The White Shadow

1. Reina

"Are you hungry?" he asked, realizing just a moment after that he had no food.

"Yes," she blurted. "So hungry. And cold." She gave another two backward glances over her shoulders.

"Cold?" It was midday. Firmin was thankful for the shade the trees provided and the lack of his tunic. She really must be sick.

The young woman nodded, shivering.

"Well, I can build you a fire," he said awkwardly.

She nodded again.

Unable to refuse the desperate need in her gaze, Firmin stood up and gathered sticks and twigs. All the while, he felt the woman's eyes on him, and he wondered if she would ever trust that he had no intention of hurting her.

Crouching by the circle of rocks in the middle of the clearing they'd used for fires previously, he winced. He'd forgotten to wrap his leg. A spot wider than his hand covered his thigh with blood by now.

He groaned and put his hand over the burning cut. Looking up, he found the woman by the bag of herbs.

She picked up a dark green leaf. Like with all of Aethelu's potions, Firmin knew only a little bit ingested, and the herb would take effect. Too much and you could feel far worse than before. He'd tried just a spoonful twice taken of what was only meant to ease a headache and had nearly passed out.

"I wouldn't—"

Too late. She'd stuffed the entire leaf in her mouth. She chewed for a few moments, then looked deeper in the bag. Still in a crouch, she shuffled her way to Firmin.

He didn't know what to say, but she didn't seem appalled by the taste even.

"Give me some water," she demanded, yet her voice was soft.

Firmin reached for his flask—it felt nearly empty. She'd drank this in just three seconds?

The woman rubbed the different leaves in her hands together, until they were crumbs in her palm, and then she stuffed them into the flask. "Drink this." She slowly reached out and handed the pouch to him.

Firmin hesitantly took the flask from her hands. Putting it to his lips, he tilted his head back, and drank. Whatever, right?

He flinched as pressure on his thigh sent pain searing across his wound. An unintended curse escaped him, which he tried to smother down with a grunt between gritted teeth.

The woman held a piece of cloth over his leg. "I'll fix this, and you make me a fire." Her voice was sweet, no longer trembling so fiercely like his mother's when shaking out the wet laundry.

He laughed a little at the thought. For some reason, despite all the pain, he found himself laughing—and he couldn't think why. Or why it was so easy for him to trust her.

The woman looked up at him and laughed too, her eyes dancing.

Firmin created a small fire. He sat down and she rested her hand on his leg, before he handed her a needle. Her face grew red.

"It's been a while," she said.

"I'll talk you through it," he said, the discomfort in her face worse than what he was feeling himself. She looked into his eyes and nodded, before setting to work. The process was tedious and painful, but her gentle fingers did a better job than he would have himself, and he was rather surprised with how steady her hand was.

After she stitched up his leg, she tightly wrapped it before she held up the bag of herbs. "Take this potion," she said, holding up a very small vial. "But not now. Tonight, when the moon is full and shining into the water hole you spoke of, pour just a little of this into a handful of the water touched by the moon, and drink it. I have helped to ease the pain. The water shall cleanse your wound."

She sat back, looking deep into the fire, her eyes mirroring orange sparks as if they were glass. She reached out with her slender hands, slow, curious, until she touched the flames—almost like she'd wanted to grab them. Before Firmin could ask what she was doing, she cried out and jumped back.

Her chest heaved a little as she turned to Firmin, eyes wide. Looking scared once again. "Do you have anything in those bags that might rid the pain of a burn?"

Firmin fumbled through the bag hurriedly. As he did, a pouch fell and he cursed a little as it spilled black powder over the dirt. He instantly scooped it back into the pouch, hoping that Aethelu wouldn't notice a bit of dirt.

The woman gasped and backed away. "No," she said. "Put that away."

"What?" Firmin asked, looking at the black stuff in his hands.

"I, uh—what's your name, anyways?" Her eyes flitting every which way, a nervous, uncomfortable smile claiming her features, she started growing paler—whiter. "Say something—please."

Firmin glanced down at the powder in his hands. Then his eyes wandered to her hands. So fair, so smooth. No scars. But...she looked like a woman.

"Please, just—" she gulped, taking in another hitch of air. "I—I am Reina. You are so kind—what is your name?"

"You're afraid of this," said Firmin, holding up the black powder in his hand. Shadow killer. His heart performed a slamming dance in his chest at the realization. Throw it!

Before he could bring his hands to move, an incredible brightness remained in her form, narrowing, shifting, flattening to a flood of light on the ground. The white flitted over a rock and disappeared behind another bush, a scream fading in the wind.

Firmin stood frozen in his tracks, the precious powder spilling from his hands as he whirled around in search of the shadow.

Somethingrustled behind him. Rushing footsteps scrambled his way. A woman panting. Heturned around, drawing a knife with his other hand.