilt on our hands, you desire nothing more than to wash our hands clean of it. As if we are angels above, untainted, and to be unsullied."

She rolled her eyes wiping the drops of blood in the rain. Pages forming above them, acting as an umbrella.

Not getting wet.

She dried her hand on a paper towel, flowing and unrolling in the air.

"But even now, you enter a daze. Guilt ridden and sorrowful, with an empty gaze. Do not."

Her tone became sharp.

"Do not waste your emotions on this."

She spat on the corpse, kicking it off the path.

"Scum."

I wondered if I made a mistake.

For letting them still hold their pen as a blade.

Perhaps.

But it was better than being merciful.

Than staying one's hand and being the one cut.

Rot and decay.

Festering like swamp matter.

Little by little the flames waned.

And then again.

A clenched fist, unfurled.

A pen.

A notebook.

She usually kept her pen in a notebook.

Except this one.

Ink.

Poison?

What was I doing?

For it be necessary, for a chain to kill?

I looked around.

And my eyes fell on a passage of mine scrawled into the wall that matched the tinge on my finger.

Erased from memory.

Immersion.

I must have been too immersed in the pool of memories, that I sunk too far to notice the knife at my throat.

I blinked. Once, twice.

A final time.

I decided to take a visit to an old friend, walking down a different road.

It was only right that my chains were not chained like me.

Free to walk away as they pleased, after relinquishing their executioner's blade.

My chain shook her head.

One hand on her forehead in dismay.

"Right after being ambushed, you want to dive straight back into the fray. Why?"

She asked to the skies above.

Not expecting an answer.

You could call it running away. Making as much distance as I could from them.

It which walks and talks, breaths and smiles.

But will never forgo their happiness.

She knew all I wanted to do was close my eyes, and let it happen.

My blade, only drawn.

If it drew near.

But the pretender knew that if a chain was in danger. I would change.

I would be a shield, taking any rending blows.

I would be a sword, cutting down their wicked claws.

I would be fear. Tearing and tormenting with untold malice.

Because she used to be a chain. My reason for... being me.

At the end of the day. I would collapse onto their shoulder, hardly able to breath, nevermind stand. I know I would never fall while they stood.

Their presence let me sleep with peace everlasting. And was fear to all whom may disturb my rest.

My sincerest gratitude brought a scowl to my Chain's face.

"She didn't even keep her promise. Making her a chain was a mistake."

I nodded reluctantly.

They never understood the weight of a chain, even at the end.

As good of a friend as they were, they treated their power lightly and ran away from the outcome.

The forceful extraction of the power they had only made things more bitter.

By then, I no longer mattered to them, easily replaced by a simpler, more happy, enjoyable life.

That power was earned with blood, struggle and torture. By someone who would never accept them using their powers so lightly. And like poison...

I looked at the corpse.

They would have fallen the same way.

I calmed down after getting us some drinks stashed in the wall and leading us out from the dusty and dreary ancient archives.