A Touch Of Darkness

11 || Those Who Burn Inside

The closer the mountains loom, the deeper night swoops in. Above, the sky turns from blueish velvet to an inky black, patched by grey wisps that gradually clump together to form clouds. Even the stars wink in and out, as if stealing away light rather than emitting it.

Despite my demands of Finlay, I find myself drifting closer to him, fearful that his cloak will meld with the darkness and I will lose him to shadow. He becomes merely a silhouetted figure, etched with the faintest of blue outlines. As sight grows unreliable, I focus less on him and more on the repetitive tap of his step, holding the sound close and attuning to it until the wind fades and it is all I can hear.

Light is not my domain, yet I still find myself wishing Finlay had brought the lantern he carried when he first appeared in my tent. It seems to have vanished now. Whatever he did to hold back Harlow and the general stole it from his grip.

We talk very little. At the first lengthy draw of silence, I fear I have done something to offend him, but then I notice the lag in his pace and the mist of his breath and realise his focus simply lies elsewhere. He needs rest, but I don't wish to mention it. The drive with which he stares ahead suggests he will not listen.

Instead, I fill the quiet with the whirr of my own thoughts. I keep returning to Finlay's lie, but the more I replay his words in my mind, the more I find myself shaking my head. It is simply an incline that he doesn't trust me, but does not wish to admit it. The same way I struggle to speak aloud my anxiety surrounding the flame playing around my forearm.

My nails rake at the back of my hand, failing to penetrate the cold. How can I expect him to trust me when I can't even trust myself?

The fact that he stays with me is enough. I should be grateful for that, for his attempt to trust me regardless and his will to help me. He has a way to give me control. Perhaps we'll both be able to trust my flame with it safely contained.

Glancing over at him, I chew at my tongue. The desire to ask him about how he plans to achieve that, or even what exactly he meant, gnaws at my insides, but I resist the urge. Finlay is slightly bent over now, both his hands wrapped tightly around the straps of his bag as if the action will alleviate his shoulders from its weight. Tentatively, I part my hands, then hold one out to him.

"Do you want me to take that?" My voice quietens as I sense it crack the silence, ringing too loud over the empty plains.

"What?" Even his voice is brittle, exhaustion shattering its edge. My hand itches, desperate to hurry over and be of some aid. I curl my fingers back.

"The bag. It looks heavy."

He snaps upright, step growing more brisk as he twists away from me. "I'm fine," he mutters.

"You're not," I say. His breath hangs in the air, frosted pants. "I really don't mind taking it. You've been carrying it all--"

"Honestly, Nathan, I'm fine," he bites out.

I try not to flinch at his tone. He is tired. He isn't thinking. Still, a reply flees my tongue when I search for it.

Several minutes slide by, each one spent watching him, feeling the knot in my chest tighten. Soon, we are sliding under the tree cover, falling deeper into blackened shadows. The combined effort of the skeletal boughs and the steep hillside ahead blocks out all remnants of the moon's light.

Finlay said he wanted to reach the mountains by sunrise. I'm not sure how much of the night has gone by, but that time must still be a way off, and we are already at the base of the nearest mountain, more or less. Before I can change my mind, I pounce on the thought.

"We should rest here." I stop, the absence of my steps making my voice all the more obvious. At least the creak of the trees provides some background noise.