The White Shadow

12. A Bright Light

The rock by the tree had a pale spot on it. Firmin sighed. It was no shadow, merely a sign from the moon that time had passed. And still, nothing happened. Firmin stood up and started pacing.

     Anytime now . . .

     The rock was submerged by moonlight. Illusions in his mind made him think it was the white shadow. Why was nothing happening? Shadows were passing. Firmin drew his dagger. He didn't have the nerve to wait. Anyways, the white shadow had tried to kill him before—it hadn't worked.

Still, he ventured further in the woods. Hoping he could somehow spare himself the ordeal of having to do it with his own knife, a quiet voice in the back of his head pled to find some sort of closure when he'd see the shadow. He was sure this voice was there only to spite him, just to make him think he might have a chance of killing her.

     Firmin left his spot and headed for the deeper part of the woods. Passing tree after tree, counting the endless seconds going by. Aimlessly wandering in the dark. Perhaps turning in circles. Taking one, perhaps three, maybe more, gulps of the burning liquid in his flask.

     All the while he heard nothing but his own breathing. His own footsteps.

     He stopped and stood still for a moment. Held his breath. How eerily silent—

     A bush rustled. He heard whispering. Here she was. He already made up his mind, he wouldn't fight it—death was why he'd come. For that peaceful darkness without any of the disturbing dreams that did nothing but rob him of his sleep.

      He wanted nothing than what he'd felt for just those few seconds after the horror of seeing white. What others viewed as a moment of terror and wonder, being drained by the shadow when Carson had thrown that powder had brought a certain calm to his mind that he now missed. Firmin had to close his eyes to remember that warm blanket after the shock. And then it had been torn off, and he had no choice but to wake up. People forced him back into this meaningless passing of time.

     It was cold in this world. He had a coat to warm himself. He just didn't feel like fighting that cold anymore. He wanted to give in to it. Forever.

     Leaves crunched. Coming closer, along with more voices.

     Firmin opened his eyes. Wait, that couldn't be her—

     Something rough and horribly smelly covered his mouth. His arms were jerked behind his back and held there.

     "Who do we have wandering out here so late at night?" a quiet voice rasped.

     "Quiet, Dorny. Bring him to camp. By his clothes I can tell he is not a poor peasant."

     "Fools, look at his luxurious braid. I've seen him before. This is Commander Firmin."

      Curse him, he should have opened his damned braid, having gained some unintentional popularity with it somehow. Knowing his worth to this dukedom, these people would likely try to hold him hostage. Forcing everyone to negotiate for his life and then punishing him while continuing to use him for their needs was just not what something he'd come here to do. He didn't want to hear the duke's demanding smug voice anymore. He didn't want to see Carson's look of disapproval. He didn't want Roxanne's pity.

      He wanted nothing. Just silence.

      Should he try to get away? Firmin decided to squirm. The hand compressing his jaw left, but suddenly it all grew dark as they placed a bag over his head. Rough material scratched his face and he found himself spending energy just to try to breathe.