The White Shadow

Epilogue

At the edge of the world, where the earth caves in. to the dark core. That's where he resides. That is where I had the misfortune of stumbling upon him. The foul one.

     Firmin remembered those words as if Reina had spoken them to him in his dream. His eyes shot open and he wondered how long he lay there. Outside, on the dirt, as he'd been doing a lot lately.

      He knew what he was going to do. He needed absolution. Well, no, it wasn't his fault. Reina held nothing against him. But he did. And he would never let go if he couldn't do this one deed.

     And this night, Reina had appeared in his dream and told him what he could do. A part of him wondered if she didn't want this for him, then he smiled sadly and reminded himself she was dead.

     As he headed for the stables, he was very able to imagine it being his last time. There was no reason to come back. But where else would he go? He'd buried Reina's body beside their son, and went there every night. Every moment possible. But every time, he nearly regretted it. He wished he could feel peace, love, life—anything. But he felt nothing.

     Until she'd spoken in his dream.

     He ran his fingers along the edge of his daggers, then his sword, one more time. Yes, definitely sharp enough.

     He mounted his horse and rode. The foul one, she had called him. He'd read a little on lore of this foul one, and found a shocking amount on some older books. Several relations of a harp master, to the dweller at the edge of the world, angel of darkness, horder of evil . . .

     Crazy names he cared not for. But he would end this. Reina might not have been the only one cursed by this foul beast. He would ascertain something so terrible would never happen again.

     But he wouldn't fool himself even if he claimed that was why he was going. He needed to make it right, for her death. He scoffed a little, wondering how his life had become so brittle and meaningless, chasing dreams and revenge.

     Dreams of things dead and gone cold. Purposeless revenge of things never to be made right again.

---------------------

The journey dragged on. For days. Weeks. Perhaps months. But he couldn't tell he got closer. According to some stories, darkness shrouded the foul one's territory. Not until he reached a cliff side did he notice a pit of darkness. Or perhaps . . . more like nothingness. It was like standing at the edge of the world truly, to look down into space. It seemed the sky was larger. A few more stars, and all a little closer. Like a large slice of the earth had been taken. Adrift in clouds of darkness.

    But . . . there was a stairwell. Leading right down into this nothingness.

     Firmin left his horse. And his sanity, probably, as he stepped down that first step. Then, another. And soon, he found himself trekking further down into darkness and cold, until he looked up and saw nothing but the same. Darkness and cold.

      He continued. To his right there was also nothing. Only the stairs to his back and the wall that they were carved from on the left. He followed the cliff, waiting for the ground to appear. For the stair to become flat earth.

      But rather than a level ground appearing, the stairs stopped. He crouched tenderly, gripping tightly to the wall on his left, and reached out. A flurry of shock ran over him as he waved at air. The stairs just ended—in air. And as he realized his path ended, a door appeared on his left. It was dark and almost indiscernible. But it was tall.

     Something about this door that led straight into the earth had him nearly willing to take the step that went off the face of the earth rather than going in.