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This one's always disturbed Maxwell with stirrings of guilt, even back when such a thing hardly seemed possible.
He didn't bring his pawns here to watch them give up. He's not an evil man! He doesn't enjoy despair, he enjoys-- enjoyed--
It doesn't matter now. The point is, if he had known she'd kill herself right in front of him and never fight to be remade, he wouldn't have brought her here.
"It's not my fault," he mutters, and it's unclear whether he's speaking to himself or the shadow.
It takes all night for them to trek back to the main camp's area of the forest, and Maxwell curses up a storm when he realizes he forgot to go back for the gathered resources. He can picture it now, all the nagging and disappointed looks from the other survivors. Or worse, pity, worry, their reassurances that it's okay that he can't manage to pull his weight because they all know how old and weak and useless he is.
Maxwell rubs at his temples against the low, pounding headache beginning to form there. Despite her light, his shadow is draining him, making him nervous and tense.
It's time to dispel her. Finally.
Except... as he turns back towards her with his hand raised, it feels more like murder than waving away smoke. Where does she go when she's not with him? She's a creature of darkness now, so surely that means she resides in Their lair along with all the other twisted, formless beings of the night.
With Charlie...?
"...it's-- it is time to release you now." Maxwell watches her, fear still evident on his face. "Is that what you... want?"
' Thank you. ,
It wants, in a fleeting moment of consciousness. An urge pulling it to appreciate, and in turn communicate.
It says nothing. It thinks nothing. A command from the summoner to which SHE is bound.
Can it stare ? Does it manage ? A mere silhouette, an idle form lost within an enveloping fog from its perspective. Yet to those with beating hearts in the Constant, it is a whisper of smoke and decay in a flick of eroded smoke. Like the wrenching tear of film on a projector, the shadow snaps and morphs. Static lingers for a breath, before it reconstitutes into something whole once more.
Orders.
The shadow does not waver, its lantern held steadfastly in its "hand," enveloping the summoner in protective embrace.
This order makes it feel. It flickers again. It only moves when he does.
