Dust

I

The house is still.

The lights have long since been extinguished, and the place I call home sits in a gray solitude. Mother sleeps in the next room, Finn is resting in his own room next to hers, and I stand at the front door.

I know that what I'm doing will get me grounded. Mother is adamant about making sure I only patrol in the day time; she tells me to leave the night shifts for the "more experienced," but I know what it's really about. She is afraid of losing to me as she lost her husband, as I lost my father.

I am stronger than she thinks I am.

Before I go, I turn once more to survey my silent surroundings. In the darkness, and with my one good eye, I can make out the silhouettes of the countertop in the kitchen, the chairs waiting to be sat in at the breakfast bar. Moonlight glistens on the stainless steel of the refrigerator in an oblong shape, like a new moon all together.

Beyond the kitchen, I can see what used to be my father's favorite chair, sitting unused near the hearth since his death. I see him sitting there, sharpening his knife, and me watching from the floor in wonderment. I'll teach you, my Gem. I'll teach you to fight, just like me.

I exhale, and turn away. I'll be back here before the sun rises, and Mother will never even know I was gone. I take my father's knife, the one he was sharpening that day, and sheath it. It slides into its usual place on my hip, making me feel comfortable with its weight.

Then I vanish.

The night's brisk, but it isn't cold. The summer months have came by now, and when the sun is up, the heat is brutal and merciless. Night is only the time anyone can escape it, especially the ones of us with a painful light sensitivity.

I march through the silent neighborhood, walking the distance of the road. When I meet the edge of it, where the community of houses turns into the road to the city, a lone streetlight flickers on. I see two eyes, as crimson as blood, watching me from underneath it, and then a figure seems to materialize.

He steps into the light, his long legs moving with an elegance my years of training have yet to give me. The tone of his skin is pasty white, as pale as a star, and his hair is the color of ink. "Gemma," he says.

I approach him with a smile, and throw my arms about him, pushing my cheek against the leather protective gear he wears. He chuckles and hesitantly returns the embrace. "Excited to see me, are you?"

"Always, Damien," I say. "Always."

He gives me a pat on the head, and I step back, peering up into his face. I can almost see the outline of the bones beneath his face; his skin is thin and dead, as is the rest of him. But he is my Damien, nevertheless, and he has been my companion since my father began to train me. He knew Father well, perhaps even better than me.

"Have you had your fill?" I ask him as we begin to make our way to the trees, which mark the place where Maris ends and the unknown begins.

He gives me a sideways glance; without the light of the street lamp, his red eyes are dull and misty, a sort of maroon. The narrow angles of Damien's eyes tell me the story of his heritage. "Enough," he says. "It's only a patrol, anyhow—"

"You don't know that we won't come across anything," I argue. Damien grunts, only because he knows I'm right. "So if you only drank a little and you're weak and stupid because of it, that's your fault."

Damien's expression is one of blatant surprise for a moment, before a knowing grin spreads across his face. "If that is the case," he says, his voice leisurely and milky, "if I am weak and stupid, then is it not, as my partner, your duty to assist me?"