Creusus's Arc

Chapter 19 of 21

Creusus stood in the bungalow at first light and unwrapped his hands. The black material peeled back like wet cloth, but a thin film clung to his skin beneath. He rubbed at it with his thumb. It did not come off. He dragged his knuckles across the stone wall until they bled, and the black seeped back through the cut and closed it. He sat down. The orb on the floor watched nothing. Inside himself he could feel the rest of the power humming low, small, patient. He had cut out the worst of it and sealed it in the shell. What was left was quieter, but it was not gone. He closed his eyes and reached for it the way he had reached before. This time he did not try to pull. He held it. He felt its shape and its weight and asked it what it wanted to be. It answered with heat under his skin and a slow pressure in his wrists. He thought of the post at the training grounds. He thought of the old man at the docks and the way the man's fingers moved over the net, tying knots without looking. Creusus opened his hands. He fed a thread of the power down into the black film on his knuckles and told it to lie flat. The film thickened, then thinned, then settled into the shape of wrappings. Clean lines. Even tension. He flexed his fingers. The power sank back and went still. He tried a slow punch at the air. Nothing sparked. Nothing hummed. It was only his fist, wrapped, ready. He understood then. He could not scrape the magic out. He could shape it. He could hold it in a small pocket under the skin and leave it there until he called for it. For the tournament he would call for none of it. He would fight the way he had always fought. The power would wait. He picked up the black orb and set it in the bottom of his pack, wrapped in a spare shirt. The cracks on its surface pressed faintly against his palm, and the thing inside pushed back and found the shell and gave up. He tied the pack shut. He was whole in the way a man is whole after he has cut off a bad finger and lived. The worst of Diablo was locked in the orb. The rest was his to spend or save. He rolled his shoulders, wrapped his knuckles once more out of habit over the black skin, and walked to the door. The next bout was on the card. He meant to finish what he had started.