Return

I do not understand.

The anger is now a fire begging to burn down a barn and this is the most throttled my rage has been in a long time (though not ever, just since Dante taught me the ways of the fist and bludgeon and edge; it was only kindling in the dark days, only a guttering spark, but it was still there, and there is a certain anger in being broken).

Dante staggered back into the outbuilding the next morning, emergency blanket draped around his shoulders. The Bride from yesterday, the woman with the tanned skin and jagged hair, she stood near him, flanking Dante. That is where I belong. That is where I should have been.

Dante shook a little, but still managed to speak. We are leaving, he said. We are leaving now. On instinct, I stood, but I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout and stomp and hit and demand we stay, because I am Dante's neo, and he told me I was to be initiated, placed on the Path at last.

But I did none of these things. Dante saved me, after all. He took me in, clothed me, gave me a name. I owe him and my family much. Maybe, also, I can still taste Flint's blood in the air. Maybe, though that jolt ignited a frenzy, I can still picture it clearly. My fire recognizes Dante's fire, and is left cowed before its heat. That is right. That is proper.

That I can understand.

I do not understand why I was denied anointment after having it dangled before me. Nor do I understand why Graves offered Dante gas money for the return trip, and Dante laughed it off, saying he had more than enough.

I do not understand why he sat in the back seat beside me, gaze fixed upon the snow-covered country moving outside the window, while the Bride drove us home.

She introduced herself, tried talking to me.

She told me her name was Ig. She told me she will be staying with us at Dante's house, for a while, to keep an eye on him.

Dante laughed, and said he did not have a house. It'ss Trailburner's house, he said, it never felt like his home. Dante's voice was strange. It set me on edge. Ig's eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror; they are dark brown eyes. Disinterested. She did not look for long.

And now I am sitting in the living room, typing this as the fire dies. It is not unusual for Brides to work with Smoke, but I want Ig gone. She tends Dante, yet does not tell me what is wrong with him when I ask. Ig's attention sweeps over me for seconds at a time, and does not deign to return for ages. It is just like being in the shadows again.

I will wait. Dante will recover, and likely has much to tell me. This resting time can only mean a great deal of contemplation for him. He will get better soon, or at least allow me leave to share my hate once more.

At the very least, the fire burns hotter and lasts longer with Ig around.