The White Shadow

11. Sweet Death, I Welcome Thee

A knock against the door woke Firmin. There wasn't any light lining the curtains yet, assuring him he was not late for any meeting. Firmin squeezed his eyes tight, hoping to fall back asleep.

     Another knock. "Commander?" Two light raps.

     Firmin sighed and opened his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "What is it?"

     "Your father wishes for you to see him, commander."

     His father? Firmin sat up. He had not been expecting to hear from him—his father was simply too frustrated.

     "Is he here?" Firmin asked, putting his face into his hands.

     "No. He is in his house." A pause. "He says it is urgent."

     "Yes, that is for sure." What could be so urgent so that he would call him? It hadn't been two weeks ago yet since his mother last visited, so he would have been surprised to even see her this soon. And his father requested his presence? At his house?

     Firmin got up. Time to get dressed and face the day.

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The air was a little colder, the wind a little icier, and the smoke a little harsher this morning, despite Firmin being dressed in a long black coat with a high reaching collar. Firmin remembered when he was a boy, his mother would heat up milk and sometimes put in a spice, with a sharp bite and a little sweetness, compensating for the cold and causing the early mornings to be quite pleasant. The fire she built every morning warmed the bones and gave a satisfying sort of calm to the mind.

     Firmin didn't know those feelings anymore. They didn't seem like they'd ever been a part of him—like he remembered the life of someone else.

     He took a deep breath, walking over the cobblestone pathway to his father's house. Though it was cold enough to see his breath, it was smoke that puffed from his mouth. He had Aethelu to thank for the herbs she'd ground and sold, having become quite popular due to its effectiveness to calm the nerves. For most days, just a quick smoke would help him through the day.

      Today, he breathed in as much of the frijy leave's smoke he could as he headed for the part of the city he rarely visited. His parents, though never as rich as Carson had become, now had a bigger house in the dukedom, some land, and a servant.

     But which house was it? Firmin could not recall if it was that bleak bone-white house, with the crooked tall chimney, or the one the parson, dressed in black and head bowed, was entering.

     Firmin didn't advance in either direction, wondering if he should go back. His breath misted in smoke in the air, obscuring his view.

     "Never visit, son. The door of the house on the west side of the road will always be closed to you." Those were the last words spoken by his father, just when it was apparent that Firmin was recovering. His mother came to see him every two weeks, though it was always a bitter interaction, and their visits had become shorter. The sin of befriending the shadow that had killed so many of them had many people thinking him cursed. Or just left them disappointed.

     And honestly, he didn't really mind.

     Firmin turned and walked towards the house on the left side—the one the parson had entered. At least if this was the wrong house, he wouldn't wake anybody. He walked through the narrow pathway, up the steps, and halted by the door. He stared at it. The dark knocker. The patterned wood. He curled his hand and bumped the door with the knocker several times.