Brass Automaton

15 - Form of Shadow

The wave of Darkness left as quickly as it had hit; an instant of darkness in which King John still saw the afterimage of the Dwarven Guard burned into his eyes. He blinked it away and looked to his personal retinue, the Royal Swords. Each wasn't just loyal to Oossah, but to him personally. They were the only ones left he could trust, and even then he wasn't sure he would have been able to without their blindness. Although their training more than compensated for their lack of sight in hand-to-hand combat, they were incapable of any ranged attacks. It was the only advantage John had on them, beyond their sworn allegiance of course, but it was a grim comfort nonetheless. Even so, he was soon walking among them, with a hearty clasp of the shoulder or arm as they emerged from the spell's clutches, reminding them of their mission and that prophecy assured their ultimate success. That the prophecies were silent on whether or not anyone would survive their ultimate success was tacitly ignored. Just as the prophecies fail to tell him of a chance encounter he remembered from his past...

* * *

It was still yet hours to dawn on a late summer morning, and John was alone in the kitchen kneading dough for the daily bread he had promised Odc so many years ago. It would be some time yet before even the head chef, or her scullery help would come in and start making breakfast. A single, tallow candle burned in front of him, providing him what little light he needed after so many years of ritual. It had started out as enjoyable, John thought as his hands worked the dough, before quickly becoming a dreaded chore. Until his grumbling woke Snow and she encouraged him to find at least some pleasantness to the task, he remembered her chastisement with a smile.

Surprising perhaps John most of all, he hadn't found the silver lining until tensions with Rooskye rose to near outright warfare. With almost every minute of his day taken up by someone who needed him whether it was husband to Snow, father to his children, or king to a nation; the only time to himself during the day was here, in the kitchen, before anyone else woke.

Solitude, when chosen, is one of the greatest gifts one can give themselves, he'd told the kitchen staff with the deep intonations of a philosopher after they had tried, again, to "help" their king. It had been years since he had had to share this precious time with anyone. Time that had allowed him to think, to refresh his perspective, and to ease the myriad hardships of his rule with simple, useful work. So it startled him when he saw movement through the open scullery door.

"Who's there?" he demanded holding his floured hands above the dough. When there was no answer, he grabbed a towel and headed to the door after quickly running water across his hands. Down the rampart, walking away from him was a figure in a dark cloak holding out a dim lantern for light.

"Halt!" John shouted, and the figure stopped.

John walked toward it when the figure held up an arm to its shrouded face beckoning silence before it motioned for John to follow and continued on its previous path. John wasn't sure why he didn't just call for the guards, choosing instead to quietly follow the figure. John lost sight of it as it turned the corner of the rampart heading toward the Orchard Gate. When John turned the corner himself he found the guards fast asleep, and the portcullis up. He was trying to rouse them when he looked up to see the figure standing halfway between the keep and the apple orchard. Even with the lamp held high, John could not make out the figure's face. John drew one of the guards' swords and began trotting after the figure alert for whatever magick was afoot.

The figure turned and was quickly lost among the craggy shadows of the apple trees. John knelt beside the first row of trees, breathed as quietly as he could, and waited for a sign of movement. A twig snapped to his right, and he was off. Movement flashed again, and he turned to intercept the form. Ducking under a branch and dodging saplings, John burst into a hidden clearing within the orchard. With his eyes, now adjusted to the dark; and a gibbous Moon shining through a clear sky, John could see the clearing was really just a toppled tree giving way to the night.

From behind the fallen tree's gnarled trunk, the figure rose and held its lantern aloft. John readied himself, raised his sword and demanded, "Who are you? Show yourself!"

The figure's left hand raised and opened to reveal it was empty before slowly pulling its hood back and shaking loose long, blonde hair. John peered past the light of the lantern to see...

Reese!

John slumped to the ground in shock. Not his little Reese, his beloved daughter, but her namesake stood before him as surely as the ground beneath him was solid. He dropped the sword and rushed toward her, only to stop at her outstretched hand beckoning him to hold.

"Reese! How can this be?"

"I am, and am not Reese," she said in a cryptic whisper. "There have been many Reese's each in her own time, one whom you knew, loved, and watched die. I am another Reese, another facet of her whole, compelled here by the strength of her love for you."

"I do not understand," he said plaintively as if it was once again his own Reese as they were so many years ago, with her tutoring him through his confusion.

"You need not understand. You need only act. You must trust me, John."

"I do trust you, Reese," John declared, his eyes wet with unabashed tears.

"Do you remember the brass automaton? Our flight? Do you remember how I knew things? Things that were impossible to know?"

"They still haunt me," John whispered. "I trust you as I have no other, except my queen, Snow White."

"That's why I've come, John. A fortnight from now, Snow White, your queen will betray you."