*[UPDATED]* Author's Notes: First of all, this is NOTHING like my other stories. Next, be advised that the inspiration for this story came from my love for fantasy epics and the countless hours I have spent playing Elder Scrolls video games (yep) in which, admittedly, my favorite quest line is always the Dark Brotherhood. This takes place in a similar time period and is partially based on the game. But it's not supposed to be the game. I wasn't sure what genre this fit into, so I tried my best to categorize it.
*The characters in this story are canon-based personality types, and much of the plot can be tied back to canon. However, it may be shocking to read if you can not detach yourself from the world of the "happy Glee McKinley High" universe and consider these characters in a much darker, more barbaric time. In this story, they are victims of circumstance outside their control.
*I was advised to warn about the nature of Kurt's character. In the summary, I state that Kurt finds being an assassin "thrilling". To make things clearer, Kurt is a sadist to a degree, especially at the start of the story. If this bothers you, then by all means, don't read on. If you are not a fan of S&M (although it's fairly mild), then this is not the story for you, and I apologize.
*There is character death. With a story about assassins, that seems to be a given. So, if you're okay with violence, killing, and crazy, sadistic, twisty plots, then, by all means, continue on, and I hope you enjoy this story.
*It has been a pleasure to create this world and this story, and I'm aware that it's not everyone's cup of tea, but it's still quite a story. Thank you for reading (if you so choose)!
Kurt reached under the dusty, wooden bar counter to grab a few glasses for the three new customers that had just ambled into the dimly lit inn. He pulled a cloth from his apron and pushed it inside each glass, swirling it around to wipe the dusty film from the interior before setting them down in front of his guests.
"What will it be?" he asked the one man. He was large, bearded, wore a heavy wool cloak, and smelled of - what was that? Something rancid that Kurt couldn't place. Kurt wrinkled his nose at the man. He obviously wasn't from around here. The crest on the man's cloak clued him in.
"Just a pint of ale," he answered gruffly.
"And I'm assuming you'll need a room?"
"Just for the night."
"Of course," Kurt said as he filled up the glass and then stepped into the back room to fetch a room key. He placed it on the counter in front of the man. "It's the first on the right," he pointed out before moving to the other end of the bar.
A soft music tinkled throughout the inn coming from what sounded like a small string instrument. The source was a bard who was situated by the crackling fire in the fireplace and was singing some nonsense about charming lasses and companionless journeys. Kurt returned his attention to the other two customers: a poor farmer from the village and the town drunk. He knew their faces, but he never made an effort to learn anyone's name in town. Just faces and usual orders. Whatever kept them sated and coming back for more.
It wasn't solely because Kurt didn't care to learn names or to get close to the people in town, it just wouldn't do him any good. Any of them could be his next contract, and any attachment could make things, well, complicated.
Judging by what was visible through the small windows of the inn, the sunlight was quickly fading as the day hung loosely on the edge of night. There was maybe about an hour remaining, and he was already becoming anxious to hand his duties over to the apprentice, Finn, for the night. He had other business to attend to, and it could get very messy.
Blaine took the glass of mead habitually handed to him and dropped his coin in the innkeeper's hand with a nod and a "thanks" before turning on the bar stool to watch the bard strum on with weary eyes. The town drunk grumbled next to him.
"Bastard's sang the same song past three nights. Bloody man needs to learn a new tune."
Blaine wouldn't know. He didn't come in here often and usually only on nights when he was feeling especially stressed out. Nights when he was being summoned for another contract. The pay out was good - better than selling his crops in the Imperial market. So he kept returning and didn't ask questions.
He was good at his job, probably the best in his brotherhood, but that didn't mean that he didn't become ill after each kill. One would assume he'd be used to this after three years, but the killing never became easier. The act did, but the remorse, the following weeks of nightmares containing the victim's sometimes blank, sometimes horror-stricken, pained, contorted, lifeless faces - that never went away, and he never enjoyed it.
He drained his glass and tossed the innkeeper another coin as a tip before rising and heading out the door into the dusk. Santana would be expecting him at the base in a matter of minutes. He spat on the ground before pushing open the heavy door to his small cottage, stomped off the mud that had been caked on his boots, and entered, closing the door behind him.
His robes were already laid out on the bed. Blaine carefully slipped them on, making sure to pull his gloves up to conceal every inch of skin. He couldn't afford being caught. It almost always meant death - not necessarily his own. He leaned down and, from under the bed, he pulled a small, locked box, encrusted with rubies. After retrieving the key from the bottom of a large, clay pot in the corner of the room, he unlocked the box and lifted the small dagger from its velvet casings. Nightshade, he called it: a little poison on the tip, and he never failed to complete a contract. The kills were usually quick and relatively clean.
Closing the box, he slid it back under the bed and concealed the dagger in the sheath especially equipped in his left boot. Blaine pulled the hood up over his head and let the shadows wash over his features and conceal his identity. He was anonymous now, a ghost.
And, like a ghost, he swiftly glided off into the dark, still night.
-A-
Kurt stood by the entrance to the cavern, his quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder and strapped tightly across his back and chest. Holding his bow in his left hand, he placed his right hand to the stone entrance. All at once, reacting to the heat of his touch, the stone lit up and glowed a ghastly blue. The doors shifted open. He entered.
The clicking of the heels of his boots reverberated off of the floor and walls of the dark, stone entrance hall to the base. When he reached the end and turned the corner, he was greeted by a familiar voice and face.
"Hummel, it's good to see you showed, eager as always, I'm sure," Noah said, narrowing his eyes darkly and smirking. He crossed his arms and leaned up against the wall.
"Always. There's nothing like the thrill of a good kill. You know how it gets me, adrenaline pumping fast through my veins - I just get off to their cold, expressionless faces," Kurt licked his lips. "So what's on the menu tonight, boss? Or should I ask, who?" Kurt said, grinning maliciously.
"One of our regulars put out another contract on another one of the imperial nobles. This time it's a woman," he said, handing Kurt a scroll with the assignment.
"Oh, that's exciting. Those greedy bastards can't seem to ever get along," he said with mock concern. "Is there a family I need to worry about?" he asked, unrolling the scroll to skim over it, taking note of the location.
"No. She lives alone, pretty little wealthy thing that she is. A widow. Couldn't tell you if she's dangerous or not, but I'd keep my guard up as usual," Noah explained.
"Of course. We like to keep our customers happy," Kurt said with a smirk, miming the dropping of coins into his satchel and patting it against his side. He rolled the scroll back up and slipped it into his belt.
"Exactly. Now go make me proud, and give me more of a reason to brag about you to clients. You're always in demand."
"Won't let you down," he said, saluting Noah, and he turned back towards the entrance. Kurt retraced his steps back through the hall and stepped out into the open air. There was a slight breeze now that sent chills down his spine and through his extremities. He shivered, feeling suddenly energized. And, wasting no more time, he went striding off into the night towards his game.
-A-
Blaine was crouched down and hidden behind a bush in the alley between two buildings when he first saw him. The tall, slender, dark, hooded figure swooped down like a bat from the rooftop above him and dashed off towards the back of the house across the way. Oh hell no. That was his kill. Who was this guy? And who sent him? How could this have happened? Either this bitch had a lot of enemies, or someone was fucking with him. He chose to believe the former. After all, there had to be some reason someone wanted her out of the picture. It's not like he ever got to find out the reasons either, and he decided he probably was better off not knowing. All he could do now was sit there is frustration with bated breath to see if his suspicions were correct.
-A-
Kurt pressed his body up against the side of the house, slowly turning his head first to one side and then to the other, squinting through the darkness. He had a feeling, and he could sense someone was watching him, but that was impossible. There was no one in sight. Must have been a cat or something, he thought. He ducked down by the lock on the back door and carefully inserted and maneuvered his lock pick. A moment later, he heard a small click as the lock popped, and he slowly pushed his way into the dark house.
He made his way up the stairs, bow at the ready, and approached the bedroom. The door was ajar, and it was dark save a fire that was burning down in the fireplace, casting a faint glow against the walls and on the objects in the room. This was a nice atmosphere, he thought.
He glanced over to the bed, and his eyes fell upon the unconscious woman who looked rather peaceful, her body rising and falling steadily with her breathing. He walked over to the side of the bed and leaned over to view her better. A curtain of blonde hair fell across her forehead and partially concealed her face. She had very delicate features, small, typical of Imperial nobles. Her lips were pink and slightly parted.
It would be so easy to shoot an arrow straight into her chest and let her bleed out or to send one zinging through her eye socket and into her brain in order to quickly fulfill this contract. But Kurt liked to play with his victims, liked to revel in the kill, make them suffer. She was still asleep in front of him as he bent over her body, smiling wickedly to himself.
Taking out some rope from his satchel, he went to work tying her legs and then her wrists together, being careful not to wake her. Not yet, anyway. Then he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and balled it up. Slowly approaching her parted lips, he gently placed one hand on her forehead and, using a thumb, pulled her chin down to force her mouth open before roughly stuffing the fabric into it. Her breath hitched, and her eyes shifted behind her eyelids.
"Time to wake up, honey," he said quietly by her ear.
Then she nearly choked, and her eyes shot open. She lay there for a moment completely disoriented. Then a flash of recognition and terror took over her features as she tried to let out a scream that was muffled by the fabric.
"No one will hear you. Don't worry, there's only one thing I want from you, and it won't take long."
Her eyes glazed over with fear as she came to the realization that her arms and legs were tied. She began struggling, whimpering as she writhed in the bed, but she soon discerned that there was no chance of escaping. She let out another muffled scream that caught in her throat as she tightly closed her eyes. Tears formed at the corners and rolled down her pale cheeks and caught in her golden hair.
Kurt was now bored of watching her struggle, so he nonchalantly took a small knife from out of his belt and placed it to the woman's temple. Her breathing grew even more rapid as her chest heaved violently, her eyes widening at the contact of the cool metal on her skin.
"Oh. Don't panic, sweetie. I'm not going to ruin your pretty face. No. I think I'll cut in - right - here," he said moving his knife to her exposed forearm. He entered it slowly into her soft flesh. Her whole body surged as she tried again to expel sound from her vocal chords, but nothing came out. She now had to focus on breathing past the handkerchief on which she was gagging and nearly suffocating from. He ran the knife from the bottom of her wrist, slitting the flesh all the way up to the crook of her arm. Blood began to surface - first in droplets, then in thin streams. It was Kurt's signature cut, how he left his mark on his victims.
He never let them bleed out though. It was never as satisfying. Then, looking her straight in the eye, he raised up his bow, slid an arrow out from his quiver, and, from a few feet away, set the arrow and aimed it at her skull.
"I promise. You won't feel a thing," he said, letting go of the tension and sending the arrow flying straight through her her left eye socket where it pierced through her flesh and became buried in her brain. Her body twitched for a brief moment and then went slack. Her head fell completely to the side, and her limbs lay limply beside her.
The blood from the incision in her arm continued to slowly seep out, soaking the bed clothes. Kurt stared on only for a brief moment longer before retrieving his handkerchief and stowing it and his weapons on his person. He opened the window on the side of the house facing the alley and swung up out of it and onto the roof. That was quite an admirable job he had done - if he could admit it. Now to collect his prize. What a fantastic end to the night.
-A-
After watching the house for a short while, Blaine saw a shadow flit across an upstairs window. Then nothing. Silence. The other assassin climbed out of the window onto the roof and leaped across the buildings and out of sight. Shit. That fucker took his kill, and now he better get out of here before any guards decided to show up. Santana would be pissed, and he would go home with empty pockets tonight.
But how exactly would he explain this one to her? Never in his career had anything like this happened nor did he ever hear about such blunders.
Once he was safely out of the city limits, he recovered and mounted his horse and rode quickly off toward the base.
-A-
"Excuse me? What are you trying to say? Because I thought I just heard you say that someone else beat you to the kill," Santana said scathingly.
"That's exactly what happened," Blaine answered, swallowing nervously.
"You better not be fucking with me because we don't let clients down, especially new ones. We want to make a good first impression, and this is so far from good that it's disastrous," Santana sneered at Blaine, crossing her arms and spitting on the ground in front of her.
"There was nothing I could do. He was already there, and he was much too quick," he explained, flustered.
"Alright, Anderson. I believe you, but I never thought you'd ever let me down. Next time, you better get there first and get rid of the little bastard. It's not good for business - competition," Santana said as if the word tasted awful in her mouth. She turned and stepped away to examine the hilt of a sword atop a nearby table. She ran her hand over it, and Blaine's eyes darted quickly from the sword and back to Santana.
"There better not be a next time. I'd like to believe that what took place was just a very unfortunate coincidence that will never happen again," he answered her.
Then, without looking at him - "Good. I like your attitude. Now go the fuck home, because we're done for the night," she scoffed. Santana spun to face Blaine again who looked downtrodden. "I already sent Sam out on the other contract we received, and he'll probably be back within the hour."
Agitated and catching onto Santana's mocking tone, he slouched off into the night. By the time he reached the village, he was feeling even worse about the whole situation. He found it bizarre and incredibly maddening, but he knew that brooding over his failure would result in nothing good. He figured it was best to just sleep it off. It would probably be a dry month.