Creusus's Arc

Chapter 15 of 21

Creusus watched the thread of linen lift from his knuckle and drift toward the seated man. He watched it and did not look away. The linen was his. The old man at the docks had shown him the wrap, year after year, until his hands learned it without asking. That was his. Not Diablo's. He held that fact in his head like a stone in a fist. The pull kept working under his ribs. Another thread rose. He followed it back with his eyes, from Diablo's wrapped hand to his own, and he understood what bound them. It was not blood. It was not a sword strike a thousand years old. It was the belief that the missing piece belonged in the other man's palm. Diablo pulled because Creusus half-agreed he was a piece. As long as he agreed, the rope had somewhere to catch. He stopped agreeing. He lowered the hand that hung in the air. He let his fist open. He said, "I am not your hand. I am mine." The pull did not stop, but it thinned, as if the rope had frayed at the far end. Creusus stepped back one pace. His heel moved when he told it to.