Pepper / INK /

Keeping the Ink (Daniel)

Daniel had slept much longer than he intended. He had gone to his shop to check things out, hung the "Closed for Observance" in his window, and managed to make it home without crashing his jeep.

At home, he had stumbled in about High Moon, and slept till sunrise, and then he had dragged himself out of bed, eaten, and gone back to sleep.

He kept the house in ’night mode’ that is reflecting moon magic, with the windows closed tight against the sun. The dim blue-white light felt good to him, soothing after long hours in the sun.

When he woke again, it was dark again. He’d slept the entire day. He got up, made food and set his alarm.

When the alarm went off a couple hours after Sunrise, he felt like a much better person than he had been. He even felt good enough to make himself a breakfast with a flick of the wrist and a muttered spell instead of walking around the house.

After breakfast, he drank his coffee while the water in the bathroom ran. For an Inkwalker, baths were not cleanliness, they were ritual. When he wanted to be clean, he usually took a shower, and when he wanted his ink, he bathed.

He sat down in the large, claw-footed soaking tub, the hot water taking the chill from his bones. The fact that he was this cold worried him, it meant he had used far too much energy. That he had nearly died; that they had nearly died. For his death could also kill the Ink. Sometimes the Ink could survive when the host lost power, sometimes even taking all the host form had there was not enough power to keep the Ink. And it would fade to dust, and the memories of all who had been Inkwalker were gone, lost to the four winds.

Most of the danger of wearing himself out was because he didn’t allow himself to be ’naked.’ Inkwalkers used that word differently than most magic users or Mortals. To an Inkwalker, naked meant "Without Ink." In that condition he was mortal. But it was the only time his body could truly recover. Besides the fact that he could be injured or killed like a normal human, without benefit of his ink for rescue, naked also meant that his body tried to catch up to its real age. At nearly a hundred and forty, he was about fifty years older than most of the old men.

There were two reasons for this hesitancy. The first was that he had no keeper. Max, his best friend and Keeper had left six years ago. Fled to Alhadid albarid, a place he could not follow. The second reason was the Rogue Inkwalker. He’d heard the reports. The new Services officer in town. Honestly, he’d been too busy chasing John to watch the speech or he might have saved himself a lot of trouble. But he’d been out, and then he’d been unconscious.

He rubbed a cold spot out of his hands, noticing that they were chapped in that way that only magic users could get, the uniform dusty dryness of the magic taking all the power and moisture from your hands. They weren’t bleeding, and that was good, losing blood now would be a bad thing. Magic was in the blood, everyone knew this. Magic was in the blood, and that was why those who used the blood magic were so powerful, they used unrefined, undiluted magic, but they had to kill to do it.

Finally, he sighed and tried to bring his thoughts back to where they needed to be. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath trying to hear the voice of the Ink. The little bit of the ink that stayed behind allowed him to connect with the Ink.

"Walid alqamar yahmini," The words slipped from his mouth with the ease of long practice as he doused the water over his head and shoulders. "Bender herhangi bir kirlilik." He said pouring more water over himself. "Hab li quwwatan bu burclari yurut mek," He drenched himself with a dipper of water again, "Habli alssalam," dipper of water, "ban sabir ver," dipper of water, "hab li aleaql". Finally he pulled down the bottle, holding it up to the moonlight that reflected from the tiles, he spoke one last time. "Walid algamar yahmini"

After the last words had died from his lips he uncorked the glass bottle and poured it into the water, then he dipped the glass bottle in the bath and poured the sweet-smelling water over himself another seven times. After the second set of seven, the water roiled around him, bubbling and turning inky black. Strings of ink began to settle onto him and he ducked his head under the water a final seven times and the strings of ink settled into tattoos that flashed blue-white, and he was inked for the day.

The process wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable. As the Ink took its customary places there was a dim discomfort or pain, but one he had felt so many times he looked forward to it. For Inkaru was truly his oldest friend, and he looked forward to the strong voice in his head.

We are here friend. The ink said to him. He could feel the Ink as much as he could hear him. And the Ink, being part of a hive-mind does not understand the concept of alone. It is never alone, it always has the imprint of every human that has ever been bonded with it. And each time it bonds it changes, it becomes what this particular human needs to survive.

It seemed a moment later when he opened his eyes, but he knew he must have been lost in thought a while since the water was cold. Daniel ran a hand over his tattoos, a habit borne of the legends of the maladies that made the ink run. A terror of any Inkwalker.

There were only two tattoos that did not come off when Inkaru left, the first was the crescent moon on the back of his neck, and the second was the heart-and-dagger on his right forearm, those two were not given to him by Inkaru. Those were taken with a needle. Payment for the ability to bear the ink and bond to keep the statutes that kept him from being judged by the ink.

He got out of the bath, drying off and padding out to the bedroom to dress. He idly itched at the tattoo on his right forearm, like all Inkwalker Ink it had more than one meaning. It was a sign to protect your heart, the reason he had asked for it. A reminder that he was sometimes too driven by emotion, or too easily heartbroken. And it was, he found out later, the sign for hardship and betrayal. He had survived both.

Fully inked, he seemed to have gained weight. He looked healthy and well-fed, not like the starvation victim he had looked like when he came from Claire’s and took his ink off.

He dressed in a tunic of deep blue with silver brocade and military coat over the top, and leggings that matched. At the shop he would often strip to just an undershirt while he worked, because no matter how much he cooled the shop he was usually warm, and he didn’t like the way the top draped into his work.

His hand fell on the dusty rolled carpet in the front-room and he patted it lovingly. There had been a time he would have ridden his carpet to work, but with the blight messing with the magic, there wasn’t enough magic for the collectors and the crops, let alone the conveyances. But hopefully some day they would find out what had caused the blight and fix it so that there was enough magic for all again.

#

She had braved the streets by moonlight, putting aside her ingrained fear that the Prince had driven into her, that the Lunars were evil, and only like the darkness because it hid evil deeds.

As Claire walked, she was surprised to find the whole side was different from the Solar sides. The Solars used gaslights after sundown. People out basking in the warm evening, taking advantage of the coolness to go for a walk after dinner.

Out toward the lunars, where she had parted, was what the Lunars called "the gloaming’ where the last rays of the gaslamp met the white-blue light of the moon.

The lunar side, to her surprise was not dark. The very stone walkways glowed blue-white, the fountains, during the day were beautiful, at night, with the water reflecting the moonlight, they were mesmerizing, and she found herself staring at one.

"The moon light your way." She heard the lunars say with a happy voice and a bow and a smile. She had always gone out of her way to stay in the Solar sections after work, staying under the gaslights even though it meant walking much farther to get home. Today she cut straight through the Lunar Section where she had found out The Illustrated man was.

She carried with her a take-out box and a thermos of coffee, knowing he probably hadn’t eaten she hoped to catch him since everyone said that he never left before full dark.

She hurried as the building came into view, stopping to gawk as the building glowed under the light of the moon, a dark stripe down the middle that puzzled her for a moment until she realized it was a quill pen.

She tapped on the doors, the gate was still up, but the lights were low. She shrugged the blanket over her shoulder a little higher.

After two or three knocks he came to the doors, at first he seemed irritated, and then he saw who it was and he gestured to hold on a moment while he got the key.

"My friends at the courthouse say you don’t order in, so I thought, after the other day, you could use another good meal, and some company." She looked sheepish, but she saw him stop for just a moment, go in to get his things and follow her.

It was so odd for anyone to pay attention to him, that it felt good, and for once it didn’t hurt. It had been long enough that it wasn’t immediately painful to have those feelings, it wasn’t as much a feeling of betrayal and forgetting her as it once had been.

"I’d like that." And he did. He locked up the store and the two of them walked out to the park down the block and spread out the blanket for a moonlight picnic. She’d never had one under the moon, and she had to admit, it was better than under the blazing sun. Not to mention the last time she’d had a picnic, it was at the Presidium, and it was less a happy affair, and more... empty.

They laughed, talked and ate far into the night, and then he walked her home under the moonlight. And he promised, to himself he wouldn’t rush it, but he thought he might be falling in love.

Falling? You tripped and fell flat on your face the first time she smiled at you." Inkaru chided.

The ink truly was his oldest friend. It worried about him, but it was also happy to see him having someone to care about. He had taken his last wife’s death very hard, and now that he had someone else to care for, maybe he would take more care of himself.

It could only hope. She was an honorable woman, what the ink considered a righteous man, regardless of gender. The Ink didn’t really grasp gender as it could be both or neither at will. It, or more properly, they, were just enough different that trying to explain some things was hard. The Ink, however, knew one thing, an Inkwalker in love was much preferred to one in mourning.

;>;;>;;>;;

Next Chapter: Legal Matters (custody)