Ansel took the sketch, studying it carefully. The sword's hilt was intricately designed. A dragon curled at the bottom end, its scales shimmering in the painted light.
The handle formed a cross, and embedded in the blade's center was a crystal that seemed to glow faintly even on the canvas.
"I see. It means Heka is in danger." Ansel murmured.
"Don't worry because it won't let him die or hurt him just like that. I'm sure he will be fine and cared for. What about Lorena? Has she got the crystal?" Mr. McVeigh's eyes were steady, reassuring.
He understood what it meant to keep what Mr McVeigh meant. There was only one possibility; the spirit was after something inside Heka's body. But there was another possibility. It needed him. He hoped it wasn't something bad.
"I don't know. I will ask her then. Grandpa, will this sword be the same as Excalibur?" Ansel's eyes sparkled with a mixture of hope and curiosity as he held the sketch of the sword carefully in his hands.
Mr. McVeigh chuckled softly, the sound warm but tinged with gentle amusement. "Of course not."
Ansel's face fell slightly, disappointment creeping in. He had imagined something extraordinary, a sword imbued with magic and destiny, like the fabled Excalibur.
He muttered, almost to himself. "It looks boring. If only I had a sword like Excalibur, I wouldn't have to worry because only Ansel was holding it. Then can this sword become an Excalibur?"
"Impossible. Stop imagining impossible things!!!" His grandpa's voice was gentle but carried the weight of experience, as if he had seen too many dreams shattered by harsh realities.
Ansel sighed, the spark of his imagination dimming but not extinguished. "Okay…"
"It's better for you to see Heka's condition." Mr. McVeigh said, his tone shifting to something more serious, more urgent.
"Okay." Ansel nodded, folding the sketch carefully and tucking it away.
***
Heka's condition looked so helpless. His body lay frail and motionless on the bed, the pale skin stretched taut over his bones, and his breathing shallow and uneven.
Though the blood in the bowl beside him was not yet completely full, Mr McVeigh decided to end it. The risk of pushing Heka further was too great.
"Ansel, remove the needle." Mr. McVeigh instructed firmly but gently. Ansel nodded, carefully withdrawing the thin needle from Heka's wrist.
The slight sting of the removal was followed by a faint trickle of blood, which Ansel quickly wiped away with a clean cloth. He then cleaned the injection site meticulously, ensuring no infection could take hold.
He reached for a small jar of balm and began to smear it softly over Heka's wrist, massaging the sore area with practiced hands.
"Afterward, your hands will feel very sore." Ansel explained quietly, his voice a soothing balm in itself.
Heka stirred, attempting to lift himself from the bed, but Mr. McVeigh's steady hand pressed gently but firmly on his shoulder.
"Lie down first, you must be very weak. Hold on for a while. Your energy will be back soon." Mr McVeigh said with quiet authority, his eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and resolve.
"Mr McVeigh, Ansel, thank you very much." Heka's voice was faint but sincere.
"It's okay. Just take a rest first." Ansel replied softly, exchanging a glance with Mr. McVeigh before they quietly left the room, leaving Heka alone to recover.
Outside the room, Ansel held the bowl containing Heka's blood, the dark liquid swirling ominously in the dim light.
"Grandpa, what about this blood?" Ansel asked. his voice tinged with uncertainty.
"Pour it into the Passiflora." Mr. McVeigh instructed without hesitation.
Ansel carried the bowl carefully to the small potted Passiflora plant resting on the windowsill. As he poured the blood onto the soil, the tiny purple petals of the flower began to shift, slowly turning a deep, vivid red.
A chill ran down Ansel's spine. He felt a growing restlessness, a dark premonition settling over him like a heavy fog. Something was coming. Something far worse than the Bloody Marriage he had feared.
****
It was almost midnight, but even Ansel couldn't find rest. The weight of the day's events pressed heavily on his mind, twisting his thoughts into restless knots.
Ansel made his way to Heka's room, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. Peering inside, he saw Heka lying peacefully, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Relief washed over Ansel like a gentle tide.
"He has slept quietly. His insomnia must have disappeared." Ansel whispered to himself.
Something was missing, something important that he had forgotten. He tried to grasp it, but the memory slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Determined to find answers, Ansel moved on to the next room. He hoped Mr. McVeigh was still awake. With a tentative knock, he called out softly. "Grandpa… are you already asleep?"
There was no answer, but the door creaked open slowly. Mr. McVeigh stood there, eyes tired but alert, holding a worn Bible in his hands. He hadn't gone to bed yet.
Ansel stepped inside and sat beside him, the quiet companionship a balm to his restless spirit.
"What are you thinking about?" Mr. McVeigh asked, closing the Bible gently and setting it aside.
Ansel sighed, his gaze distant. "There are so many things that I thought. One of them is why doesn't he come to Heka?"
"Just wait until tomorrow." Mr. McVeigh replied calmly, though his eyes betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
"Can it be all because of the spirit that doesn't go away either? What do you think?" Ansel frowned, pressing further.
Mr. McVeigh shrugged slightly. "I don't know. At least it's harmless and doesn't interfere with Heka, who will get Soul Delivery."
"But I thought that spirit is the barrier. I'm sure there's something behind it. I don't know what it is. I can't bear to see it." Ansel insisted, his voice low and tense.
"Don't force yourself. It's better to try to rest right now. Tomorrow your days will be tough." Mr. McVeigh placed a reassuring hand on Ansel's shoulder.
Ansel nodded slowly, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. "Okay, I will sleep first. Good night."
He left the room and returned to his own, the clock on the wall glowing softly. It already past one in the morning. He laid down, pulling the blanket over himself, and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come.