The dark-haired boy tiptoed down the stairs, not wanting to alert his parents to his presence. He could hear them arguing in the kitchen at the end of the hall - thankfully not closer to the stairs - harshly whispering to each other.
The boy turned right at the bottom of the stairs, heading down the hallway to his father's study where many wonders were locked away. His parent's voices grew louder as he approached, and he took extra care to avoid creaking in the wood flooring of the old house.
“I caught him in there again yesterday,” he heard his father say. “He just won't listen.”
“He's a young boy,” his mother said in her gratingly soft voice. “It's normal for him to be curious.”
“Nothing about that boy is normal,” his father insisted.
His parents' voices faded as the boy gently closed the door behind him, making sure to stay as quiet as possible. As if possessed, he walked over to where the glass cabinet was, the dagger sitting as it always did.
The cabinet was locked, but the young boy had already taken the key from his father's nightstand, unlocking it effortlessly. He snatched the dagger and locked the case behind him before drawing the blade.
It was so pretty. He was stunned every time he laid eyes on the curve of the pommel, the sparkle in the red jewel. The way the tiny stones reflected light on the hilt as if illuminating it's wonder.
The boy caressed it's edge gently, wanting to feel its sharpness but not feel its bite. The grey-blue blade was immaculate, not a single nick or scratch along its length.
He slashed the air in front of him, grinning. The weapon felt good to use. Perfect. It moulded to his hand like it had chosen him, like he was the only one who could hold it.
The boy sat down at the desk and pulled out a cloth he had stashed under the chair. Methodically, he began to run the cloth up and down along the blade, gently polishing the blueish steel. The blade was already clean, but there was something calming to the boy about holding such a powerful weapon in his hands and servicing it, maintaining it's perfection. He could sit there and run his hands along the blade for hours on end, content in the menial task.
He could hear his parents in a heated discussion in the next room over, no longer whispering to each other. The boy reclined in the chair and continued wiping down the blade, idly listening in as his father complained about his eldest child.
ns 15.158.61.5da2
