A shard of white

The shadows were like a shroud around him, his own cloak tattered and patchy in comparison, its threadbare ends moving gently in the breeze. He reached into one of his hidden pockets and pulled out a knife, the glittering pale silver edge catching the shafts of light that pooled in the room, highlighting the boxes and dust that covered the floor. The souls of his shoes were thin as the dust that floated in mushroom clouds as he scooted around, impatiently pacing. He did not like to be kept waiting.

Suddenly, the shadows gathered, condensing and slipping over each other like fish in a packed river, darkening and darkening, until they were impossibly dark, before forming into the shape of a figure, his clothes made him a silhouette among shadows. He, like the first, wore a cloak, but his was sharper, the dark folds free from the slight fluff of worn fabric, and he had a hood, free of crumples, casting a shadow on white-silver eyes like pure ice.

“Shade, I told you not to make me wait,” The first glowered, piercing golden eyes the exact same colour as the hair he tucked behind his ear. He was more relived that angry, but if he showed it, Shade would think he doubted him.

“There were complications,” Shade said, his voice cold and blank as the cloak that bathed him in shadows. “But I have it. I believe you know what to do with it, Solomon.”

The first, Solomon, nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. Shade lowered his head and the shadows condensed and exploded in black wisps, leaving a cold iron cage, large and thick, something white cowered in the corner.

The thing could only be described as an white angel trapped in hell. His--or so it looked-- skin was sucked into his bones, thin and soft, its weak legs and arms curled in on itself, like he wanted to fade into the metal. His eyes were wide and pale blue, the only source of colour in his drained white body, even his matted and scruffy hair snow white. Two white wings arched close, their feathers threadbare and broken, matted with blood and dirt. He was shaking like a twig in the breeze, clutching himself. He was so fragile.

Solomon’s heart sunk like a lump of lead. He locked eyes with the angel or whatever it was. The thing couldn’t look away, trapped with gripping fear like a deer caught in the headlights, his eyes wide and reflecting every light, but especially the deep fear that raged like an icy fire in his heart.

Solomon was indecisive. All sorts of sinners came to him, delivered by Shade. It was his job, his destiny, to end their lives, to save many more. Of course they all felt fear. Everyone did. But this was different. The thing in the cage wasn’t evil, Solomon could see his soul in his eyes, it wasn’t his fault he was here. He wasn’t rotted by hate or jealousy like the others, he was just afraid. Everyone had made him so, never explained, only beaten and harrowed.

Solomon smiled sadly, lifting the threadbare cloak from his shoulders, pulling out his arms and taking the knifes and the keys out and slipping them into his tunic pockets. He crept over to the thing. Its eyes widened and it flattened itself further into the metal. When Solomon was close enough to deliver a blow, it screwed its eyes shut and tried to shield itself with its wings. But all it felt was a warmth.

The cloak wasn’t very special, but it was thick, lined with wolver fur, thick and warm, comforting. The thing looked warily at it as Solomon walked away, but soon the warmth coaxed him into it. It was still afraid, and not much had changed, but at least it was warm.