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Gingkage -> (AQ) The Truth Behind the Smile (9/22/2012 18:24:08)
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Like it? Hate it? Tell me about it here.
Greetings, mortal.
No. Don’t bother looking around. By the time you’ve located the general direction my voice is coming from I’ll have already moved.
Very well. Go ahead and look around like a scared rabbit if you must. Your antics and attempts to find me are amusing. And so little amuses me these days.
I was human once. I laughed, I cried, I had emotions like everyone else. Not anymore. Now I simply do the tasks I am assigned without hesitation. Without question.
I used to question, you know. Years ago when I was still a fool. But questioning led to hardship on my part. So I learned the most important lesson of my life: Keep your mouth shut. When your opinion is wanted it will be given to you.
As I look at you, scared rabbit that you are, I almost pity you. From how obviously terrified you are, you haven’t done anything wrong. Or at least, nothing wrong that is worth more than a moment’s thought or regret. Yet here you are, and here I am. Looking down at you, my mark, and laughing at your terror. Or I would be if I were still capable of laughter. That was the last thing they took from me, you see. The first to go was my ability to cry. I still can, of course. My eyes water when the wind bites them the same as any other human. But I have no emotions.
They made sure of it.
Oh, did I scare you by pulling out a blade? Good. You’re more unfortunate than my other marks. You see, this time I don’t have anywhere to be until sunup. Which, as you can see, is quite a few hours away. While this would normally not be a misfortune for you as I tend to have no desire to linger, tonight I’m in a rare mood. It’s been a while since I allowed myself to play with my rabbits. But tonight, I think, I’ll indulge myself.
Yes. Scream. Scream as long and as loudly as you like. We’re all alone in here. And there’s no one around to hear you scream. I’m a professional. I wouldn’t leave an opening like that. Not if I plan on talking. I’m unusually chatty tonight, you see. And I have the strangest desire to tell you about me. I don’t see the harm in it. They say confession is good for the soul, if such a thing exists. And I can trust you to keep my secrets. And the night’s still young. I have plenty of time.
Who am I, you ask? Well I thought it was obvious. My name is Zarra. And this is your last night alive.
Where shall I begin my tale? Perhaps the beginning is the most fitting place to start. You’ll have to forgive me my clumsiness. I’ve never told my tale before. Never felt the desire to. So there is every chance I’ll become bored of this and simply do the deed. And those chances increase every moment you don’t shut your pathetic mouth and keep begging me to spare you. Much better. Were you never taught that it’s rude to talk when someone is addressing you? But now that I am convinced that I have your complete, undivided attention, I’ll start my tale. You should be grateful. This is the longest any of my rabbits has lived. Now, then. The beginning of my tale.
I was twelve when it happened. My town was being attacked. Being too young to fight myself, and, I’m ashamed to say, a coward, I hid under my bed. I remember all too-well the sound of the door being forcefully opened. My parent’s screams as they begged for mercy are ingrained into my memory. Once it filled me with sadness and despair. Now I’m simply disgusted at how pitiful they were.
They found me, of course. The bed does not make for the best of hiding places, and in my cowardice I was sobbing. I was forcibly dragged from my hiding place, and one of the members pointed his blade at me, a blade very much like the ones I carry now.
For reasons I still don’t understand their leader ordered him to stop. I was stood up and looked at as if I was an interesting thing to study. Apparently he saw in me something he liked. He demanded I tell him my name. In a small, disgustingly shaky voice, I answered. He then ordered the men and women with him to bring me.
How long we walked is forever a mystery to me. In my shock and childish terror, I had no concept of time. The trip from my home in Granemore to the run-down town of Krovesport—surely the bowels of this Avatar-forsaken world considering the type of people who live there—was both endless and took merely seconds. I could have been on that long road for a few minutes or several weeks and would not have known. Where in Krovesport, I cannot say, but you would feel at home there if you were of my kin. Once we had arrived, my life as I knew it was over, and my new life had begun.
From the first, I was shown no mercy. I was thrown into an arena, given a wooden stave along with a boy about my age and was given one command: fight. I had never fought before. It was a terrifying experience. The boy, already hardened by the trainings he was given, defeated me in moments. He was led out and another boy was brought in. I was again given the command to fight. I lasted less time than the first battle, already badly injured from my first fight. Again another opponent was sent to me, a girl this time.
The cycle repeated until the tenth battle, when I finally received common sense, picked up my weapon, and fought with everything I had in me. I was fortunate that this opponent was as tired as I was, and roughly as beaten. I won that battle and finally was led out of the room. I was given a meager meal and the smallest amount of medical attention. When I was fool enough to cry about my wounds I was soundly slapped and told to ‘deal with it.’
Those first weeks were much like the first day. I was given small amounts of sleep and thrown into countless battles, given a small reprieve only after I won. At the end of the first month I was again led into the arena, but instead of one person there were hundreds of us. All of us tired, all of us beaten.
“You will step forward when your name is called,” a voice, one I recognized as the man who spared my life a week ago, said.
He then called out the first name. A boy by the name of Kyle. A set of numbers were read out. “Two hundred eighty out of three hundred fifty. Pass.” At the word ‘pass’ he was led to the other side of the arena, facing us.
Five names followed, all of them passed. Passed what, I did not know, And I did not know the significance of this. I learned.
“Nina. One hundred out of three hundred fifty. Fail.” To my horror, at the word ‘fail’ one of the several people in the room unsheathed a dagger I had not seen before he drew it and, before my eyes, killed the sobbing girl. Right then I prayed to whoever was listening that when my name was called, I had not failed.
The next ten people all failed. Then the moment I was most afraid of came. My name was called.
“Zarra.” I stepped forward on badly shaking legs. The voice seemed to take forever to speak.
“Two hundred sixty out of three hundred fifty...” It seemed to be an eternity where I stood in fear that the next word would be ‘fail.’ “Pass.” Pathetically, I wept for joy that my life would be spared. As the final names were read, I watched, almost unaware of the deaths and the blood that stained the dirt. I was in a haze of euphoria.
“Two hundred fifty of you were brought here. Now only one hundred remain,” the voice, the one I would learn to call ‘Master’ said tonelessly. “Rest today. For tomorrow the real training begins.” For the first time in a week I was given a proper, if small, meal. To my surprise I was allowed time to eat, whereas before if I didn’t finish my meager portions in a very small amount of time, my meal was taken from me as I was forced back into the arena.
The woman who I had come to recognize as the one who always escorted me walked over once I was finished and led me to my new room. It was sparse, containing only a cot, a dresser, and, to my surprise, a weapons rack. On the bed was a set of clothes, and a look around showed the rest of my clothing to be the same. A simple black outfit, tight enough to not be cumbersome, but loose enough to not restrict movement, and a black pair of boots, at least I believed them to be boots considering their length, but there was no heel. My musings and exploration were cut short when the woman, whose name I at that point did not know, started speaking.
“Personally I didn’t think you would survive the first day. I was certain that you would become my mark. But The Master never brings someone inside our halls that he does not see potential in. Starting tomorrow you will be trained in various skills you will need to survive among us, starting with stealth. You will learn to move silently and blend into the shadows. If in a month’s time you have not become at least proficient in this, you will be killed.” I gulped and my eyes widened in fear. I had falsely believed that, now that my life had been spared once, it would not be in danger here. I was wrong. “But for now, it is my duty to welcome you, Zarra, to the home of the assassins.”
Don’t try to leave, rabbit. I have barely started my tale. You truly are lacking in manners. You have tried that same door no less than fifty times in the past half hour, and the other three doors twenty times, thirty-five times, and forty times, respectively. The one window here, despite being too small for you to squeeze through, no matter how you contort, even if you were somehow able to open it or break the glass, you have tried twenty-four times. At some point you will have to realize that all the possible openings are locked from the outside, and unless you have had years of training, you’ll never be able to climb up here and escape through the one opening still available, the one I plan on using to leave.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I thought I had earned my life. In my childish manners then, I had believed that I would be all right. I was wrong. They had left me alive, but my life had ended.
The first day of my new life I was harshly woken up and told to 'get dressed or be killed.' Then after a meager meal, I was put into a dark room and given the order 'hide yourself.' I found myself uncertain of what to do as, despite the darkness of the room, there were few true hiding places that I could discern. I stumbled around in the dark until I found something tall and wide enough to squeeze behind.
I had just settled myself when I felt a blade at my throat.
“If you make so much noise, a deaf man could find you,” a woman hissed in my ear. I winced as the room was suddenly flooded with torchlight, temporarily blinding me.
“Know this, Zarra,” the woman said coldly. “Were you not new, I would kill you for that mistake.” I was led from the room and told to wait. Judging by the sounds from beyond the door, I assumed that the few items that could be were being rearranged.
A few minutes later I was thrown back into the room and told again to hide myself. Again, moments after I found a hiding place there was a blade at my throat. For hours this exercise repeated. In my childishness, I feared that if I continued failing this test, I would be killed before the month was completed.
After several hours, I was yet again led from the room and given my meager portion of a meal. In my exhausted state, it felt like I had only barely begun to eat before being harshly escorted from the meal and again thrown into the dark room.
Finally, after yet more hours, it clicked. Instead of stumbling around blindly, I stood for a few moments, remembering an old tale I had heard once that said that in dark rooms, your other senses heightened. I learned that this was at least partially true, for as I stood there I was able to make out vague shapes. As I headed towards what was probably the hiding place I had tried the last few hundred times, I thought I saw the smallest of movements. Fearing another blade, I froze before running towards a small space. Thanking whoever was listening for my small stature, I managed to squeeze into it.
I had barely entered it when the room was again flooded with light.
“It's about time, Zarra,” the woman who had been holding a knife to my throat all day said. “I was starting to think you would never learn.” In my exhaustion, all I was aware of was that, for once, there wasn't a blade to my throat. I was led from the room and given a proper meal, and even allowed time to eat it before being escorted to my room.
Such was my life for the month. Every day I was placed into a room and told to hide myself. In the first days my eyes adjusted so that I could see almost perfectly in low light. As the month passed, the room I was to conceal myself in became brighter, and hiding places became scarcer. I was convinced that no one would be able to learn to hide in such bright areas in a month. It appeared, however, that the law of this place was 'learn quickly or die' and I did not want to die. Against all belief, I had learned to conceal myself in the smallest of shadows. I had earned another month of food and breath.
At the end of the month, again the one hundred of us were brought into an arena. Again the master announced our names, followed by the words 'pass' or 'fail.' I saw twenty people fall that day. Again I was lead to my room. Again I was told that if I didn't learn what I was meant to learn in a month, I would be killed.
The second month was easier than the first. It was a continuation of my prior training. Apparently I wasn't yet good enough at blending into the shadows. I was told that if I had not mastered it, I would be killed. At the end of the month, yet again, we were brought into the arena. Six more fell. Our number was now seventy-four.
The third month, I was given a blade and forced into an arena with a boy my age.
“Fight to kill, or don't bother fighting,” was the order given.
For hours, I fought, barely able to hold onto the dagger. Numerous times I was certain my life was over. But apparently we were only to fight to kill, for every time my existence was spared. The woman whose name I had never learned, but whose face I would recognize anywhere came over and handed me two smaller daggers.
“The Master has ordered that you use these instead,” she said coldly before walking off. The new daggers were smaller, and fit more comfortably in my hands. Receiving blades that I could comfortably hold was a boon, but I still did not know how to use them. I remembered the desperation from the first week, and slashed the daggers wildly with all I had. I was sloppy, but it was enough to earn my meager meals.
Over the next four months I improved with the daggers, receiving small training in their use from Syndrina. Yes. After months of seeing her my mentor finally told me her name. Or at least the name I was to call her. I have never learned if that was her true name or not. I have never cared to.
When I was not fighting, my training continued in other ways. I was taught to conceal various weapons on my person. I had to learn to notice the smallest of details, and adapt to situations in seconds. I learned to move silently, and blend into the smallest of shadows. The changes in myself were so subtle not even I noticed them. With the threat of death constantly hanging over me, I stopped fearing it. Fear was a useless emotion that merely distracted me from my training. I had long since stopped crying over the deaths of my fellow 'trainees' instead being relieved that I was not among them. I was slowly closing off my emotions. So slowly not even I was aware of it happening.
After ten months of existing with the assassins, I had become adept at many of the skills. Many more I was still struggling with. Blade work being chief among those skills. Knowing that the fact that no one had been killed in months was a sign that we needed to be perfect or we would surely die, I practiced constantly. Slowly but surely my skill in the arena improved. My mentor noticed. But more importantly The Master noticed.
After a year of training, things started changing. I was told in advance when I would appear in the arena. At first I was confused. But when I appeared in the arena only to be attacked by my opponent whose presence I hadn't been aware of I understood. This was a new test. Combining all of our training. I was determined not to make the same mistake twice.
The next time I was told in advance when my arena appearance was, I immediately headed there, pocketing numerous blades and settling into my hiding place. When the order to fight came, nothing happened. Apparently my opponent had also hidden, and neither of us was willing to reveal our location to the other. It became a waiting game. A game I was determined to win.
Silently, moving nothing but my eyes, I looked around the arena, paying close attention to the darkest shadows, knowing that the same was being done by my opponent. I heard a noise to my left and quickly but silently turned my head, throwing one my daggers in that direction as I did so and quickly darting to a new hiding place. After I had reached it, I cursed my stupidity. I had given myself away and worse, I was down a blade. My opponent had the advantage in every sense of the word.
I had little time to regret my choice, however, for my opponent attacked. She and I had the same goal in mind: 'survive.' We both attacked as hard and as fast as we could, both looking for openings in the other.
“Halt!” At the order of The Master we both froze. This voice whose face we had never seen had defined our lives. His word was ours to obey. We were dismissed from the room and I left to clean my wounds and then I trained privately. I went over the battle in my mind, knowing that my main mistake was to reveal my location foolishly like I had.
After six months of the new arena battles, Syndrina entered my room.
“I would never have believed it to be possible when I first saw you and your scrawny size, but you passed the tests. You have but one final test remaining. If you pass, you will live. If you fail-”
“I will die. I am aware,” I answered simply. This was a familiar knowledge. “What is the test?” Syndrina, looking irritated at being interrupted, handed me an envelope. “The details are in there. Read the instructions, memorize them, and then burn them.” After relaying the message, she walked out.
I silently opened the envelope. Inside was a picture of a girl whose face I recognized from the arena. Behind it was a piece of paper with writing on it. I looked at the writing and felt the blood leave my face at what I saw.
”The girl is named Ana. She has not become skilled enough to earn her life. You are ordered to kill her within the next week. How you do so is up to you, but you must not be seen. We are watching you.”
In hindsight, I should not have been surprised at what I saw. For over a year now, the threat of death had been hanging over my head. In every arena battle, the order had been to fight to kill. I was naïve to have thought that being welcomed into the home of the assassins hadn't meant that I would have to kill at some point.
After a few minutes to compose myself, I again looked at the picture and the instructions. A second look at the instructions showed that I had overlooked the bottom of the parchment. It was a small map of the compound, with her room marked. I spent a few minutes committing my mark, as well as the exact location of her room, to memory. I then walked over to a candle, lit it, and held the instructions over the flame.
I spent the next week studying my mark. Observing everything she did, quietly following her to her room. When she was not there I slipped inside and surveyed it, looking for a place to hide.
I could see why she was to be killed. She had grown complacent. There were numerous places I could hide as a result of her carelessness. I also noticed that her weapons, when not on her person, were far away from her bed, as evidenced by the slight scratches on the wood of where they were placed.
Hearing footsteps outside her room, I quickly darted into a hiding place, squeezing myself behind a dresser that had just enough room for someone of my small stature. I quietly studied her movements, barely daring to breath as my orders were to not be seen.
She was careless, believing herself to be safe in her room. She set her weapons down and, after barely a glance around her room, turned off her lights and slipped into her bed. I waited for her breath to even out into natural sleep and quietly slipped out of my hiding place.
I quietly walked to her, grabbing one of my daggers as I did. I held my blade ready to kill her.
To my shame, I hesitated. Hands unstained by blood unwilling to do the deed. I coldly reminded myself that it was her own fault for growing complacent. Her death was my order, and it meant my survival. Quickly and silently I forced myself to fulfill my orders, cleaning up once I was certain she was dead. I have felt no emotions since.
I quietly walked back to my own room, seeing Syndrina as I walked in.
“It's done,” I said simply. Syndrina nodded and walked to Ana's room to confirm that she was indeed dead.
“Well done, Zarra,” she said as she returned. “You have passed all of the tests. Your life with us is now guaranteed. As long as, of course, you complete your missions as you are ordered.” I simply nodded and went to bed. The next morning, for the last time, I was led into the arena.
I quickly counted. There had been seventy-four last time we were all here. Now there were only thirty-seven.
“Congratulations on surviving,” The Master said, stepping out of the shadows. For the first time, I saw his face. I was struck by how ordinary he looked. For the past two years, he had been nothing but a voice. Considering the absolute obedience he had from us all, I had assumed that he would certainly be a large, powerful man. Instead, he looked no different from the people in the room.
And that was how I learned my final lesson. The best assassins are the ones that you do not recognize as such. The ones that you pass every day and do not know have been studying your every move to get you alone. So that you can be killed with no witnesses.
In the years to come, I perfected my skills. I killed at The Master’s order, becoming a weapon for Him to use just as I used mine. Just as my blades are an extension of myself, so I was an extension of Him. As He wished, I moved. Perfectly obedient. Perfectly loyal. Anything else is to wish death upon myself. Your death is His wish, and I obey without question.
But now, I am afraid, rabbit, that your time is up. I have told my tale. So now you are to die.
Wait? What are you doing? How long have you been chanting? I was not informed that you had magic. If I had been, you would have been killed long before now. Stop that chanting!
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I find myself in... I don't know where I am. It looks like a black, empty, void. No. Not empty. I see a boat of some sort approaching me. The man, at least I believe it to be a man, is a sight to behold. Long robes, and a face like Death itself. Then I understand it. Somehow, inconceivably, I had been killed. My Mark. My pathetic, snivling Mark had killed me. Were I still capable of emotion, I imagine I would be furious. Instead I am still. Calm. Focused. I quickly and quietly take in my surroundings, including the man in the boat that had finally reached me. The man with the appearance of Death. I quietly remind myself that it's not just an appearance. That this was, in fact, Death himself I was looking at. He says that he'll spare me if I agree to owe him a favor. Apparently Death has a quota that he doesn't wish to go over. I almost say 'no.' I don't repay favors. It goes against my nature. But then I hesitate. I had been killed while on a mission. I had to complete it. My Mark would die by my hands yet. I agree to his proposition. Perhaps in the future when he calls on this favor I will kill him, too.
It is an odd feeling, being dead. I feel myself moving through what I assume is a portal of some sort, though not being an expert on portals I have no way of knowing for certain. I see the place I have ended up. It is not the building I was in. I can barely see it, but the few clear details tell me that it is bright, cheerful. Disgustingly so. Shocked, weakened, and in a surprising amount of pain, I pass out.
When I awaken, there is a man in front of me in paladin armor. He has a friendly smile on his face.
“Greetings! My name is Artix von Krieger.” I tune him out for a moment, shock at my complete failure hitting me hard. I feel as weak as I did when I was twelve. My memories of my life clear, but my skills lost. For the first time in years, I feel something. It is the greatest of despair. For the first time since I earned my survival, since I had completed my training, I had failed. Even as I feel disgusted with myself for letting emotions I had thought long-since killed through, I cannot stop this all-powerful despair from gripping me. Were I any weaker of character, I would have fallen to my knees. But I am not. I am Zarra. I am one of the best assassins in my home. And I would regain that which had been stolen from me.
I look past him. I recognize this town. It's a little but well-known town called 'Battleon.' I had heard rumors of this place. Where there was a magic mirror that could change my appearance. And then I remember another rumor I had heard. Those who are strong enough can become assassins. The despair leaves me and a new emotion takes its place. It is longing. Longing to return to my roots. Longing to again become a shadow in the night. An invisible assailant that kills without being seen. And never leaves witnesses.
I look at Artix. He is still talking to me. I force the emotions aside as I had learned to do years ago and focused solely on his words.
“So... what is your name? I would be happy to call you anything you would like!”
I nearly answer 'Zarra' but then I remember one more crucial detail. My mark knows my name. He saw my face. He would remember me. This was a chance to start fresh. To relearn my skills and more importantly, disguise myself so that he will not recognize me should he see me again.
Because he will see me again. I will change my name. My appearance. I will play along and act as I am supposed to act. Fill whatever role is expected of me. But my memories will remain strong. I will not forget the name and face of my mark. Whatever it was he did to me was probably designed to erase all of my memories as well as my skills. He would have no reason to change his name or his face. I will regain my skills, and then I will kill him.
I look at Artix, remembering that he had asked what my name was.
“Coaxoch,” I say with a smile. It is my first false smile of what is sure to be many. I listen to Artix explain everything about the town as I conceal my daggers. I was going to need them very soon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. I grin ferally at the sight of my mark. His days were numbered. The Hunt had begun.
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