Thread: Shades of Gray

Had he been fast enough? He hadn't. The door swung open, and amidst his hasty movement to hide beside the tall dresser the woman who entered caught glimpse of him, and he her. Thomas' heart skipped a beat. His eyes instantly flashed wide, looking to hers, then to her face. Her neck. Her throat. So vulnerable, so bare...the thin, angled blade of the knife glinted with the moonlight. ' I'm not a killer! ' Oh, God, but he could not ignore the sight of her neck even as his mind screamed. What could be seen of the man's pale face underneath the hood held a certain trembling hesitance to it as this woman began to speak. He heard none of it, though. The only thing Thomas was hearing as he stared blankly at this young woman's throat was the clash of words between heart and mind. ' Not a killer...I'm not... But, this woman... I can't risk... I-I'm not! But I can't...her... No! I can't risk it! She was just unlucky. Just as I've been today. ' Thomas' jaw and left wrist both lightly quivered as he stared at this woman. As he just...stared. Breathing. What was that? ...Oh. She was talking. I could not leave here so easily, Thomas replied, his words barely above a whisper. His chin lifted, obscuring the top half of his face with shadow from the heavy cloak's hood. God has set me upon a beautiful, terrible path. Were I to stray, I would not be worthy of Him. He regarded her a moment there, looking to her eyes again from beneath his hood. As he thought on Caroline's words, at least what of them he had caught, Thomas thought on them some more. And some more, quickly tossing them back and forth in his mind, mulling them over as the sound of nearby shouts and riled up canines was dulled only by the glass of the bedroom window. Funny, he thought - to an outside observer he wondered whose words would seem more peculiar, his or her own. What you say is... You must know who I am, hm? They call me terrible things, if they acknowledge my existence at all. The knife still held firm. I am here to slay a misguided man by the name of Orrington, the lord of this estate. I cannot leave until this has been done. If I do, there will be too much uncertainty. Too much. But then, the most peculiar thing happened. The thin knife slipped from the man's loosening left hand. Its tip hit the wooden floor at his feet first, blade embedding nary an inch, the whole of it wafting slightly as a blade of grass might in the breeze. But this is all in desperation, you see. I am not much of a fighter. He took a step back, his back to the window, then slowly a second, the dark of the robe by his feet making it seem as much of a glide as it was a series of steps. ...I could probably even be overpowered by a young woman. Another step, then just one more. The weapon now sat in the wood at the halfway point between them. Your words are odd, Miss, yet I have not the time to decipher them. Time is something I am terribly pressed for at the moment. Each hand reached slowly inside the folds of his cloak, crossed along his chest. So, as I am pressed, so are you. What is the meaning of what you say? Am I to trust you, some servant to the house, offering to let me escape? Then, after a moment, his voice unerringly calm, I dropped my knife. Will you please return it to me?