Another month slipped by like the wailing wind as time moved sluggishly.
Vergil sat cross-legged near the dying embers of the blue flame. A sharpened stone clutched in his hand.
His breathing was slow and even — quietly humming as he began scratching the stone wall.
He could walk properly now, although the slight awkwardness, he had regained his balance and was now able to walk around without using the walls for support.
Yet it was still strange to only see one arm and one sleeve and even stranger to know it was beginning to feel natural.
The scratch marks he carved now formed letters — then words — the sentences.
Writing.
He had gotten better at it over the last month. He made sure to memorise the alphabet every day, then practise basic words and form clumsy sentences.
And now he could form structured and more complex sentences which was an achievement to him. He carved, pausing every few moments to reframe his thoughts.
