My studies progressed at a snail's pace. For the past few weeks, I had barely read through Advanced Inkery twice, and I was still having severe troubles with using my imagination to sightly alter the real object. That was the main topic of the book, the only reason I was reading it, yet no matter how I looked at it, I failed. You would think removing a dent from a ring shouldn't be much of a challenge, but it proved impossibly tricky.
Frustration wouldn't be even close to describing how it felt. One time, I was removing a single scratch, nothing too difficult, and everything seemed to be working. The shape, colors, feelings, all other imperfections, everything was alright. Funny enough, I was so focused on removing the scratch, that I accidentally made all the surface perfectly smooth, which I never intended.
Don't focus too much on the details you are trying to fix; they should come naturally with the object. Let your imagination shape your mental image. I knew the book passage by heart; I had read it more than enough times, hoping it would trigger something inside me and somehow solve all my issues at once. It didn't.
Spare strongly disagreed; he would usually say, "You devour knowledge!", or "You are still young, don't rush it!" He might have been right, and I knew he actually was, but to an impatient and young mind like mine, my progress was far from enough.
Attempting to appease my growing moodiness, he let me draw other objects. For example, I practiced drawing my drawing tools. I drew food, stones, the walls of my room, everything I had within reach, really. By the way, tattooed food does not taste well. I even used both the fountain pen and the Drak'gath, but never in the same drawing. I tried it, of course, but the result was even worse than my first attempt at the ring, and it had been almost two months since that. Maybe longer, it was hard to keep track of time down here.
Spare wouldn't let me go out of our hideout by myself. According to him, it was still dangerous, those people might still be looking for me to claim my mother's debt. He wasn't at home as much as at the start, so most times he accompanied me to some secluded space outside, following obtuse and labyrinthic paths, where he left me alone for the day.
Being alone with my thoughts was a new experience, one I definitly was not used to. Since I was little, I had always been with my mother, and even when she died, I met Spare the following day. The situation was bearable, but I would lie if I didn't say that my mind, at times, wandered to dangerous places. Spare still came back every night, and we would still find time for short interchanges. As always, most of my questions were met with even more open questions. Most importantly, since the day I managed to do my first drawing, I felt him opening more to me.
"Spare, can I draw a fountain pen on my skin, invoke it, and then use it to draw something else on my skin?" To which he would respond, "why wouldn't you?"
But sometimes I struck gold.
"Spare, why is it that when I draw with the fountain pen, I feel calmed and focused, yet the Drak'gath feels chaotic and rushed? I'm using the same Ink, and according to The way of the Ink, all magic properties are on the Ink, not the Inker or their tools."
"Certainly…" he caressed his beard. It was a gesture I rarely saw in him, only when I asked something worth considering. It was also usually followed by a well-thought answer, "as much as it's true that all magic resides in the Ink, it also holds true that it must draw its power from somewhere."
"That's right, from the Inker," I said, evoking the memories of the day I draw the ring on my elbow and refraining from touching it.
"Uhum, and what purpose would the pen serve?" I was about to make a scathing remark, but he was faster and added, "aside from the obvious."
I feigned a modest laugh, acted as a good student, and quickly formed the only possible explanation inside my head. "It channels the energy from the Inker to the Ink."
"Think of yourself as a river; young, rushing with rapid waters. You have to channel this water to the Ink, but you can not just plug all of it at once, it would just overflow and end up being wasted.“ He eyed me, checking if I was still following. I nodded.
“Tools, are like tributaries of the main river. You'll find those that descend abruptly, gaining more speed than its main stem. Others make abrupt turns, spilling some water and threatening to overflow. And then, there are those slow streams that follow a set course, without deviating nor flooding." He paused for a second to let me process his words. "A shallow and slow tributary will channel water in a predicable manner, carefully, and controlled. That is the fountain pen."
"Then the Drak'gath… It’s fast, unpredicable, whimsical. I—" I wanted to say, is it unsuitable for me? But I didn't dare to. What if it wasn't? Would I have had to abandon it? No, I want to control it. “But I can not change the tool, how do I tame it?”
“Hah! Be careful not to get over your head!” He might be saying so, but I could see a shine on his eyes of genuine appreciation. “You don’t, that’s the reality. What you do is you tame the river, you train yourself. You build a damn on the river, learn the rhythm of the tool, and meticulously let the water flow when you need.”
At that moment, his explanation made sense, and I thought I had understood it. I would later realize, though, that there were more implications and ramifications behind that message than I could have imagined.
Spare waved his hand, "It will be hard; but you picked it for a reason, even if you don't know which is it. You just have to keep practicing."
Keep practicing; the mantra accompanied me during the following hours, days, and weeks. My progress was painfully slow. I eventually managed to produce, with the fountain pen, an undamaged version of the ring, but adding details that weren't there was still out of my scope. The Drak'gath was still like a wild horse, a waterfall that I barely managed to affect. I could draw a masterpiece one day, just to forget everything by the next one.
One seemingly insignificant and normal day, right after I ate my breakfast, I set a catastrophic chain of events in motion. My duties were the same as always, a long session of theoretical Inking followed by a practicing with my imagination to restore defects. I had left behind Advanced Inkery, convinced that I had already learned everything it had to offer, and moved to Ink and Mind. It delved into much more detail on the matter I was stuck on. Although Spare described it as superfluously poetic, its frequent analogies and hyperboles did a great deal to help me find the way.
That day, however, there was a particularly insistent squeak that seemed to have the goal of not letting me concentrate. If it at least had been constant, maybe I would have grown used to it. But no, the screech came and went at the worst possible timings. It is not enough to picture its new shape. Does the addition alter any other physical aspect? Is it much more subtle and introduces a change to th- Scree!
"ENOUGH!" I slammed my open palms against the rough surface of the table. "Come here, you little rat!" I had been wandering around sewers long enough to know with certain confidence the origin of those sounds. I covered the area where I last heard it, looking for a tiny blur, but my eyes were only met with dust and a few spiderwebs. Of course, how dumb can I be? My loud shout must have scared it; it has probably ru- Scree!
Motherf- I deeply inhaled and armed myself with patience. It had fled to the opposite side of the room, to the darkest corner it could find. I could have taken the candle and started a search party, but I was tired and not in the good humor to do it.
Assuming it wouldn't let me read in peace, I closed the book and took my Drak'gath. An experienced Inker would separate his emotions from work. I tried with all my being to ignore the rat, and for some time, I succeeded. All my attention was focused on the drawing; my hands were carefully guiding the mischievous pen while my eyes supervised the work. The rat had been relegated to background noise, next to the monotone and ignorable sound of water drops constantly falling from a leaking pipe by the kitchen.
"Aah!" I reflexively kicked the air, startled by the stinging sensation on my ankle. I felt as if I dragged a weight and then heard the sound of something crashing against stone. Have I killed it? I couldn't refrain from laughing, finally! The little thing had decided to approach me and bite my ankle, sentencing itself to death.
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Rushing to stand up, I scrutinized in the direction of my foot. Unmistakably, the rat was lying right next to the wall, resting on its side, and much to my disappointment, faintly breathing. It's just stunned, I said to myself. I stopped for a moment, thinking what my next steps would be. I didn't feel like killing it in cold blood, so my options reduced to either freeing it, or trapping it inside a pot.
I didn't know how Spare would feel about using a pot like this, but it was better than opening the hidden door and risking being discovered, so I set my mind up. In a hurry to find the rat, I forgot to leave the pen, so I used my free hand to get a firm grasp of the beast. It was out of combat, but I wouldn't risk awaking it and biting me again.
I took the rat, and immediately after, my vision blurred. I felt the floor come to me, or rather me collapsing into it. My head felt about to explode, as if my someone was puncturing me with millions of needles. I barely managed to have one thought, not even caring if it was logical: was the rat venomous? If any part of me was still functional, I was not in charge of it. I was a lump of flesh lying in the floor.
My body started convulsing, intense and unstoppable, like a leaf blown by strong gusts. The joints on my body bent in angles that should not be possible for a human. I felt a tingling sensation, somewhat similar to the out-of-world experience I had when drawing. I was scared to death, feeling how a body, my body, was breaking apart. I wanted to do something, anything, but it was useless; I couldn't move nor talk. Everything gradually faded away; I lost track of reality and any remaining capacity to think. What happened next… I only know through Spare's explanation and some hypothesis and speculations.
I passed out for hours, maybe days, until at some I awakened to pure and absolute darkness. I wanted to open my eyes, but there was a heavy load over my eyelids. It took me more than a minute to fetch enough strength to convince my body to obey. They slowly opened, revealing the familiar room I had been sleeping in every single day. I'm... on my bed? I wanted to get up and confirm it, but there was no way I could have done that. I didn't feel my legs; my arms were a faint memory on a corner of my brain, my whole body was screaming of pain.
However, all that suffering paled in comparison to the torment I felt in my chest. It burned; it felt like someone was rubbing a piece of hot metal, dragging it along my exposed torso. The pain was so intense that if my body responded to my wishes, I would have pulled apart my skin, tearing it up. "Nghmnhhg" I emitted some throaty noises while trying to lower my chin in a futile attempt to see what was going on.
The door opened with a bang, crashing to the wall when it fully opened. I had never seen Spare’s face like that. His blood-red eyes were hidden behind a collection of deep dark bags. I could have sworn his face had more wrinkles than before. His beard was a mess, whiter than I had ever seen. I could sense his whole body language showing honest worry, fear, and uncertainty.
Moving forward in a calm and collected way, improper of his appearance, he stood a few centimetres from me. I wanted to say something, but I just couldn't. I had to make do with blinking both eyes, trying to tell him I was awake and fine.
He crouched. His eyes were burning with pain and panic. "STUPID!" A hand moving dangerously fast followed the words and impacted my cheek. What hurt was not the slap; no, it was those words. I had done something reckless; I had distressed and upset him to the point he looked ill. I just didn't know what it was.
He left the room.
I don't know how many more hours or days I slept. At times, I would wake up, scared from nightmares I can't remember. I had the foreign sensation of turning and moving on my bed, but I can't recall any of it. My memories became a blurry mess that only started making sense the day I finally managed to stand on my own.
At times, I think it would be better if I didn’t remember any of that either. I was pitifully weak; although I could feel my legs and arms, they were shaky and unreliable, to the point that I had to lean against the wall to avoid falling. My chest still burned, like the ashes and charcoal of an old fire that still emanated heat. And it wasn't without reason. It never is.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Red! I had to look twice to confirm it wasn't blood, although it might have been less upsetting that way. I couldn't recognize the drawing; if it could even be called a drawing. All I saw were concentric circles joined by triangles and waves, lines and arcs creating alien patterns, and… glyphs. Did I...? But how?
I was closely examining the Ink on my torso when I found an oddity right above my breastbone's end. It was charcoal black, a much smaller construct, clearly not part of its red counterpart. And, even though they were not part of the same drawing, they interacted with one other. Red tentacles wrapped the strange inscription and held it in place, intentionally tying it to that exact spot on my body.
I was met with Spare as I walked outside. He wasn't smiling, but I suspected he was happy to see me. His face looked much more like the one I remembered, profound, full of knowledge. I let out a sigh that came straight from my soul. "Spare…" I adventured, not sure how I should approach the elephant in the room.
"Do you know what you did?" His eyes didn't move an inch; he was staring at me, judging if my answer was honest or if I was hiding something. I shook my head; I honestly didn't know what happened.
"The rat… It bit me, so I grabbed it…" I gesticulated, imitating the actions I did. "Then, I-I don't know. I passed out? I remember falling, it should have hurt, but I was outs-"
"Did you feel like you do when drawing?" He interrupted me, but I didn't mind because that's exactly the piece that was missing. His words made something inside me fall to place, completed a puzzle I didn't know I was doing.
"Yes! That's it! I-" I knew what I was about to say, I drew the rat, but why was I so sure of it? "I-" I hesitated but eventually continued, "-I drew the rat…"
He nodded. "And that was a stupid thing to do." His voice was neutral, calm, too deliberate and calm. "Why do you think we have never drawn any living being? Is it because they are harder to portray?"
“But, but I-” I doubted how to phrase my sentence in a way that wouldn’t just sound as excuses. “I don’t remember trying to do it, not even thinking of it if I’m honest.”
He kept quiet, clearly not thinking of giving me an answer, but waiting for me to address his original question. “They must be harder to draw, they've got all their internal organs, veins, it’s just too complicated. But-" Somehow, like a stroke of genius, I connected the missing dots. "Thoughts. They've got a mind, they've got a soul! I- I would have to capture them all, just as I did with the coldness of the ring!"
His eye blinked, not the kind of blink that leads to a wink, rather a nervous reaction. "Yes. And, no." I thought he wouldn't say anything else. Still, the gravity of the situation was such that it wasn't followed by one of his usual questions. "You trapped its body with your charcoal Ink but failed to capture his metaphysical nature. Instead, you let its mind free; you let it fight for your body. What do you think a wild rat trapped in a cage would do!?" His voice was raising, something I had never witnessed before in him. "Fight, bite, scream, DESTROY!"
I was shaking. I had set a ticking bomb inside my own body, sentenced myself to death. "The rat had a body, yours; it just needed the brain controlling it. It fought you for its control, and if it had succeeded, if I hadn't been in time…" He left the phrase unfinished; there was no need to end it, we both knew what would have happened.
"These drawings," I pointed the red Ink on my chest, "you drew them, right? Did you trap its mind?"
He bitterly laughed, as if I had just told the funniest of the jokes. "Do you know how many people in our continent, no, on this earth we walk, have ever managed to capture the mind of an unwilling living being?" He paused for a brief moment and then answered his own question. "NONE!"
"Then, why am I alive?" My question was sincere. According to all he said until now, it didn't make any sense.
"I had to use Ink of the highest grade to interfere with your formation. As you can appreciate, it wasn't easy, but the final result is one of my best works. My formation fights yours and prevents it from eating you up. Don't misunderstand, the only reason it can confine the effects of your formation inside mine is the mediocre quality of the drawing and the definitely bad Ink. If you had used the Ink on your ankle, you'd be long gone by now."
"Fo-formation?" I felt all my blood rushing to my face and tried to hid it.
"You knew?"
"I-I just, I'm not sure." I was suspicious of what had happened, but I didn't know for sure, and once again, I was too afraid to say it.
"Explain yourself." His voice didn't have any hint of doubt; either I convinced him with my explanation, or I was out of here and I could forget about him teaching me anymore.
I told him everything about the day I peeked at a book that I should have not. I forced myself to relive the events, describing with agonizing detail how that Ink and weird glyphs pushed themselves to my mind, and finally, how I fearfully left the book alone. It was brutal; I felt the formation containing that rat burning on my chest with renewed intensity as I explained it. Every time I thought of one of those glyphs, a different part of my torso itched or lighted up.
"You draw a formation that you didn't even understand…" He muttered, so low that it confirmed it was more of a spoken thought than something directed at me. His eyes were lost somewhere on the pile of books. "Maybe… no, no, that won't do," he continued whispering.
His eyes focused even if so briefly to stare back at me. "You can't draw anything until you read this book, Glyphs, Formations, and Sigils, a formal introduction." His finger pointed to a book's spine. "And, even then, I forbid you from drawing living beings."
He stood up and walked towards the exit. He was actioning the mechanism when, without turning back, he added some more words. "We'll talk once you finish it. Learn it by heart. I will decide what to do with you based on your answers."
I sunk in my chair, lost in deep and dark thoughts.