Book Of Demons And Misfortune [Tom Riddle]

~ Chapter three ~

~ Sciamachy ~

TW : drinking

*note to readers who don't see my message board updates, I changed the timeline to the 40's, so there are one or 2 name changes, apologies 💜

○●•《¤》•●○

○●•《¤》•●○

September, 1942

A calmness streaked across the bedroom walls as a beam of light caught the tips of Mace's fingers. It was entirely false, but she preferred an imaginary landscape to the smog. She'd always found the saying that light prevails above all else rather daft. Shadows were a plague caused by the living, and despite how moral and impartial a person could be, blinking in the face of veracity was a common feat.

Darkness too took the form of placing a hand over the eyes of the just.

Crossing her legs on the hardwood floor, Mace finally settled with a journal precariously placed on her lap.
What had started with sketches of the shadow demon had soon risen to the swirls of charcoal over the page.

She'd never been the artist of the family.

A coating of dust smudged up her arms, leaving her in a state of despair to the eyes of other. Mace was simply avoiding the ache in her wrists. She had a routine to everything, usually involving distraction, whether that meant creating an even bigger issue by slamming the hurt body part to the ground or pressing hard with a piece of stationary.

The hurt had started in her sleep, and she'd been forced to block out the sounds of her room.

It wasn't something that she could take away, the aching was a persistent clutch in making her feel worse. Something bound to her like immortal knives struck through her joints, cutting away at her.

Something fumbled behind her door, causing her to pause and flex her hand. A glass bottle was in reach, and a quill, and a pin. She counted the sharp objects as she listened for any further movement.

"Are you awake?" William rapped his knuckles on her bedroom door. Mace felt akin to a broken hourglass as the sweat over her skin broke only to feel herself bead with further pain.
"No," She whispered curtly, a voice she reserved for when she truly didn't want to be bothered. William threw his whole weight against the wood before dragging his hands along the surface to elicit shrieks from the friction.

He huffed again when she refused to answer him, "Let me in. Please?"
"I'll think about it, come back later." She heard a rustling before the door handle started to shake. Her cousin sighed and swung the door open.
He of course no longer had the trace, and had used every possible moment to use his magic, including sending an arsenal of paper planes soaring across the ceiling of her bedroom carrying notes of poor quips.