Page 77 of Gift from the Source
Except in this situation…
I don’t need the gift of sight to know you’re sitting in your pocket dimension, ignoring the room I designed just for you.
Unfortunately for you, nephew, what you’re looking for, you won’t find here.
You’re going to have to look there.
Not shadow in, pluck a book off the shelve, and go hide in my bedroom to read it. Nor will you be able to just tear it apart and find what you seek.
The answers you need will reveal themselves where it all started.
You just have to look, Cas.
Uncle Orien xoxo
My chest falls in heavy pants as I hop to my feet and glare at the letter in disbelief. Predictable. How dare he?
Except for the fact I’m doing exactly as he thought I’d be doing.
“You sneaky bastard… And that fucking bird,” I grit, gripping the letter in my hand and shadowing out.
As I appear out of the cloud of darkness in the bedroom I’ve spent minimal time in since we entered the south wing, I look back down at the letter.
He knew I wouldn’t be receptive to finding comfort here. Not yet anyhow. He knew I’d need a push, but only when the time was right. If anyone had tried to force me to indulge in this room before I was ready, I’d have avoided it even longer.
You just have to look, Cas.
Laying the letter down on the side table, my eyes bounce around the room. I’ve seen it plenty, yes, but I usually do as my uncle called me out about. If I want a book, I shadow in, take it, then leave. When I shower in here, I shadow straight to the bathroom and straight out.
The longest I’ve allowed my gaze to linger was the first time I saw it. Now I take in every detail, large or small.
The walls, barely noticeable through the shelves that line them, are painted darker than the other bedrooms. There’re no windows, keeping my privacy my own, just how I like it. The cool breeze flowing through the air chills my skin. It’s even colder than I’d actually prefer it, but the bite is warmed by the low burning never-ending fireplace.
It provides the exact amount of comfort I want.
The bookshelves on all four walls are organized by genre. I know just by the titles on some of the spines. One of the walls is so full, you can’t see the wood back and I’m not sure how that plank is holding up the weight.
On the others, there’re trinkets that separate the books. They aren’t just for show, though. They have relevance to the books surrounding them.
I take my time exploring my room.
In my own way.
My fingers trace the spines, and my mind spits off quotes or facts that I know are inside the covers. Some of these writings, I could tell you the exact page you’d find the information on. I wipe off imaginary dust from the décor and shelves as I slowly glide around the square space.
It was all designed with my exact wants and needs in mind.
Although my heart races, I’m not as enthusiastic or bouncy as my Primary would be. I’m not as cheery or loud as the dragon. I’m not as observant as Corentin. And I’m not as calm and balanced as Tillman.
I’m a little of everything.
I’m excited, nervous, analytical, understanding, fascinated, and above all…appreciative.
The shitty way I treated my uncle in his remaining time with us didn’t deter him from creating something just for me. Not only that, but it’s perfect. It’s a sanctuary. It brings me almost as much peace as my own pocket dimension.
My roaming ceases when I reach the stone carving of the letter V placed center on the mantel above the fireplace. On either side of it are the books on the Vito family. Some have been written by scholars who don’t know fuck all anything about us. I find enjoyment reading those because they’re hilariously inaccurate.
The largest of the bunch is my favorite. It’s been passed down through our family, written by members who actually lived the accounts mentioned.
