The White Shadow

14. Twisted Innocence

"Perhaps if the commander first kills her human form, the shadow will die."

     "Did you find the blood grass?"

     "I thought I told you to never come back here!"

      "The prince may be here any day now."

     "A dagger, coated with shadow killer."

     "I fear for him."

     "He may never recover to full strength."

     "More than a year and still we . . ."

Empty words. Empty pages. Empty stares. Empty days. But they went on. For days and days.

     Firmin deserted his feather and parchment and stared outside, from the window in his room. The many stars. Twinkling. A dark sky filled with false hopes.

     He took a deep breath and winced. He turned back to his feather. Dipping it in ink, he started to write. Several of the physicians that had helped him recover from what the shadow had done to him told him he should find someone to talk to, to relate his feelings to. But he found that speaking with others never helped. So he wrote the words that were difficult to speak, words that were spoken about him or to him, or things he simply knew were facts, spoken or not.

     The people had lost their faith in him. And so had he.

     Firmin dropped the feather and put his face in his hands. Why couldn't he just go back to being numb, without care?

     He sank down, leaning his face into the crook of his arms and leaning over his desk like he might sleep. He reflexively flinched at his own desperation, as he thought back to early this morning, when he'd suddenly had an urge to see his father. He regretted the mistake of knocking on the door and expecting anything else than the bitter exchange.

     Whatever had come over him these past days of his recovery caused him to spiral, and he couldn't seem to gain control.

     A soothing calm swept over him then. A strange sensation—like a mother comforting her child.

     He turned around, feeling a presence. Smelling honey and pine and dirt.

     Reina stood by the shut door of his house, staring at him.

     Oddly, he wasn't surprised at her sight. She had a white dress, the same she'd been wearing in his dream. He couldn't help but wonder where she'd gotten it from.

     Wait—Reina? As if only a second later he really saw her, shock vibrated through his body. He jumped from his chair and reached for his dagger.

     Reina gasped, as if she too suddenly realized he had seen her. Much like their first encounter ever. "Firmin," she said, her eyes seeming to turn into liquid and spill over her cheeks in glimmering pools.

     Firmin gripped his knife tight, but it wobbled in his shaky hands. He grabbed his pouch of shadow killer. He couldn't call the guards—she'd flee, or perhaps worse, overcome him.

     "Firmin!" she exclaimed, eyes growing wide. "What are you doing? No, please. Firmin! Explain to me."

     He fumbled to untie the strings of his pouch, muttering curses over and over again, as he took a handful of black powder and spilled it over the blade.

     But instead of phasing as he expected her to, Reina backed further away. Until the wall was behind her. "Firmin," she cried, her voice laced with terror. "What are you doing?"