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Was it but a heartbeat, or an eternity that passed before the silence shattered? The forest clenched in suspense; its countless leaves transfixed in the spell of stillness; no stir but for the wane of the azure wraith, now nearly scarce, its tattered shroud dissolving amid the stoic sentinels of bark and branch. Surely no whisper nor quiver would escape from that pallid specter kneeling beneath the bough, its fingers entwined so fiercely that blood betrayed their grip, its gaze frozen and unyielding.
Do they peer into the abyss of Death itself? Behold! This man frolicked on the brink with Death; flirting and trifling, lingering with temerity, month upon month, emboldened by his mastery, convinced he wielded both sickle and sands. But Death has chuckled darkly, drawn from shadow’s quiver his terminal arrow. O horrors! Can reality bear such a cruel twist? O mighty and fearsome Deity, sculpting fates unflinching while mortals cavort oblivious beneath thy indifferent cosmos—has he wrought trespass so grievous to merit this blackest of fates? Is there nary a sliver of redemption for him, neither now nor through eternity?
Yet listen! Oh, attend! O Deity of compassion and solace; Thou who dost restore sight to the blind and vitalize stone-still hearts—could this unfold by thy decree, and has he seized paradise so swiftly? What stirs aloft? A creature disturbed from its nightly repose by terror? Nay! No wing’d being ever lamented thus within its song; no bird ever wept such bitter tears.
“Mark! I summon thee, Mark! Not slain am I, but terror-stricken, I yearn for thee, Mark, my beloved Mark!”
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As the shadow of night crept over the room, the diminutive figure with eyes gleaming like darkened coal embraced the child firmly, enshrouding her in a silence that stretched for eternity. His voice, when it finally broke the night’s stillness, was a whisper of silk draped in secrecy. “Snow-white, tonight you shall mingle your whispers with mine in prayer.”
“With you, Mark? Do dwarves even know the whispers of the devout?”
“Join me upon your knees, Snow-white, my precious one. Let our hands touch — just so! Echo my words as they weave into the darkness.”
With a mixture of awe and trepidation, the child uttered his ominous chant:
“From which corner can I flee your omnipresent shadow? Ascend to the heavens and there you loom; plunge into infernal depths and behold, your gaze pierces. If I ride upon dawn’s light to sea’s end— there too your hand shall guide me, grasping, unyielding. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed Snow-white. “A peculiar incantation indeed, Mark. I am charmed by it. Henceforth it shall be my mantra, replacing my innocent bedtime supplications. Mark!”
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“Yes, Snow-white?”
“Does your heart swell with joy that I was spared destruction by that firearm mechanism?”
“Indeed, Snow-white; a profound relief grips me!”
“Does this joyous relief absolve my mischief in taking it? For I acted against your words.”
“It does, Snow-white.”
“Not even a sliver of disdain lurks within?”
“Not a sliver; nothing but adoration for you, my petite treasure.”
The child sighed deeply; a sigh born of shadows and moonlit solace. “Here is where I wish to slumber,” she declared. “Your lap harbors mysteries; perfectly aligned for my repose. Are you enveloped in comfort so, Mark?”
“Immersed in it completely,” replied he.
“Do you harbor affection for me?”
“To an unfathomable extent; boundless and consuming.”
“And I for you. Good-night, Mark. My heart rejoices—you are—a creature of shadow and perfection—tailored just for me!”
Throughout the endless dark vigil, his ominous embrace was constant. Her head lay upon his shoulder—a grotesque pillow—motionless as if bewitched; their breaths entwined in a macabre dance under the watchful moonlight. When morning’s chill crept in with traitorous intent, he placed her frail form on her bed with unsettling care and veiled her once more.
He remained stationed by her side—a sentinel until daybreak painted its deceptive light across the horizon—the unsung guardian whose devotion rivalled that which never emanated from her true mother - the flurry of nurses dutifully filling her absence mattered not to him.
As fate would have it, in an agonizing journey to the forest’s edge, James Phillips encountered the third chilling revelation of his life. The initial shock had struck him as a lad, when, from the iron grip of his savage father whose whip seemed to eternally descend upon his shrinking form, he had been abruptly torn. That dread-filled instant was forever etched in his memory: the singular wave of pain that surged through each nerve under the relentless punishment, the grinding of his teeth to imprison the cries and deny his tormentor the satisfaction of hearing them; suddenly there was a blaze, a shout, and then before him stood a figure no taller than himself, radiating fury, causing the brute to shrivel in fear, the whip falling into oblivion, never to be taken up again. What followed was an interval of uninterrupted benevolence; someone watching over him, shielding and enlightening him. Had Phillips been more articulate, he would’ve confessed that Mark Ellery shaped his existence as surely as God had created him. A man bathed in wisdom and gentility, causing passersby to turn back entranced by the light in his gaze and a smile that warmed like a draught of fine wine.
Then came the foreshadowing second jolt — an abrupt disappearance of warmth from his mentor’s eyes snatched away without explanation nor inquiry; smiles ceased while bitter laughter took its place, devoid of its prior soothing timbre that used to comfort like a hearth’s glow. A transformation fell upon their life; earnest pursuits and benevolent duties discarded, good cheer stemmed at its source and all affairs thrust upon Phillips’ reluctant yet loyal hands. The master’s erratic travels documented only through sparse notes left Phillips informed when no other was. The enigmatic return went undetected save by him; a solitary existence within a secluded sector of vast Ellery lands ensued — existence or rather a travesty thereof for it seemed to Phillips that existence buried alive might be preferable.
Yet now, it transpired darker tides were possible — should Ellery’s sanity wane under some malignant force that robbed him of reason, what could unfold? what dreadful fate must they face? Hitherto he had,...