Firstly, Happy Birthday to RockChick! Sorry that it's a bit late, but I hope you enjoy nontheless ^_^
So, about the story... It's loosely (?) inspired by Assassin's Creed, but not really set in any particular one of the game universes or anything. It basically just uses the Templar and Assassin titles, so if you don't know anything about the games or have never played them, it wont matter~ You'll still be able to tell what's going on~
Also, it's very open ended...so there's a decent chance that I'll end up writing a second part to wrap it up, as it will most likely bug the crap out of me if I don't... But anyway! On to the story!
Enjoy!
In every society, there are always those few individuals that stand out, draw attention to themselves and became something more, something above those around them. They are the people that become famous, that live on in memory and go down in history, but sometimes, those people wish to remain anonymous, to blend in with the background. Some excel at remaining invisible, at hiding and sneaking, at doing the deeds of the great and powerful from behind the scenes. They formed groups, bands of people that lurked the shadows and hid in plain sight.
They were assassins and they did their work in silence and stealth, mastering the ways of secrecy and the art of quiet death. But even among those that were nearly invisible, some stood out. Some were more infamous than others.
At the very top of that list, a man with no name stirred trouble for the group known as the Knights Templar. He above all others, was made a target for elimination. It became the Templars' main priority, for while he lurked the shadows, their men would be assassinated and their plans would fail.
••••••
The midwinter night was dark, the sun having long ago settled below the horizon, and still longer yet to rise once more. The moon shone high above, filtering through the leafless branches of the trees, reflecting blueish on the heavy blanket of snow that accumulated upon the withered forest's floor. A light but bitter cold breeze whispered nearly soundlessly through the trees, drifting the snow and making small undulations not unlike waves in an ocean. Any tracks made were covered, swept away by the still falling snow and the wind that worked with it. All was silent, but the forest wasn't as empty as it seemed.
The snow crunched quietly under soft-soled, tan boots. The breeze tugged lightly at the loose fabric of white robes, fluttering the pointed, characteristic hood that marked the silent man as what he was; an assassin trained in the art of necessary murder. Various straps held the tools of his trade, tightened to fit snug against his lithe body so that they would neither make noise as he moved, nor hinder him. He crept through the snow, darting from tree to tree in silence, his keen gaze scanning the surrounding forest but ultimately landing back upon the group that had been hunting him.
A faction of templars sat huddled around a flickering fire adorned in full gear, their weapons within easy grasp at their sides. With the fall of darkness, the weather was worsening, the air growing even colder. They intended to wait it out and resume their hunt when the sun rose with the next morning, hoping that the cold would slow the clever assassin and weaken him.
It was a solid plan, logical and it worked against the man being hunted. If he started a fire to keep himself warm, they would find him. Yet he couldn't continue running through the night. After being cornered in the city hours ago, he had narrowly escaped. Luck had been on his side and the building he had been pressed against held a ledge close enough to the ground for him to reach. With years of training, he had made the stunning vertical leap, catching hold and swinging himself up before propelling himself to the roof. But it had only slowed the templars and he was forced to continue his desperate flight.
After doubling back around, rushing through twisting and winding alleys and roads, the man had managed to reach his horse. Sprinting up from behind the beast, he vaulted onto it's back, landing in the saddle and snagging the reigns. Trained to assist him, the horse didn't spook, but instead tossed it's mane and snorted through it's flared nostrils, feeling it's master's urgency. Without prompt, the horse had surged forward, tearing through the oddly deserted streets.
It was then that the assassin began to realize just what was going on. This wasn't a normal attempt to kill him, these men wouldn't stop until he was dead. The stakes had been raised and the price for his head must have been great.
He had fled the city in hopes of putting some ground between himself and those chasing him. Leaning close to the horse's powerful neck, he had urged the beast forward until exhaustion slowed the creature's pace, yet still he was being chased. The templar bastards would not relent.
Now, after hours on the run and far from the city, he crept through the darkness. Had he been under normal circumstances, he would be tucked away in a safe house, sheltered from templars and the harsh weather, but he had little choice in the matter.
The cold seeped in through his less than apt clothing, clothing meant for stealth and speed and not designed to keep him warm while being exposed to the elements for extended periods of time. The cold stole his strength and made his limbs tremble. His steps become less surefooted and more stuttering, a sign of the tole his body was taking even though he bore very few wounds.
His breath puffed in the chill air, a white fog to mark his slight panting but still he crept forward. The heat of the templars' fire had melted the snow around them, leaving the saturated but still frozen ground exposed. The light it created glinted from their weapons and from the armour they wore, dancing through the lifeless tree trunks. Luckily the man was the very best at what he did and even as he stepped into the feeble light, he remained unseen.
If he could eliminate the templars now, he would be able to dig in for the night, borrow the fire left behind. He could guide his horse from where he had left the beast and they could bed down and wait out the harsh, bitter night, returning to the city with dawn, but that was an if and the odds were not working in his favor.
Outnumbered, the man cloaked in white crept around in the darkness, ever closer to his enemies. He selected the highest ranking of the seven templars to circle around, hoping to take out their commander and create chaos. Flexing his pale fingers in the effort to regain feeling, he brushed one hand over the frigid hilt of his sword before withdrawing his hand and continuing forward.
With unmatched stealth, the assassin silently closed in on his target, the templar officer oblivious to his presence. His prized hidden blade surged forth with a quiet snick as his hand closed around the enemy's chin and mouth, keeping the man from screaming as the blade drank deep and painted his clothing with his own blood. The commander died within seconds, his body left to slump to the cold ground as the nameless assassin whirled into motion.
One man had already been killed, but the chaos the assassin had been hoping for didn't strike the camp and make the enemy soldiers falter. A man shouted orders in a language the assassin couldn't understand as he pulled forth a sword, pointing it toward the would-be angel of death. Realizing the man he'd killed had been a decoy, the assassin cursed under his breath as he forced frigid air in and out of his lungs in a steady, controlled rhythm.
The men around him organized around their leader and fought in unison, showing the training they had undergone in order to reach their position in the knighthood. Forced to draw his own sword, the assassin parried a slash from his left as he dodged a thrust from in front of him. He twirled about, sword arcing through the bitter air with a low whistle to bite into flesh. Most of the strength behind the strike was absorbed by the armour worn by the templar and the reverberation that ran the length of his blade from contacting the metal stung his frostbitten fingers and palms.
Hissing a breath, the nameless assassin retracted his sword, throwing it up and ducking just in time to catch another, downward strike from the enemy. The force of the hit made his already struggling body tremble but he didn't let it show, springing back to his full hight as the attacking templar made for another swing. His blade thrust through the shoulder joint in the man's armour, tearing muscle and flesh and letting blood flow under the man's breastplate.
As the assassin prepared to finish off the injured templar, another came in from behind him. He took note of his attacker a moment too late and even as he threw himself into a roll, he felt steel rip through his cloak in the back and part the pale flesh just over his hip. His blood ran burning hot against his chilled skin, staining the signature white of his uniform a bright crimson.
He sprang back to his feet as he finished his roll, spinning with near perfect balance to face those at his back. He planted his back foot as another man rushed him. The wound sent a sharp lance of pain down his leg as he put his weight on it, buckling slightly before deciding it would hold. He didn't have time to let it slow him and he threw his sword up, catching the templar's blade. Shifting his grip, he held the other man's weapon out wide and punched in with his free hand, his hidden blade snicking from it's sheath under his wrist to puncture between the enemy's ribs.
The man cried out and reeled backward, his hands covering the bleeding wound. Another replaced the injured man, drawing the assassin's attention and putting pressure on the skilled killer while his comrades surrounded the desperate man once more. Swords lashed out. Commands and words were shouted in a foreign language, though the meanings were easily enough deciphered.
From not far away, the sound of a bowstring being released had the assassin's eyes widening where they were hidden in the shadows of his cowl. He dropped to the ground in a crouch, spinning off in the first direction his instincts bid him to. The point of an arrow sliced through the fluttering end of his robes before punching into the ground below.
It momentarily pinned him, but the ground was frozen and the arrow hadn't embedded deeply. The shaft snapped as the assassin surged from the ground, spinning off in the opposite direction he'd ducked. More shouts proceeded him as the templars worked in remarkable tandem to insure he did not escape again.
He came face to face with a man and his sword. Still working against the elements attempting to seal his fate, the assassin jolted back as a blade slashed through his chest. His pained sound caught in his throat as steel ground against his sternum and he fought to stay ever silent, as was demanded of him by his training. Cold air rushed in through the tear of his robes, quickly chasing away the burn of the slash and numbing the wound. It however also further slowed his swift movements, allowing the warmth held in by his now torn clothing to flee his core and steal the majority of his body heat, numbing the rest of him as well as the gash.
The quiet, barely audible groan of a bowstring being pulled taught had the assassin curling his lip as he hissed another cruse under his breath. He again shifted his footing, spinning to the left in the attempt to get out of the arrow's path before it was let loose. As the bolt slid through the frosty air, the assassin's footing faltered on the frozen ground. The arrow dug deep but didn't strike him straight on, instead it carved a path through the tender flesh along his ribs before it exited, never puncturing vital regions but leaving a ragged and bloody wound behind. The fletching slid through the gash, burning and catching and was torn from his flesh as he continued his twisting movements.
Panting and shivering, both from blood-loss and from the unrelenting cold, the assassin began switching his mindset from trying to kill his enemies, to trying to get away from them. His vast training and skill kept him from panicking, kept him calm in the face of unrelenting opposition, but internally, deep in the back of his mind, that training also told him his chances at surviving his botched attack were growing slim. If the templars didn't kill him, it was likely the weather and cold would.
Ducking into another spin, the assassin's sword shot up and out, slashing across the backs of a man's knees, shredding the tendons that controlled movement. The man crumbled to the ground, his legs nearly useless. The next swing of his sword sent lancing pain through the deadly man's abused chest, tightening his already laboring lungs and pulsing behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth in a hidden grimace, the assassin reached up to press his free hand against the wound, his fingers quickly slicked by hot blood.
Knowing his moment of withdraw needed to draw near, he backed away and disengaged the man he'd been preparing to attack. At the first opening he received, he lashed out with his sword and spun on his heel, dashing out into the dark of night. He left the light of the campfire behind, darting between and around trees. As expected, the templars gave chase. They snagged their horses, quickly mounted and began running the assassin down.
The templars had the advantage of speed on their side, but the assassin hadn't left his horse far away and he knew that if he could only make it to his trusted beast, he'd be able to out run and out distance the enemy hunting him.
As he ran, the shouts of men and the pounding of horse hooves echoing around him, an arrow thunked into a tree nearby. He ducked slightly, steps faltering in the heavy snow, but he didn't turn to look back. He darted around another tree and leapt a fallen branch, grunting as pain shot down his leg with his landing. Still he ran, his breath coming in short but controlled gasps, his legs pumping and his torn robes fluttering behind him.
He darted off to the right and around yet another tree just as an arrow lodged into the snow where he'd been running. Not far now, but the mounted templars were gaining ground, drawing closer with every step. Another arrow zipped passed him and the assassin hissed a curse, his keen eyes scanned the dark and the shadows for his horse.
All white, the beast blended in quite well with the shadowed but snow covered surroundings. Finally, the assassin caught sight of the animal as he neared. Already untied and saddled, the horse snorted through it's nostrils and tossed it's mane as it rolled dark eyes toward it's running and panting master.
Sprinting up to the creature's side, the assassin grabbed the reins and slid one foot into the stirrups of the saddle, giving the creature the command to begin galloping before he'd even fully mounted. The horse did as was told and surged forward, it's longer and more powerful legs able to plow through the deep snow far easier and swifter than the assassin himself had been able to.
The horse in full gallop, the assassin carefully but quickly swung his other leg over the horses back to sit in the saddle. He leaned close to the beast's thick neck, one hand wrapped around the reins, the other pressed almost desperately to his still bleeding chest. An arrow cut through the darkness like the shouting voices following him. It scraped along the horse's flank, slashing a thin red line through the animal's white coat but it did little damage and sank harmlessly in the snow.
The horse whinnied, tossing it's nose into the air. Still urging it faster, the assassin grit his teeth as he shifted his weight forward further and stood slightly in his stirrups, bringing his face closer to the beast's head. "Come on, Zan. Ya really ganna let 'em keep up wit' us?"
The horse snorted an almost derisive sound through his nostrils and tossed his head slightly as he stretched out his neck and lengthened his stride. A small smirk taking over the assassin's hidden features, the man settled back into the saddle, still leaning forward over the big animal's strong shoulders. The shouting behind him grew angrier, more desperate and less sure, letting the dangerous man know without looking that his horse was indeed faster than theirs.
Just as he dared to take a quick glance behind him, letting his trusted stallion guide them through the trees and snow, the snap of an arrow being released from it's bow cut over the shouting voices, unnaturally loud and foreboding to the assassin. His eyes widened as he watched the arrow arc toward them with perfect aim but, sitting astride a horse sprinting at full speed, he had no where to go.
His pained cry shattered his previously held code of silence as the sharp point cut through his clothing and bit deep into flesh. The bowman, one of the templar's most skilled, had hit his mark and the assassin doubled over where he sat, hand dropping from his torn chest to settle lower, over his abdomen. Air burned going down his throat and his breath hitched painfully as his shaking, half frozen fingers brushed a warm, slick and sharp protrusion where nothing but smooth flesh should have been.
Looking down only confirmed what he'd feared. The arrow had not only struck him, but ran through his torso, impaling him and thrusting out through his abdomen. With a trembling hand, the assassin gingerly wrapped his fingers around the length of the arrow that protruded just below his ribs on the left side. If he could snap the shaft and break off the point and the fletching, he would be able to remove the arrow, giving the wound a better chance of healing before infection set in, though spinning about to break the side that still protruded from behind him would be nearly impossible. It quickly became apparent that it didn't much matter as the simple touch to the arrow sent pain lancing through his core and his hand fell away as a pained noise worked it's way up his throat.
Teeth bared and vision blurred, he turned slightly, trying desperately to ignore the sharp pain the movement caused, to look behind him again. The templar were falling behind, their horses unable to match the swiftness and speed of his own, but they were still giving chase for the moment. They would not give up easily with their prize so close at hand.
Sensing his pain as he shifted and his breath came in labored pants, the assassin's horse hesitated, it's fast pace faltering slightly. The rider furrowed his brows and spurred the horse onward but he leaned forward again and patted the horse's outstretched neck, appreciating the gesture and thankful he'd taken the extra time while fleeing the city to grab his horse rather than steal another.
As he pulled his hand back to his torso, gingerly settling it over the deep gash in his chest to help stem the blood flow once more, he grimaced at the smeared, bloody hand print he'd left behind on the animal's white coat.
The assassin and his trusted horse spent the next several hours in near full flight, chasing the moon as it descended toward the horizon. It wasn't until the sun was beginning to rise behind them that he allowed the beast to slow. By the time the man finally gave the reins a light tug, the large animal he sat astride was panting through flared nostrils, head hanging low in exhaustion and muscles quivering under the saddle. The assassin himself clung desperately to consciousness. His mind and thoughts were dark, foggy and his vision pulsed in and out with the beat of his heart. His hand had fallen from the wound in his chest as he lost the strength to hold it there and sat limply in his lap, the blood coating it half dried and half frozen. His other hand was still looped in the horse's reins, but it too sat in his lap, the reins slack and giving the horse the freedom to do as it pleased.
Slumped forward, he no longer felt his body shivering as it tried to stay warm. He all but lay across his horse's strong neck as the animal slowed from a gallop to a trot and eventually to a walk. The horse trudged through the snow, picking his way between the trees as the assassin finally lost the battle with his injuries and the elements, succumbing to the darkness closing in around him despite the light of day that came with the rising sun.
Unbeknownst to the wounded assassin or the templar men still searching out his trail in the vast forest, the hunting party and their deadly prey had wondered into someone else's territory. He was a simple huntsmen by trade, making his home in the forest on the outskirts of the next city over. His small cabin was located deep within the woods, hidden away and out of sight, private just like the man that lived there.
He rarely ventured out during the winter, preferring to wait out the worst of the season in his well stocked home, but as luck would have it, he had made a trip into town the previous evening. As night fell, he'd opted to wisely stay in town and begin the trek back home with the rise of the sun.
He was nearing his home when an odd sight caught his attention. Hardly a half mile from where his cabin sat, he halted his own horse and sat up straighter in the saddle, leaning to the side slightly so that he could look below he and the animal. Breaking the thick crust of fluffy white snow were the dragging tracks of an exhausted horse. Smeared about and as uneven as the tracks were, sunken into the snow, it was hard to tell for sure, but the man was fairly certain it must have been carrying a rider. The horse itself was probably a long, lean breed, not meant to be ridden so hard out this far but meant more for speed over smooth ground. Whoever rode the poor thing so hard must have been desperate, but the splash of brilliant crimson staining the otherwise unbroken white every few feet surely gave that away.
Sever brows furrowing, the huntsman tugged lightly on one side of the reins in his hand, turning his horse in the direction the tracks led. Normally he'd care little about what fate was met by whoever was foolish enough to venture so far into the forest during the harsh, midwinter season, but he hated seeing the horse suffer a similar fate for it's rider's stupidity.
Clicking his tongue quietly, his horse, a stockier and thicker furred beast accustomed to traveling through the snow and ice, gracefully slid into a brusque trot. They followed the tracks and the huntsman took note of the thick droplets of blood and the steady pattern and interval at which they stained the snow, meaning the wound it came from had yet to close and must have been grievous enough that whatever clothing the rider wore could not soak it up at a quick enough rate to match the bleeding.
The longer he followed, the more apparent it grew that both horse and rider were in a bad state. The trail wavered and weaved through the trees, never actually going in a straight line that would have suggested any sort of guidance. The horse's steps were uneven, adding further proof to the beast's exhaustion.
Finally, after nearly twenty minutes of following the trail, the huntsman came within sight of who had made said trail. He pulled lightly on the reins of his horse, slowing the creature from it's trot so that they approached slower while he took the sight in.
Barely clinging to the saddle, a rider in telltale white robes slumped against his horse's broad neck, leaning precariously but making no move to keep himself from sliding from the animal's back. One arm hung limply at his side, the other folded in front of him to rest across his lap. Blood stained various parts of the prestigious and fear inspiring uniform, standing out harshly on the otherwise colorless pallet and the tail end of an arrow jutted from the man's lower back, toward the left side and angled to suggest it had been shot from quite a distance. His head was tilted so that the huntsman couldn't see his face, but there was no doubt he was unconscious. In fact, had the blood staining his ground and his clothing not been so fresh, he would have thought the assassin dead where he sat.
White ears perked and flicked back toward him as the huntsman guided his mount a bit closer. The assassin's beast snorted and brayed an almost aggressive sound, side stepping as it turned slightly so that it could watch him approach. The change in motion made the limp body the beast carried shift precariously but still the wounded man showed no signs of waking.
Frowning, the huntsman pulled his horse to a stop and swung a long leg over it's back, dropping from the saddle to land knee deep in the snow. Leaving his mount behind, he knew the animal would stand patiently and await his return, so he directed his attention to the white horse carrying the wounded man.
The beast flattened it's ears and flared it's nostrils, shifting where it stood in the deep snow. It's body language screamed uncertainty, like it would either bolt or charge at any moment and it still trembled from it's no doubt wild flight.
The huntsman held his hands out, gently patting at the air as he slowly walked toward the spooked horse. "There, there, boy. Wouldn't want to hurt that rider of yours any further, now would we?" He spoke in a soft, reassuring voice, careful not to make any quick movements that might startle the beast into motion.
While the horse looked as though it wanted to run, it also looked too tired to do so and after a few minutes of careful coaxing, the huntsman managed to get close enough to snag the horse's halter. The horse snorted and tossed it's head under his hand but it didn't rear or try to take off and the man laid his other hand across it's nose in a gentle pat, settling the animal down before it threw it's precariously perched rider.
After a moment, he clicked his tongue and called his own horse over. The heavier beast almost disinterestedly glanced at the white one as it's owner pulled them close. Taking the loose reins from the unconscious man, the huntsman looped them over the saddle of his own horse so that the assassin's horse wouldn't be able to take off once he pulled the rider off.
Rounding the white horse's other side, the huntsman looked up at the injured man. There was no doubting he was indeed an assassin, and a high level one looking at his blood stained uniform. Common sense said to leave the man be, wether he survived or was killed off by the elements and whoever had injured him. To help and harbor an assassin was to invite the wrath of the knights templar, not to mention risk the chances of the dangerous man awakening and killing him.
But when he reached up and pulled the assassin's deep hood back to reveal startling features, the huntsman quickly made up his mind. Pale, almost boyish features faced him, the colorless brows pulled into a pained scowl even in the man's unconscious state. White hair had fallen loose from it's tail, hanging about the man's face and shoulders now that his hood no longer held it back.
The huntsman cautiously laid his fingers against the side of the pale man's throat, feeling his shallow but steady pulse. His own brows furrowed and his angular features twisted into a slight frown, he gave the injured man a light shake, seeing if he would awaken.
When the assassin didn't stir, the huntsman pulled his arm from his lap and draped it across his own broad shoulders so that he could loop a thick arm around the man's lithe waist. The assassin was smaller than he was, light and wiry, coupled with the way he was already hanging from his saddle, it was easy for the huntsman to pull him the rest of the way down and lower him to the ground.
The injured man's horse brayed and pawed the ground in agitation but it couldn't go anywhere and had to settle for standing near by.
Careful of the way the arrow jutted from the man's body, the huntsman carefully laid the assassin down in the soft blanket of snow. He cringed when he realized the arrow had pushed it's way completely through the man. It would have to be removed before he could drape the man across his horse and bring him to his cabin and the warmth it provided.
Casting his gaze outward, back the way the assassin had come from, he sought out any signs of those that had injured him, knowing they must have been templar. Who else would dare hunt down an assassin so ruthlessly and even manage to push him into fleeing? And such a powerful killer at that... He'd heard the stories about this particular man, everyone had. He was nameless and silent, sweeping through the streets and eliminating his targets like a ghost, like he'd never really been there at all. He'd always heard rumor that the ghostly assassin was as white as his uniform. Some of the tales were so extreme they said it was caused by demon possession, but the huntsman had always suspected it was paint, just a way to make the assassin stand out and strike terror in the hearts of his enemies.
Now that he saw the man for the first time, now that he brushed his wide hood away from his slack features, pulled up the edges of his long sleeves and wiped away some of the blood that marred his shredded chest, the huntsman realized he really was as pale as a ghost, as white as the stories. He lay limp in the snow beside the kneeling huntsman, nothing but the vivid red of his blood to separate him from the white all around.
The quiet echo of voices in the distance snapped the huntsman's gaze away from the wounded man. He looked up, searching through the trees for the source, though he knew who the sound must have come from. The trees would provide cover for them, but if the group of templar hunting the assassin managed to stumble upon his winding trail again, they would surely be found.
At the sound of the templar, the assassin's horse reared slightly, front hooves pawing at the air as it tugged at it's reins to get loose, ready to bolt again. The huntsman leapt to his feet, quickly rounding the prone man laying in the snow and reached up to grab the horse's halter. He pulled the beast back down so that it stood on all fours once more, keeping it from making noise. With slightly wide eyes, he shushed the animal and rubbed it's nose, attempting to sooth the horse.
When it fell still and quiet once more, he rushed back to the injured man. He had little choice now, and even less time. He quickly assessed the visible wounds before pulling out a knife and cutting away part of the man's blood soaked garments so that he could better get to the arrow impaling him. Gingerly running his fingers down the smooth shaft of the arrow where it stuck out behind the man, he searched for any already weakened areas that might break easier.
Concentrating on what he was doing, the huntsman missed as ashen brows furrowed further at the light touch. Finally deciding it'd be best just to snap the arrow as close to the man's back as possible so that he'd have less to draw through the wound, he wrapped one big hand around it to hold it still. Taking a deep breath, the man took one last look around before jolting into motion. In a swift jerk of motion, he bent the arrow shaft, snapping it with a sharp sound not unlike that of a twig breaking under foot.
A sharp, gasping breath was drawn between pale lips before being released as the beginnings of a pained scream. Jumping in surprise, the huntsman practically fell on top of the wounded assassin, leaning close to his body and covering his mouth with a big hand to muffle the sound as he all but pressed him further into the deep snow. The injured assassin's hot breath panted against his hand through his nose as barely stifled groans crawled from the man's pale throat.
Gaze scanning the trees, searching for any signs that the scream had been heard, the huntsman brought the pointer finger of his other hand up to his lips, trying to tell the man he needed to stay quiet. Without looking back down at the smaller man below him, he shushed the man as he explained in a quiet growl of a voice. "They're not so far away, still hunting you."
The muscle of the assassin's jaw bunched below his hand and he finally looked down, finding himself pinned by intense, startling eyes of the oddest color. Gold like the sun in the summer burned from within the deep shadows of a winter night, wide with a mix of fear, pain, surprise and a multitude of other reasons at the moment.
"Shhhh..." The huntsmen nodded slightly, still looking down at the smaller man. He received the barest of nods from the assassin in reply, who's body had gone rigid and trembled with the trauma it was dealing with. Removing his hand from where it had been clamped over the man's mouth, the huntsman sat up again, easing off the injured man so that he could begin working on removing what was left of the arrow.
"You're the one they say is nameless." The bigger man rumbled, his voice still low but loud enough for the other to hear. The assassin nodded again, panting through parted lips as he stared up at the bigger man with a watchful, if slightly hazy, gaze. "This is going to hurt, assassin."
The huntsman watched those eyes widen even further as he grasped hold of the front of the arrow, near the head that had run through the man's abdomen. His other hand spread out at the base of the shaft, covering the tear in pale flesh it had made, he began drawing the arrow through the ravaged flesh and half dried crust of blood.
The smaller man's body arched away from the snow he lay on, twisting and contorting in discomfort but the pained sound that threatened to shatter the silence came out as a groaning, distorted and pain-filled word instead.
"Sh-Shiro." The assassin ground out through bared, clenched teeth as he fought to stay still and stay quiet. His startling eyes had been squeezed shut against the blinding pain, his brow furrowed. He could feel the arrow catch at his flesh and slip through his body. Fire lit in his lungs, making breathing painful and difficult and his head spun as though he'd pass out again. "Th-tha's what I'm called...Shiros-saki."
When the blood slicked arrow was finally pulled from his abdomen and dropped to the snow, the assassin's body went limp once more, collapsing back into the snow as he lay panting and staring up at the bare branches of the trees above him. The random, crisscross pattern the dead wood created seemed to fuzz in and out of focus before it was replaced by something much closer. Angular, chiseled features blocked his view, brilliant, crystalline blue eyes looking down at him. The bigger man's chaotic mess of blue hair blended with the blue sky between the trees and only helped to bring out the brightness of his eyes all the more. Then he realized the man's lips were moving, forming words.
"-up? ...Hey, focus." The huntsman frowned down at the injured man, grabbing hold of his shoulder and giving a squeeze as he began pulling the man into a sitting position. "You think you can stand?"
The assassin hissed a breath through his teeth as he allowed his top half to be pulled forward so that he sat in the snow rather than laid. Shivering from both the cold and blood-loss, he wrapped one arm around his torso, pressing his shaking hand to the deep hole where the arrow had been. He shook his head slightly, hair falling about his face. The arm supporting his weight trembled from the simple task of keeping his upper half off the ground. "Doubt it."
The huntsmen grunted his agreement and looked over to their horses. Giving a low whistle, his horse's ears perked as the animal came to him, the assassin's white stallion in tow. Standing, the bigger man contemplated for a moment before deciding they would both have to ride his horse. The assassin's stallion was still recovering from it's hard run and taking the extra weight of a rider off would do the animal good, plus it seemed unlikely the injured man would be able to stay in the saddle without assistance at the moment, if he even managed to stay awake.
A few more shouts in the distance echoed to them. He glanced down to see the assassin freeze up as he listened. Deciding it was time to go, the bigger man stooped low, effortlessly lifting the injured man from the ground.
Shirosaki gasped a shocked breath and grit his teeth as he was hoisted up onto the back of a black horse, just behind where the saddle rested on the animal's back. Taking a moment to breathe and let the pain from the sudden movement subside, he clutched at the animal before he gingerly and with great difficulty swung one leg around behind the animal so that he mostly sat on it rather than laid across it. When he was mostly settled behind the saddle, the huntsman swung himself up into the saddle and snagged the reins.
As the huntsman kicked his horse into a swift trot, the man behind him jolted and fisted pale hands into the back of his thick coat. The white horse trotted along beside them as they quickly covered the ground back in the direction of the bigger man's abode.
"Heh." Shirosaki chuckled, a grin curling his pale lips. There was little humor in the sound or the expression, however, as the assassin felt his grip going slack without his consent. "I'm ganna end up bleedin' all over ya."
The big man shrugged slightly as though it hardly mattered, vision still trained ahead as he guided his horse through the forest.
"I thought...I was the one tha' was supposed ta be so damn quiet." Shirosaki mumbled, more of his weight leaning forward onto the man in front of him. His voice stuttered slightly with his shivering, but the odd distortion didn't seem to change with it's pitch and fluctuation.
The big man grunted an amused sound. "Well, it's not everyday I find a dying assassin out in the middle of the forest and decide to take him home."
A slightly manic chuckle escaped the wounded man, holding an almost creepy edge to it, though perhaps it only seemed so because of the watery tone to his odd voice. "Wh-why are ya helpin' me?"
The bigger man shrugged again. "Not all of the citizens are blind to what's going on."
"Ya know...if the templar find o-out...they'll kill ya." The man said between labored breaths. "It's likely, yes." The huntsman agreed with a slight nod, noting that the assassin's trembling had ceased, his body going lax. "But I can hardly let the symbol for the knighthood's despair be killed. The city needs you and you need safety to rest and heal."
There was a long pause before the assassin dragged up the strength to speak again. "They're ganna think me dead. When they don' find me in the snow somewhere, they'll tell the order I was killed..."
"Yes." The huntsman slowed his mount as they neared his cabin. "And word will spread that the infamous, nameless assassin is dead. They'll use it as a way to crush hope and resistance."
Behind him, the assassin bared his teeth, a quiet, lilting snarl working it's way from his throat. "Then I guess I'll have t-ta survive this and rise again."
"And strike fear in the hearts of your enemies, a true ghost." The bigger man dismounted, careful to keep the assassin, who's consciousness seemed to be wavering, from falling to the ground.
A wide smirk creased pale lips as the assassin's oddly colored eyes rolled and he finished slumping forward where he sat, darkness over coming him once more. The huntsman guided his horse into the small barn situated beside his home, putting the assassin's horse in an empty stall while his own went into a different stall. Pulling the wounded man from the saddle, he carefully carried the man into his home and out of the cold.
Thoughts? I hope you liked it, and make sure you wish RC a happy birthday!