Here we go. I don't believe it, but I finally wrote a oneshot which isn't about Puck and Sabrina. This doesn't even mention Sabrina. I'm so proud of myself. I feel like I was a bit clumsy in this story though, like a few points weren't done very well. Ah well, if you see anything which is wrong with this story feel free to tell me. Thanks for reading, and I hope you like this.
Mustardseed's never told anyone, but he used to be an assassin-for-hire.
X
Before, in Faerie, he'd look around, and all he'd see are two things: his brother, pranking yet another innocent victim who had never done anything wrong, purely for his own enjoyment; and his father, running their kingdom into the ground and ruining thousands of lives while he's at it.
It drove him completely crazy.
He had so many emotions, so much anger and frustration and disapproval bottled up inside him, with no outlet to let it go. Because what could he say? If he said anything against them, if he told them that what they were doing was stupid and wrong and completely idiotic, then they'll try even harder at what they're doing, just to prove some stubborn, poorly-thought-out point.
It'd never work anyway, he told himself, I'll just have to deal with it. But despite his reassuring words, despite his excuses and justifications and defences, it still ate away at him. Wore him down 'til he was paper-thin, and then, not even that.
One day he just broke down at his desk and cried.
...
After his little 'episode', Mustardseed packed his bags and left. He can't, he just can't, it was all too much. Waking up every day to the sounds of maids screaming 'there's a giant spider!' and rioters protesting outside the palace became too much, his head actually throbbed with anger.
So, skull pulsing, he hugged his mother goodbye, gave his father a brief handshake and his brother a curt nod, and, without a single glance back, flew off.
...
One hundred years later, Mustardseed is one of the most feared assassins in the kingdom. Operating under the title 'Olympian' (he had always been fascinated with Greek mythology), his name is whispered with muted fear amongst the criminal underworld.
Fast, silent, shrouded in mystery, the most efficient killer in modern history, he murdered everyone from politicians to pirates to members of royalty. Newspapers headlines blared his name, grainy pictures did nothing to show his concealed features, even the Faerie King felt a cold sweat run down his forehead.
This man, this monster, this killer, was something to be feared.
...
He feels like a god. He feels like Zeus, like Poseidon, like Hades, he feels like he could tip the world on its side if he wants to. Mustardseed lies on his couch, thinking dry and amusing thoughts.
Who would have thought, he wonders, that the very things that made me leave my home had given me the skills to pursue this profession? Who indeed? In the end, it was the very people that drove him from the palace who gave him the very tools he needed to succeed.
Years of dodging Puck's pranks had given him quick reflexes, an eye adapted to warily search out inconsistencies or traps in a room, cat-like and silent footsteps to avoid hidden tripwires.
Years of sorting out Oberon's mess had given him a calculating and multi-tasking nature, the ability to balance a thousand problems and more at once, a mindset focused on isolating and assessing a situation.
He was a god here, in his realm of shadow and murder, and he revelled in it.
...
Sometimes though, he feels a pang, a sharp stab in his heart. It feels like regret, like remorse almost; on days when the sky is cloudy and rain pours from the heavens his thoughts drift to his victims, and to the blood pooling around their heads.
Is what I'm doing right?
He shakes his head.
Of course it is. All those men were murderers and thieves. They deserved it.
But isn't that what you are?
What, no! No I'm different, I'm different from those men.
How so?
I'm... I'm... What was that noise?
A letter had arrived. He had heard the clink of metal as the letter flap was open, and he walks over to the front door. Picking up the letter opener on the table nearby, he slits open the envelope and extracts the sheet from inside.
He smiles.
...
There was just something about the assassination, something about the hunt, which sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine. The stakeouts, the stalking, the research, the killing, it liberated him, it gave him power, the power of justice.
It gave him power beyond imagine, he could barely hold it in check it surged in him so strong, it made him feel on top of the world which for so long had crumbled around him.
He would feel like the Olympian he was so carefully named after.
He would feel the guilt be overpowered by sheer effervescent joy, as a cold predatory smile graced his face.
...
The cool steel of a gun in his hand, the smooth cylindrical shell. The tightening of the trigger finger, the hammer hitting home. Bang! A whistling bullet speeds towards its target, there's a sickening crunch, a body falls to the floor.
The power of Zeus, the lightning-hurler, surges through him. In his fingers he holds the bolt of lightning, sparks of electricity crackling off it, his aim is deadly, deadly deadly deadly, a thousand bolts of lightning rain into the apartment.
Man after man falls, bang!, thud!, bang!, thud!, he unleashes his fury on the world, blood soaks into the carpet, his heart rate quickens so much it's like a thousand electrical impulses are being shot into through him, moving so fast they sting, like wasps. This hurts, he thinks, why does it hurt so much?
And then he realises. This power is so much, sometimes it hurts me. That's all it is.
Perched on his celestial throne, the king of the gods shakes his head in anger.
...
He presses the button, and there is the ear-splitting boom! Explosives detonate, screams echo, the building falls to the ground as Mustardseed feels it in him.
The surge of power, the power of Poseidon, the earth-shaker. In his fingers he holds the glowing trident, cool as seawater, the end slamming on the ground again and again. Earthquakes rumble, the ground is rent in two, the pile of rubble on the ground is littered with corpses.
There is the cry of police sirens, of ambulance sirens, as Mustardseed observes the scene from above, green wings out. Dust is still in the air, civilians choke as they rush to help, or to flee, cellphones ring as people frantically call their loved ones.
Mustardseed feels something wet slip down his cheek, and he swipes at it, but more replace it. Before he knows what is happening he is crying, great shudders wracking his chest, tears cold and salty and infinite in their number spilling from his eyes. What is this, he thinks, why am I crying?
And then he realises. This power is so much, it overwhelms me a little. That's all.
From his throne of coral and seashells, the ruler of the sea grimaces in fury.
...
The man in the barrel begs, as gasoline dribbles over his lips, pleads for mercy. But Mustardseed merely shakes his head. Send a message, his employer had send, show this scum that justice always wins. The match lights, the barrel erupts, a piercing scream is heard.
As the flames dance crazily in Mustardseed's eyes, there is a curious feeling running through him, tingling almost, the power of Hades, the hell-bringer. The ball of hellfire flickers in his palm, its tips lick his fingernails, the man screams again and again as he is consumed, devoured whole.
Tortured.
Finally, he falls silent, as the smell of burning flesh permeates the air, the clink as half-melted rings fall from bony fingers. There is the crackle as hair burns, scalp hair and eyebrows and beard, spitting and hissing like snakes, venomous cobras.
Mustardseed still feels the tingling, it rushes through him like a high, but something happens to it. Something nasty, and corrupting.
A gut-wrenching flare erupts in his core, in his heart, in his soul, as if instead of being the observer he is the victim, burning in hellfire. The tingling intensifies, intensifies to the point of horrific agony, he feels himself smoulder from the inside out. Argh!, he thinks, what? Why am I burning?
And then he realises. I'm standing too close to the barrel. Yes, yes, that's it. That's all it is.
From his realm of shadows and darkness, the master of the Furies grinds his teeth in outrage.
...
He lies in his bed, in that curious realm between sleep and waking, when the defenses lower and the mind wanders. He is thinking about his latest kill, relishing the rush of adrenaline, of power, which surged through him, when a quiet voice in the back of his mind whispers,
What are you doing?
His eyes snap open. What?
What are you doing?
What do you mean 'what am I doing'? I'm living.
You're not living, you're killing.
I live off killing.
That's disgusting.
He flinches, at the directness of the voice. So you say.
You're just murderous scum.
He flinches again. So I've been told.
You're not better than the people you kill.
He frowns. Stop it.
It's despicable.
I said stop. His voice is tight.
Spiteful.
Stop.
Hateful!
Stop it!
Malicious!
Stop!
Evil, repulsive, immoral! The voice swells in volume, swells in anger, til his head feels it might burst.
I said stop it! Stop it! He thinks desperately.
Why?!
It hurts!
There is a bitter chuckle. Not so fun now is it?!
And suddenly the voice attacks, it bounds towards him, his mind is filled with image after image, tormenting and agonising.
A weeping wife, a bleeding corpse, bloodstained bullets, so many bloodstained bullets.
Stop stop!
Why?!
Fingers scattered across the pavement, a leg sticking out from under the rubble, crying children, dying children, little boys and girls in hospital beds, grown men and women in coffins.
Please! I beg you!
Where have I heard that before?!
A head charred black, eyeballs shrivelled and dried, teeth black with soot, the flickering light of fire, the hideous burns across what flesh that remains.
What is this? What are you doing to me?
He can't take it, he screams, claps his hands to his ears.
The voice though, it continues to shout, it continues to wound, accusations, insults, threats, each image like a roll of thunder, each word like a burst of lightning. Every sentence the voice says embeds into his heart, like glass shards, like a lightning bolt, sharp and electrifyingly painful. He bleeds freely.
The guilt rises in him, flood banks bursting, he drowns. He chokes, gasps, scrabbles for breath, it stagnates in him like bilgewater, his lungs are at bursting point. His brain is starved of oxygen, and his comfortingly-sharp vision grows hazy.
He is scared, so scared, scared of this voice, of these images, these memories, the fear coils in his throat. It consumes him, he feels so empty inside now, the fear has robbed him of all rational thought. Like fire it burns, consumes, devours everything within, like chillingly cold fire it destroys everything inside of him.
What is- What is happening?! He thinks desperately, pleading for an answer.
You are no god! The voice roars suddenly. They have turned against you!
Despite himself, his arrogance rushes to the fore. I am a god! I have power!
You had illusions! You mocked them with your arrogance! And now they scorn you!
Every image is worse than the last, his arrogance whimpers in pain as image after image of death fills his mind. Death of his loved ones, death of himself, death in its truest, most horrifying form.
Stop! He starts crying, pleading. Make it stop!
Why?
Please! Mercy, grace, forgiveness! I beg of you!
I should kill you!
No!
Denounce yourself! The voice roars, increasing ten times in volume, an imperative, a command.
I denounce! I am no god, I am fairy! He lets out a tortured scream. I am no god!
The voice quietens, as if musing. Mustardseed lies on his bed, drenched in sweat, trembling.
Swear on it, it says.
W-what?
Swear on it! It shouts suddenly, a sudden moodswing. How capricious the gods are.
I-I swear! I swear on the Styx that I am no god!
There is another silence, filled with contemplation, and fear. If you mock us again, fairy, it spits out the word, we will kill you. And just as suddenly as it came, it departs.
Mustardseed's mind returns to him, the thoughts dissipate, the pain recedes slowly. Recedes enough so he falls asleep, where his broken mind conjures up nightmares.
...
As if the devil were on his heels Mustardseed returns to Faerie, babbling slightly with fear-filled eyes. He buries himself in work, in scrolls upon scrolls of parchment, with a shaking hand he signs forms and balances numbers. He works feverishly, desperate for more and more work, on many nights he does not sleep.
The few hours he rests are filled with horror, with roaring voices and bloodstained fingers, and he wakes every night covered in sweat and reeking of fear.
What happened to him, his mother thinks, what happened when he was away? But every time she asks he merely waves her off, and returns to his work.
His father has more... persuasive methods, Mustardseed is constantly subjected to threats, demands, orders, but he shakes his head. He refuses to tell, and who can blame him?
Finally they back away, his mother thinking, as long as he's safe now, his father, as long as it motivates him to work.
So Mustardseed continues to slave away, and many years pass. Flowers bloom (and wither), leaves drop, snow falls, the seasons continue on their neverending cycle.
And with every breath of new air Mustardseed feels his head clear a little, the fog in his skull drift away a little. He feels just a little bit better. Just a little bit better, every day, for many years.
One day, he looks in the mirror and smiles, and that's when he knows it'll be a good day. He puts down his pens and papers and goes outside.
He talks to people, there is an air of calm in his voice, and that night he dreams of love and beauty and the slain 'Olympian'.
...
He's absolutely terrible at archery now though. His hands shake too much to keep the arrow steady.
The ending's really sudden I know. I tried my best to stretch it out, but when I got past the revelation scene I got tired of this story, and I kind of rushed to get this done. I know, really amateur-ish thing to do, but if I wrote anything it would have been absolute crud. This story was actually supposed to be a drabble on 'Life Terms and Conditions', except without the 'god' aspect, but my beta told me to turn it into a oneshot because 100 words isn't enough for proper development, and thus this was made. I hope you liked it (reading over it I didn't particularly enjoy, but then again I feel that with all my writing), thanks for reading and please review.