Page 27 of The Light Falls
Angling my hip toward me, I lean up and look at the faint lines. They’re even smaller than I imagined, and any fears of someone noticing vanishes.
“Perfect.”
Lying back down, I watch while he rummages around in his supplies for a second.
Brow furrowed, he carefully pulls out a small needle and a jar of black ink. “Hold this.” He places the ink in my hand. “I’m going to do the rune first. Once it’s complete, we can add a flower or something to disguise it further, if you want.”
Intrigued with the idea of adding something beautiful to the powerful rune, I nod enthusiastically. “I like that idea. Would it need to be black, too?”
He pauses. “No. The rune doesn’t have to be black, either. I can tattoo it in another color if you want?”
“What are my options?”
He takes the black ink from me and bends over to pick up a small tray with several bottles in it. “Besides black… red, blue, green, pink, orange, or white.”
I’m not sure how much I want it to stand out. “What does white look like?”
Pink stains his tanned cheekbones. “I have one, but it’s on the inside of my hip. White isn’t as noticeable on my darker skin. Do you want to see it?”
Intrigued, I nod. He pulls down the right side of his pants really, really low and I can’t help but lick my lips.Hello Adonis belt.Just when I think I’m going to see everything he has to offer, a small white rune appears, and the reveal ends.
Swallowing the groan in my throat, I force myself to study the rune. One line goes up and down. The other looks sort of like an angular S or a lightning bolt.
He clears his throat. “Do you see it? The white color isn’t noticeable until you get closer. I think it will be perfect for a rune you want to keep incognito.”
Is his rune incognito? “What does it mean?”
Rivan stiffens. “It’s a combination of two symbols: Isa and Sowula. The single straight line represents a frozen heart, and the bolt represents the power of the sun to overcome darkness.”
Maybe I’m not asking the right question. I’m getting a rune to help with nightmares. “What does it do for you?”
The muscles of his jaw become rigid. “Gives me strength in the face of adversity. I tattooed it on me after Sima was murdered by Nyssa.”
I’d heard about Sima from Arden. One of the five MacAllister witches who was destined to survive the massacre. Unfortunately, she had not been the one prophesied to carry on their lineage, but she had met Rivan along the way and had fallen in love.
Without thinking, I lace my fingers in his. “Arden shared the MacAllister history with me. Sima must have been very brave to set out on her own, knowing she was leaving nothing but death behind her.” My thumb makes small soothing circles on his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss. If you ever want to talk about her, I’d love to hear it.”
Fingers grip mine tightly for a couple of minutes. “Maybe. One day.” Slipping his hand from mine, he pulls up his pants. “What color?”
“White. And maybe you can add a daisy to it,” I answer, putting my head back down on my left arm. There are several of them in the garden, and I can’t think of anything better than to have Rivan add something that reminds me of him.
Sitting on the stool, he gets his tools and the white ink and sets them up on a small tray on the chaise. He leans over my hip and begins.
Warmth from his body covers me, and the cocoon makes me feel safe. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“My mother taught me. She was born a daughter of Avalon. The Fae who lived on the sacred island for thousands of years developed different magic than those born in the Land of the Fae. She could infuse runes with her power,” he murmurs, never looking up from his task.
Avalon disappeared long before I was born. “How old are you?”
The corners of his mouth twitches, and he stops what he’s doing. Silent for a moment, I can almost see him counting in his head. Suddenly, a devastated look crosses his face.
“Four thousand one hundred and thirty-three years old.” He picks up his tools and resumes his task.
Damn, damn, damn.I mentally smack myself on the head.
The rebellion was almost three thousand years ago, which means he’s spent most of his very long life here. A prisoner, enduring a seemingly endless sentence. A wave of sadness washes over me. Am I ever going to get this friendship right? It feels like I keep making mistakes with him.
Heaving a disgusted sigh, I lay my hand lightly on his shoulder. “Sorry, old man.” The words slip out, and my eyes widen in horror. When he turns to look at me incredulously, I bust out laughing and groaning at the same time.
