Blade and Poetry

After that chaotic and scorching night, my forehead was hot.As far as I can remember, I have hardly ever had such a high fever.I was covered by Karajan on the bed in another bedroom, with a thick quilt folded on my body, and it seemed that someone gave me water and medicine in my sleep-I was so drowsy all day long, and I didn't wake up until night.

The ceiling in front of my eyes no longer shakes.I tilted my head slightly and realized that Karajan was sitting on the edge of my bed.There are many bottles and cans crowded on the bedside table, as well as an umbrella-shaped bedside lamp.

"So you don't know healing magic?" I rolled my eyes—a mild headache arose.I tried to reach out and touch him.

"Professional limitations." He pressed his hand on my quilt, "The medical students who entered the same year as me should not have graduated yet."

"Actually, I haven't learned any kind of medical runes," I said. "Medical magicians are terrifying existences. I consulted an intern back then, and we blew up several patient models together, and finally concluded— ——The trajectory of magic power penetration is too difficult to grasp. The intern complained to me that half of their magic hospital is full of half-doctors who can only prescribe medicine, including himself; only a few doctors are not bad. But the magic hospital is still more favored."

"Your fever isn't gone yet," he said. "Relax and don't tell me stories. Need some water?"

"I usually recover completely after a night's sleep." I looked at his parched lips. "You seem to need water more than I do."

He took a sip from the cup beside the bed.Unfortunately, the cup collided with a nearby medicine bottle, making a clear sound.

"Eleven o'clock tonight," he said.

"Goodnight time," I said, "Any goodnight kisses?"

Karajan smiled, bowed his head, and brushed his lips lightly across my forehead.

"There's a goodnight story," he said, "if you want to hear it."

He pulled out a copy of "Mythology of the Ancient Continent" from behind him like a conjuring, closed my eyes, and read it to me slowly from the first verse.It is a series of short stories related to gods, and the relationship between each other is chaotic-the imaginative color in it makes people laugh.I have seen some of the content in other books piecemeal, and I just revisit it at this time.

When I was about to be overwhelmed by deep sleepiness, I vaguely heard him reading "Oneiroi and Death".

"...It is said that there is a lake in the heaven. Half of it is as dark as a cloudy night, and the other half is as bright as sunlight. It was born near the opening of the passage between the heaven and the human world. When the passage was opened, the Oneiroi rolled up the bright side The water of the lake, squeezed out one by one sweet dreams and sprinkled them on the world.

"But some gods will also pass by that lake water when they go to the human world - such as the god of death. The god of death is born in the dark night, grows in the dark night, and only passes by the black lake water to harvest the dark life in the world. The soles of his feet Together with his footsteps, the splashed black lake water all mixed into the bright dreams of the human world, turning dreams into nightmares and joy into sorrow.

"Oneiroi couldn't bear to see his hard work ruined, so he jumped into the lake, and didn't jump out again until a year later. The black and white lake was muddied by him from the bottom of the lake; since then, there is no distinction between black and white. There are sweet dreams and nightmares, which become common occurrences every day. The Oneiroi is still sitting by the lake, and the God of Death often passes by the lake..."

I heard his story getting farther and farther away from my memory, couldn't help moving my tongue, and said, "Your story is different from the ones I've heard."

"Really?" he said.

"How do I remember that Oneiroi finally split Death in two?" I said, becoming more and more sure that my memory was correct, "The black half of Death sank to the bottom of the lake, and the washed white half grew into a new Death. From then on, he only passed by the Oneiroi side, and the soles of his feet would never bring up black lake water—”

I didn't open my eyes, but I felt that the bedside lamp was suddenly turned off.It seemed that something fell together with the darkness, and it was unexpected in a trance.I heard Karajan's voice—it was ringing in my ears right now.

"Because the Oneiroi here fell in love with the God of Death." He whispered teasingly.

His fingers dug into my hair, and there was a steady stream of elusive magic coming from there.He chanted a spell softly for a long time, as if he was whispering and confiding; I wanted to open my eyes, but found that this wish was also wrapped in layers of magic power, engulfing me and falling into the abyss together, splashing water.

Those water splashes were bounced to a high place, suspended above the sky, and then mysteriously expanded continuously.Every splash of water unfolded into a mirror, in which my past was shown sequentially, and then slowly cracked into powder, completely scattered back to the depths of my thinking.

Karajan's hand has been quietly withdrawn, but I am still immersed in the effect of the spell, and I am getting more and more sleepy.This feeling is gradually overshadowing all my physical sensations, but I still want to look into Karajan's eyes; this thought seems to be noticed by him.He put his fingers over my eyelids, and there was a gentle touch on my forehead.

"Good night," he said.

Then the only temperature left.The door was closed, and I stayed alone in this quiet small space, and the memories of returning home gradually overwhelmed me.

I can finally remember: it was the same hand at that time, holding the back of my head full of tenderness, selfish, impulsive and desperate, separating me from the darkness of the past, imprisoning me in a cavity of tenderness on its own initiative, In exchange for my worry-free and happy.At that time, Vicente's impression of the family was still chaotic and remained in the four-person period, and his country was still peaceful and serene; he stayed with his lover, and his lover also owned him.

——And Alvin Karajan finally let go of his hand.

He let go of his hand, so my memory came full circle the next morning.

They're not as heavy as I'd imagined; I seem to already know what I'm going to do next.

Everything is still the same as the first day I came to his house.On the chair next to my bed were folded laundry, and on top of it was a note with a Charon flower attached, which read:

"Good morning. I'm very sorry. And: I'm waiting for you in the restaurant. - AC"

Karajan sat in the same place at the long table and asked what I would like for breakfast as he had done that day.I didn't ask anything because he said "wait a minute".After the meal, he said "wait a moment" again, invited me to a piano room, sat in front of the piano and played a piece for me.Then he brought a heavy handbag to me, saying that it contained some things I left behind.When I took it, I saw that familiar medal was still on his wrist.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" he asked quietly.

"Yes." I said.

"You know that Columdunam is not as perfect as you think." He said.

"I just can't just sit back and watch. It's a deep-rooted choice." I think of the "East Shore Chronicle"; I understand now that Adrilan's "East Shore" is not about the East Shore of Columbus, It is east of the Liucang River in Puguo. "I can't put the past and the present together and argue about right and wrong."

"I see," he said.

"Is it stupid?"

"No," he said, "I have nothing better to offer you."

He asked about my next plan, and I told him that I would go to the Land of Evernight first.

"The Land of Eternal Night is in the Second City. You just need to go straight north from here. It is more desolate and dangerous. There are many swamps." Karajan said, "Are you looking for Chen Yang's widow?"

He probably found out that I came through the magic circle in his home, and speculated that I overheard his conversation with the bishop that day.

I nodded to him.

"I have paper birds," I replied.

I suddenly felt that it was a little too unreasonable for two people with opposite positions to stand face to face, to confess to each other calmly, and to have a daily interactive conversation-maybe this was the last time in recent years.

Karajan asked me to wait on the terrace, turned back after a while, and handed me a silver stone.

"This is a relic of an old man." He said, "Please bring it to Chen Yang's widow for me."

I complied with his request.I was familiar with that silver stone, but I didn't remember when I saw it, so I put it next to my body first.

Karajan watched me hop onto the patio and asked me, "Do you still want my roses?"

His molten fire fell into his hands.I twisted out the paper bird from the bag and shook my head slowly.

"I can't have it," I said. "I think you'll need it next. For protection or something."

He seemed to be smiling wryly: "It means something different to me than you think."

"After the war," I said, "or when everything is over—if you and I are alive, we'll drop everything and I'll take your rose. It's a testimony. Before that, we Just separate for a short time, and fight each other under the light, and no one needs to violate anyone's belief."

He was stunned, and sure enough he didn't insist on it anymore, and his expression showed some cheerfulness that was rare in recent days; the molten flame he was holding tightly was taken back by him.

"Okay," he said, "if we do meet on the battlefield, Vicente—then I will show no mercy."

"Just what I want," I said.

He stretched out his hand, and I bent down carefully and gave him a high five.

"You want to send me?" I said.

"I see you leave," he said.

I looked at him—his eyes were like transparent steel.I had a presentiment that, with my departure now, something must be extinguished there, announcing the death of a period.But I can still see the traces of the burn there—with our unfinished umbrella, and the unfinished "Mountain Country."

I remembered that he avoided me after the first spell, and kept himself firmly in a corner, only I kept knocking on his door, letting joy and pain flow out of that gap.He had suppressed both his fear and his longing to confess for too long; and when he finally decided to confess, he didn't even ask me if I loved him.

He didn't even mention it, as if he wanted to push everything back to the original point with the help of the airflow that was blown when I flew away; even though we all understand that this time belongs to the memory of these three months, and will not be destroyed by anyone, any means and force. erased.

"And one last thing, Karajan," I said to him from a height, "do you think all those sweet words were my amnesiac nonsense? I can assure you now that what I told you the night before Those words are true. They always count."

Before he could respond, I half-kneeled down on the narrow table and began to inject a rune that I had never drawn before.The sharp edge of the paper bird cut my index finger, and blood dripped on the pattern I drew—the magic pattern radiated brightly in an instant, reflecting a little blood, and expanded a faint beam of light.

"Vicente?" His belated question was cold and sharp.

Karajan reacted more violently than I expected.He took a quick step towards me and shot a beam of light from his fingertips, as if he wanted to interrupt me, but both he and the magic were blocked by the barrier formed when the oath was established.

"What kind of oath do you want to swear?" His voice paused, as if it was squeezed out from his throat, "Why do you want to swear?"

But the process of establishing the oath meant that I couldn't answer him at this moment.In addition to his voice, there are many other voices floating through my head at the same time.

"The number of times an oath can be sworn is limited. When a magician swears an oath, it is often on the premise that he has no choice but to be coerced by others to make a promise, making him bear the curse of 'breaking or dying'." Professor Ryan once told me explain.

"Don't always mention the 'swear oath' lightly, the price of violating it cannot be repaid." This is Mr. Smith's warning.

"It is an ancient, true oath—more valid than any empty promise. It represents an end that cannot be reversed." A spell book that instinctively reads itself reads.

I was very close to Karajan, separated by a thin barrier, but I didn't dare to look into his eyes.

I think I made this oath not to try to prove something to him, nor to seal it into a shackle of myself.I weighed it long before I could boldly bring it out—it came at will.When I first conceived it, I just thought that if its premise no longer exists, then my life must have reached a very boring point.So it followed, and I said it.

"The supremacy of magic and axioms are evidence, and blood is a libation: the magician Vicente Shaw swears here. If in the future, I no longer have the same enthusiasm for Alvin Karajan as I do today I will no longer give him all my romance, nostalgia and affection, or give it to others indifferently; I would like to be pierced through my heart by the hand of fate at that moment, and my body will be wiped out, and my soul will never be reincarnated .”

I probably pronounced those ancient languages ​​correctly word for word.I lowered my head, and the light of those magic lines became dim under my hands.

I heard Karajan muttering from the side: "You don't take my love, but you want to give me your love generously?"

I opened the paper bird Ord had prepared for me and jumped on its back.Karajan didn't move, even after the barrier faded—as if he had forgotten how to move.I flew to him, leaned over, and pressed his lips briefly.

The wind outside the castle was loud, almost drowning out the whistling sound of the magic beam chasing after me.I recognized it as the reddish light of a comet, and almost startled people and birds, only to find out that they had no intention of attacking.

They are so dense and continuous; it is the first time I have seen someone who can control low-level magic so well, the converging light beams are like a large rain of light, and each one contains tenacious magic power.They circled around me one after another, drawing graceful and forgiving arcs one after another, surrounding me without crossing the line at all.Unlike the trial conveying the original intention of "Comet Weaving", it looks like a shimmering send-off.

I stopped at a hotel briefly after a long flight.I found that in addition to my small book for writing poems, there were some drinking water and gold coins in the handbag.The innkeeper complained to me that the business was bleak, most of the local young and middle-aged people went to recruit, and the old merchants no longer came and went from his desolate place.I answered nonchalantly and went back to my room.

I think back to what happened hours ago.At that time, I turned my head and looked at him for a short time, and I was even afraid to look at his expression too much. I only saw the morning light winding down the golden-red hair-other than that, I never remember something.

But what I know in my heart is that I was allowed to love him only then, in that early morning, or some other similar moment, when one forgets for a moment the tumult of the world; The gap where eyes meet and souls blend.

I took out the small book of poetry, and turned to the interlayer at the bottom of the page, trying to take a look at the familiar portrait.There is still a piece of paper sandwiched there, but the face on the paper is no longer the face I imagined—the young man in the painting rests his arms on the edge of the terrace, looking up at the huge constellation of stars in the sky.Although the constellations in the sky are beautifully painted, none of them are as touching as the people in the paintings.He seemed to turn his head in the next second and smile at the people outside the picture.

There are two lines of small characters handwritten on the side of the painting, which are the fonts I am familiar with:

"If there were streams and mountains in my way

only become his brows and eyes"