A Touch Of Darkness

6 || Caged Freedom

I must have fallen asleep at some point, lulled by the rock of the carriage, because the next thing I know there is soft light creeping through the window. It holds the faintest touch of warmth, enough to brush over my skin, but thankfully it does not awaken my flame.

Feeling for the window, I shift myself upright, eyes gradually teased open by the light. My fingertips press against the glass, yet it does not feel properly smooth. For a moment, confusion strikes through me, until my eyes open further and I make out the dark shape of the glove resting against the window. It is all I need to remember.

Sitting fully upright, I glance over at the seat opposite. The face I find there startles me.

Instead of Finlay, an unfamiliar man sits in the far corner, his legs stretched out over the seat. His helmet rests beside him, allowing the light to catch his pale blonde hair, but otherwise he is in full armour. With his right hand, he tosses a dagger into the air. The hilt spins all the way round before landing perfectly in his grip again.

His gaze snaps to me, dagger twisting in my direction. I flinch. He is certainly not as friendly as Finlay.

The narrowed nature of his eyes evokes the image of a predator on the prowl. It doesn't help that he remains silent. He examines me wordlessly, as if sizing me up, the dagger still clutched in his hand. Even as he spins it in the air again, he doesn't look away.

A shiver runs up my spine. I debate saying something, perhaps asking where Finlay has gone, but any words have been impaled by the sharpened point of his dagger. Instead, I tear my own gaze away, staring out of the window. If I try hard enough, I can forget he is watching me.

Outside, the sun is just peeking above the horizon, the sky smudged with orange. The spindly shapes of trees are shadowed by the light behind. They are still reasonably sparse, but more frequent than they were last night. Their branches have been picked bare so that their silhouettes appear like fragments of bone stitched together. It must be winter, or at least the beginnings of it.

We are moving slowly, the trees edging across my view. The question of how close we are to our destination rises to my throat, but I swallow it, the new soldier's gaze stabbing into the back of my head.

I give my head a shake, refocusing on the land. A smile plays over my lips. I am witnessing my first ever sunrise.

It soon transforms into a frown. Winter is supposed to be the season of cold. So why did it feel so hot yesterday? That searing heat hardly matched her descriptions of winter, and it does not fit with the scene before me either. This barren land is one paled by frost. The rays may be bright, but they are weak.

My hands itch beneath my gloves as I glance down at them. If the sun is weak, then I'm not sure what that makes me. I can only hope its warmth changes by day, and that its searing effect will be over now.

All of a sudden, the carriage lurches forwards, forcing me to grab for the edge of my seat to prevent me sliding off it. The trees still, and the movement beneath my feet ceases. It seems at least one of my questions is answered, if this stop means we have arrived.

Pulling away from the window, I glance tentatively over at the soldier. He has swung his legs out in front of him, his helmet equipped and dagger hooked into a belt at his waist. Much to my relief, his gaze is turned from me as he peers towards the carriage side opposite the window. I notice for the first time a faint rectangular outline traced across the smooth blue-tinged surface.

A few seconds pass in which I silently will him to tell me what is happening -- annoyingly with no result -- before light splits the line into a crack and a door opens outwards. The man outside is there for barely a second before he vanishes towards the front of the carriage, but I catch a glimpse of his cyan uniform.