Yo! This is my first story in English, so please be kind.

------------------------------------------------------------

Everything is back to normal.

The sun rises in white and sets in red. The moon rises in blue and sets in yellow. The night comes in black and goes too soon.

My days are endless.

The sun rises and sets. The sun cuts through the hall windows, flickers on tiny specks of dust. The sun touches the blades I hold.

The blades I hold on to.

I am here every day now. What used to be a necessity to maintain or improve my skills has become an addiction. I love the tender caress of the metal when I move the blades against my skin, the tiny marks that would fill with blood if I pressed a little harder. But I don't. They are sharp. And I'm precise.

So I move silently, with sun in my eyes, all the moves known by heart seem to calm me down for a while. This is the peace I need after a sleepless night. This is the drug I need.

Everything is back to normal. Everything but me.

I can hear him clapping his hands silently. He knows I live for this. A few more steps and I am done. I bow my head, awaiting his approval.

Sometimes I think of those few more steps. Back and towards him, the blades above my head, one fluid motion, too fast for him to see, but the sudden fear is there in his cold blue eyes just the moment before.

I began to relish the fear. I know it. He knows it.

He tilts his head and beckons.

Come to breakfast, Ian.

*

He won't speak.

The clattering of the dishes, the sound of a liquid being poured into a glass.

The light breeze is moving the window curtains, the sun playing hide and seek on the rug and his leather shoes. He shifts uneasily and I catch his teaspoon before it falls to the floor. I hand it to him and his lips curve in that half-smile that vanishes before it really is there.

But it was there nevertheless. I saw it.

We moved to this room with our meals permanently, I guess. There is something about him now that needs the sun, the light, the fresh smell of the morning air. Maybe it reminds him of the finality of what awaits him, patient, but still there. Maybe he needs to see life again as he used to see it a long time ago.

Or maybe he just got bored with the Great Room.

I don't know. I guess I'll never know.

That first night, when I brought him home, he was so calm and quiet. He let me help him into his chair, watched me as I lit the fire. As the darkness scurried away, I saw the flames reflect in his eyes, but his own fire had extinguished.

I'm not quite sure, but I think that was the first time ever that I saw that thing in my father's eyes.

Defeat.

Oh, what a glorious victory that was, my love. A glorious victory indeed.

The taste of wine is sharp today.

I remember the sharp taste of her sweat. She was so afraid, breathing against the dusty wall, her skin crawling under my gloves. Perhaps for the first time in her life she was really afraid. I began to relish the fear. And I relished your fear too, timewalker.

You were so afraid you didn't smell my own fear, perhaps even greater. He is looking at me questioningly. He's holding that knife like a weapon, pointing to the painting on the wall. His eyes shift and I follow his gaze. He brought one of them from the Great Room. He just couldn't help it. I smile. We're both addicted.

- Yes, Father. - I reply after a while. He puts the knife down and returns to eating.

That night flashes before my eyes once more.

I couldn't watch him burn out like this, so I went to sleep, just leaving him there by the fire. It was his scream that woke me up. When I got back, he was still in his chair, rubbing his scar, muttering something I couldn't understand. I took the empty bottle from him, struggling for a while to make him release it from his clenched fingers. When I put it back on the table, I felt him move. He rose from the chair, well, at least he tried. I was by his side in a split second and then we both fell to the floor. My body twisted against my will and I fell on my back, protecting him from harm. He landed heavily on me, his hand gripping my neck, his knuckles white.

His eyes were wide and locked on mine. His cheeks flushed red and a small vein pulsated madly on his forehead. He tried to say something, but instead he gripped tighter and I saw tiny red flashes dancing before my eyes. Again my body reacted first and my hands caught his wrists - why did I do it, so contrary to my training? - but then I let go. I slowly spread my arms and just waited. When my field of vision began to blur, he released me and backed off clumsily.

He never spoke since. He can't or he won't. I don't know.

I guess I'll never know.

He is looking out of the window. I shoot a quick glance at his face, searching for the signs of death catching up, but I don't find any. I quickly avert my eyes so he doesn't see my little scrutiny.

He didn't notice me doing that at first, but now I know he does. And I know it pleases him. He knows how I fear coming back home and not finding him breathing.

I stand up and wait for a second, in case he needs anything, and then I head for the balcony door.

A barely audible sound stops me. I turn around. His long white fingers quit tapping on the edge of the table and his eyes meet mine.

- Yes, Father. - I agree before I push open the balcony door and jump above the railing just for the fun of it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like it? Don't like it? Reviews appreciated :)=