The Infinite Night: In every magic, there's a mystery

Chapter 6: Someone to Protect

Nia'le found solace on the couch, immersed in the world of a weighty tome. The rhythmic sounds of Tassa cleaning and dusting filled the living room around him. "You might at least keep it down," he suggested, but Tassa paid no heed, diligently continuing her chores.

Without further protest, Nia'le decided to retreat upstairs, the book cradled in his left hand. Tassa's voice echoed behind him as she called out his name, a demand for attention that went unanswered. Unperturbed, Nia'le listened, curious about what she had to say.

"Clean your room, understood," Tassa declared, hands on her hips, a stern expression on her face. Her threat hung in the air, promising consequences if Nia'le failed to comply. "When I get there and I still see it untidy, I will make you wipe it using your tongue, understood?"

Nia'le, now on the ascent, rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the proposition. With a muttered response over his shoulder, he dismissed her warning. "You can't even see it."

Tassa's laughter echoed through the room, a playful imitation of Santa Claus that quickly transitioned into a serious demeanor. "Hohohoho," she chuckled, her finger raised in the air with the refinement of rich British women from days gone by. Abruptly, she shifted her focus, addressing Nia'le with a stern expression.

"I don't need to see it if I can smell it. Now, clean your room and also clean yourself," Tassa declared, her distaste for untidiness apparent. "If there is one thing that I hate the most, it's untidy, unclean, dirty, and disgusting. Now, go on, clean yourself."

Nia'le, ever the nonchalant one, rolled his eyes and couldn't resist a playful jab. "I don't like your gray dress. It doesn't look good on you."

Tassa, taken aback, placed her hands on her cheeks and blushed, batting her eyes in response. "Oh, you don't need to like it because the love of my life gave it to me. And I will wear everything that he has given me because I love him."

Curiosity got the better of Nia'le as he probed further, "Does he like you?"

The question caught Tassa off guard, prompting an exclamation. "What do you mean by that!"

Nia'le, perhaps wisely, chose not to argue further and simply retreated to his room, leaving Tassa downstairs with folded arms. Undeterred, she muttered, "Who asked you anyway!"

In the grand halls of Ixartxist mansion, a sudden appearance disrupted the tranquility. Suman materialized in Ixartxist's room, his voice echoing with the weight of biblical verses. "(1) Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird. (2) For all nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the merchants of the earth are waxed rich through the abundance of her delicacies."

Ixartxist, intrigued, gazed at Suman and inquired about the meaning behind the recitation. Suman, lounging on the couch with arms extended and legs crossed, smirked as he revealed the cryptic nature of his words. "It's for the future. You see, people like to deny and pretend that this is just a big joke, even though they know they're committing a sin." He whispered, "blasphemy."

"I don't like them," declared Ixartxist, a voice echoing resentment. "They were self-centered, living only for money, dreams, and the fleeting warmth of human connection. What about our Father and the redeemer? Some deny him, mock him. I hated them all."

A pause ensued, and into this silence, Suman interjected with a gentle counterpoint. "Oh yes, but you know he didn't," Suman's eyes met Ixartxist's, a silent reassurance in their gaze. "He didn't hate them. He can forgive them, for he is a tender-hearted God, the King of all Kings and the Lord of Lords, the beginning and the end. Our Father, the most compassionate you could ever witness. He will forgive them, for that is his nature." Ixartxist's disdain collided with Suman's unwavering belief in the benevolence of their divine Father.

"They don't believe in Christ, and they even mocked him," Ixartxist continued, a tone of anguish in the words. "One word, and they'll persecute you. They will ban his word and erase all knowledge about him. And some people will just sit there and do nothing."

In the realm where faith intertwined with celestial beings, Suman's unwavering belief stood as a beacon against Ixartxist's despair. "Some will rise against it, fighting for the redeemer and our Father, driven by a profound love. Even in facing death, they are the true ones," Suman proclaimed, drawing parallels to the refining process of gold.

Ixartxist sighed, a mix of acknowledgment and resignation, casting a smile towards Suman. "How fascinating that we demons possess such knowledge," mused Suman, revealing a mysterious depth to their shared past. "Of course, we were once angels, my friend. But I'm not here just because of that," Suman responded, hinting at a more profound purpose.

As the conversation traversed celestial realms and earthly struggles, a subtle transformation occurred. Ixartxist's once vibrant yellow hair darkened mysteriously. Curious, Suman questioned the change, only to be met with confusion. "I don't see any changes, what do you mean darker?" Ixartxist queried.

Suman, with a knowing gaze, explained the shift to Ixartxist – the fading brightness, the gradual descent into darkness. Yet, Ixartxist, perplexed and unable to discern the changes in his own skin and hair, grappled with the enigma enveloping him.

It became evident to Suman that Ixartxist was undergoing a transformation into a true demon, the process unfolding silently and insidiously. As Suman pondered the consequences of this metamorphosis, thoughts of Quart, a potential savior, crossed his mind. However, the realization dawned that Quart's intervention was not imminent. Time, he knew, was the only ally, and a patient wait of two more years would bring Quart into his world.

Seated in contemplation, Suman rested his hand on his knee, fingers intertwined with a ring on his left hand. His gaze, earnest and determined, fixed upon Ixartxist, signaling a weighty conversation.

Ixartxist, noticing the intensity in Suman's stare, arched an eyebrow; that's why Ixartxist posed a simple question – "What do you want?" In response, Suman's request echoed with gravity: "Never visit Aretha again." A subtle laughter escaped Ixartxist as he sought an explanation. Suman, biting his lower lip, and chose silence. In the dimly lit chamber of conflicting emotions, Suman's response hung in the air, a declaration that reverberated through the quiet space. "I can't stop myself, and you can't stop me from visiting her grave. Even if you're her boyfriend, her husband, or what. I just can't abandon Aretha, Suman. She's a very special girl, and she's very important to me," Said Ixartxist. Suman, grappling with the weight of the situation, countered, "But you abandoned Quart. If she finds out that you cared for Aretha more than you care for Quart, she will be furious." Ixartxist, with a calm certainty, asserted, "That's just you, Suman. Quart, I mean Tassa, wouldn't be upset because of it. She's not like you."

Undeterred, Suman stood, a plea in his eyes. "Then you're right, Ixartxist. I will ask you one favor, and I truly hope you'll consider it." As the room seemed to hold its breath, Suman continued, "Stop visiting Aretha, Ixartxist."

In the ensuing silence, Suman weighed the knowledge of Tassa's whereabouts, a secret he chose to guard. Aware that Ixartxist remained clueless, he refrained from disclosing the information, fearing the potential repercussions of Ixartxist's emerging demonic nature.

Suman's heart raced with apprehension as he contemplated the potential consequences of Ixartxist's uncontrollable transformation. The fear of Ixartxist causing harm to Tassa consumed him, compelling him to seek an agreement that would prevent such a tragedy. With a mix of hope and anxiety, Suman posed the question to Ixartxist, "Do you agree, Ixartxist?"

Ixartxist, however, remained silent, rising from his seat and retreating to his bed. He lay down, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts. "I'm slowly changing, aren't I?" he finally voiced his realization, his voice tinged with a sense of resignation.

Suman, concerned and curious, joined Ixartxist on the bed, taking a seat beside him. "What do you mean?" he asked gently, sensing the weight of Ixartxist's words.

Ixartxist let out a heavy sigh, his voice filled with a mix of despair and self-awareness. "I have created a thousand shadow demons, Suman. I can no longer recognize myself. I'm losing my sight, my identity," he confessed. "But I just wanted to see Tassa one last time before I succumb to this fate. Why does it have to be like this?"

Suman's heart sank as he witnessed the torment Ixartxist was experiencing. The gravity of their intertwined destinies, the impending darkness that threatened to consume Ixartxist, and his desperate longing for a final encounter with Tassa all converged in this poignant moment. Suman couldn't help but feel a profound sadness for his friend, knowing the internal struggle he faced. He longed to offer comfort, but he understood that only Tassa held the key to soothing Ixartxist's pain. Despite standing by his friend, Suman realized the limitations of his support. He pressed his lips together and uttered softly, "Ixartxist..."

Meanwhile, in the old Mansion where Nia'le and Tassa are:

"Now it's time for dinner. What do you want, Nia'le?" Tassa inquired.

"The magic flower, perhaps," replied Nia'le.

"Magic what?" Tassa questioned, her curiosity piqued.

Nia'le approached her, explaining the concept of the magic tulips that she had mentioned. Tassa, hands on her hips, asked why he wanted to know about it.

"Well, who doesn't like magic flowers? I'm just curious about what they can do," Nia'le responded.

Tassa smiled, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "It can't do anything. I just called them magic tulips because they never die, that's all."

Nia'le scoffed, "Lame..." Tassa, undeterred by Nia'le's disinterest, persistently inquired about his dinner preferences. Nia'le, absorbed in his book and seemingly uninterested in the culinary conversation, lay on the couch, engrossed in the middle pages of the captivating story.

Curious, Tassa turned to Ayamani for insight on Nia'le's activity. Ayamani, with a shaky groan in his voice, informed her that Nia'le was engrossed in reading. Unconvinced by Nia'le's literary engagement, Tassa took matters into her own hands. In a sudden act of frustration, she grabbed a bowl and hurled it at Nia'le, successfully hitting him on the head.

Startled, Nia'le stood up, questioning Tassa about the unexpected interruption. Ayamani, standing by Tassa's side, couldn't help but balefully grin at Nia'le's misfortune. The tension escalated as Tassa, determined to get a clear answer, confronted Nia'le with the pressing question about what to do with the two fish they had. Nia'le, perhaps seeking an escape from the culinary dilemma, humorously suggested, "Turn it into chicken!" Tassa, not amused, paused for a moment before taking matters into her own hands. In a swift motion, she threw her sandal at Nia'le, who skillfully dodged it. Undeterred, Tassa grabbed anything within reach and hurled it all at Nia'le, who attempted to explain himself amidst the chaos.

In an unexpected twist, the fish became the unintended projectile. Nia'le, in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, aimed to catch the fish. Unfortunately, it ended up hitting his face and slipping onto the floor. "I'm dead," Nia'le mumbled in defeat.

Tassa, realizing the unintended consequences of her actions, rushed towards Nia'le. However, the floor became a slippery battleground due to the scattered objects. In a comical turn of events, both Tassa and Nia'le ended up slipping and falling. Sensing the need for intervention, Ayamani stepped in and carried the duo to the safety of the big sofa in the living room. In the aftermath of the chaotic culinary clash, Ayamani, rather than immediately healing the duo, allowed them to rest and contemplate the mess they had created. Tassa and Nia'le, nursing bumps on their heads, lay side by side in opposite directions, engaging in a playful blame game.

"It's your fault," Tassa asserted, prompting Nia'le to retaliate by throwing a small button at her. "No, it's yours," he retorted. The exchange escalated as throw pillows joined the airborne arsenal, turning their playful banter into a full-fledged pillow fight.

Ayamani, observing their immature antics, decided it was time for intervention. With a touch to both their necks, he induced a simultaneous loss of consciousness, putting an end to their pillow warfare.

As Tassa and Nia'le drifted into a shared slumber, Ayamani seized the opportunity to restore order. He meticulously cleaned the entire living space and took charge of the kitchen. The two fish, once instruments of chaos, were transformed into a delectable sweet and sour dish, elegantly presented on the dining table. Ayamani set the stage for a peaceful supper, arranging two plates, two glasses of water, and a pair of forks and spoons.