*Brief Notice: This fic is loosely based off of Steve Jackson's Sorcery! 2 and is not necessarily accurate to any other sources in the game.
"So," Flanker chuckled grimly. "I'm still in your debt."
In a single, smooth motion, the assassin swept away his dice and tucked them into a pouch at his belt. His movements were stiff, but his dark eyes shone with amusement.
"It would appear to be so." you tell him, a smile tugging at your lips. "And don't forget that you promised to—"
"Help you on your quest to find the spell lines." Flanker finished. His eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. He didn't look entirely upset that he'd lost his game of Swindlestones. "Of course. We'll leave as soon as possible, but I'd like to rest for the night. It's been a long day for the both of us."
You nod and watch him carefully finish his ale, holding the mug beneath the cloth covering his face. You catch a fleeting glimpse of his stubble-lined jaw and ivory-white teeth. Curiosity itched at the back of your skull as Flanker placed his tankard back on the table.
He stood up, then went to the man at the bar. You went to follow him, but he returned with a set of keys before you could make it halfway across the room.
"One room is much cheaper than two. I will sleep on the floor." Flanker tells you simply. You blink in surprise, then compliantly follow him up the stairs.
Part of you wants to sleep with your sword close by, but the rest of you is comfortable with Flanker's presence. He was formidable in the battlefield, yes, but he was also kind, friendly and good company in a city of thieves.
A drunk man is collapsed in the hallway, his pockets thoroughly picked and his belongings snatched away, and yet he snored contentedly onward.
"Tomorrow will be rough for him." You chuckle, trying to make decent conversation with your new friend.
Flanker only laughs softly and slides his key into the knob of a door marked with a large 7.
The inside is dark and shabby, but a small fire shone in a tiny stone hearth. It did little to improve the mood of the room. Flanker stood to the side and allowed you to enter first before he closed the door and locked it behind him.
You look around the room.
A poorly-made bed is pushed against the wall, as well as a small table and washbasin. A moldy piece of fruit festers on the table.
Flanker's movement draws your attention. He is meticulously unbuckling his close-fitting leather armor, laying it aside. He unwrapped his cloak and spread it out in front of the fire.
"Thank you," you say to him. "For everything that you've done."
In the firelight, you see that Flanker's eyes aren't black, like you thought, but a deep chocolate brown.
"I owe my life to you, don't I?" he muses. "Aside from that, I consider you a great asset in combat."
You set your pack near the bed and sit next to him.
"Is that the only reason?" you ask playfully, nudging his arm. His eyes once again narrow in a smile.
"Isn't that reason enough?" he says gently. You smile at him, then gaze into the fire. Though your question was meant to tease him, you couldn't help but wonder if he thought of you as anything more than an ally.
You didn't consider yourself a woman of particular beauty, with tangled black hair that fell past your shoulders, wide green eyes and a lean, slender body. Your waist wasn't delicate, your breasts weren't large and your face was haggard and worn from your weeks of travel and hardship.
Even back home, few men had pursued you as an act of courtship. Men didn't want a woman that could take care of herself. To be desirable, women had to be quiet, remissive and curvy.
Why should Flanker be any different than the other men you've met?
"Flanker," you find yourself asking.
"Yes?" he replies.
"I don't think I've ever seen what you look like. Would you take your mask off?" you say. That curiosity from several minutes ago had returned.
"My order decrees that we keep our faces hidden from strangers." he says.
"I'm not a stranger. You said yourself that we were friends." you press. Curiosity turned into something more desperate, as if seeing his face were essential to your well-being. Flanker laughs, his soft, rich voice surprisingly enthralling.
"Very well. But you must not speak of this to anyone." he tells you. Then he reaches to his face, fiddles with a tiny silver buckle, then draws away his mask and his hood in a clean, brisk stroke.
You stare at him for a long while.
His skin is the color of polished mahogany and his hair as dark as oil at midnight. His proud, angular features were those that you hadn't seen in these lands throughout your entire quest. Underneath his arrow-straight nose, his full lips curled into a smile that made his dark eyes glitter like obsidian stones. The shade of stubble lining his jaw made his lean, sharp cheekbones look even more prominent than they should have been.
You notice a scar running perpendicular to the right side of his jaw.
"Is something wrong?" he asks you, tilting his head slightly. A strand of his thick, wavy hair fell across his nose. There is an innocence to the gesture that betrays the bitter killer you had seen him be.
"Um…" you start, shaking your head. "W-where did you get that scar?" You reach out to point, but overextend and lightly brush the pale, gnarled line. His skin is soft, but sandpapery where his beard grew. You quickly withdraw.
Flanker lets out a soft sigh, turning his eyes from you to the coals in the hearth.
"I became an assassin to avenge my family. A goblin lord murdered them when I was a boy, and he was cruel enough to let me live." he drew his long, slender legs to his chest and put his arms around his knees. "I needed to get strong enough to kill him, so I trained with my order until I was ready. They gave me a new name, a new family and a better home than an orphan could have asked for. They trained me and cared for me, and I eventually tracked down and killed the goblin lord, but he left me with this."
Flanker traced his scar with his nimble fingers, and you realize that it trailed from his jaw, down his neck and vanished under his soft black clothes. He gave a mournful sigh and rested his head against his arms.
When you first met him, Flanker was cold, brutal and would spill blood as easily as one would peel an orange.
Now, unmasked, unarmed and willing to trust you with his life and his past, you realized that Flanker was really just a vulnerable young man who carried out his work without knowing what else to do with himself.
"I had no idea." you say quietly. Then you turn to him. "Why are you telling me all of this?"
"Because you asked." Flanker chuckled. "That or I had a bit too much ale."
You laugh with him, though he seems quite sober.
"So you'll answer any of my questions?" you query.
"Most of them, yes. It's been a long time since I've had someone to confide in." Flanker says. He sits up straighter, the worry and pain melting off of his handsome face.
"Alright, if Flanker is the name that your order gave you, then what were you called before then?" you say. Flanker looks at you.
"Before I tell you that, I want to make sure that I'm clear: as soon as my debt to you is fulfilled, I reserve the right to kill you. If I find out that you shared anything from tonight, I will see to it that the beggars play ninepins with your severed head." he says, deathly serious.
You put your hands up defensively.
"I swear by every god known to man that no one will hear from me." you assure him.
Flanker's shoulders relax and his face returns to a calm, content state. Then he leans forward and whispers his name into your ear.
He murmurs two syllables so softly that you can barely hear it, his lips brushing against your skin. Shivers ran along your spine, and you realize that you have just been told something sacred.
He pulls away and presses his lips together.
"Rahim." you repeat, the name exotic and new in your mouth. He reached out and pressed a callused finger to your lips.
"Not even my brothers of the order know my true name. You mustn't speak it to anyone, dead or alive." he says. He is still very close to you.
"Then why did you tell me?" you ask, rephrasing your question from earlier.
"I don't know." Rahim tells you, slightly shaking his head. "But I feel as if I can trust you."
"I dearly hope that you can." you whisper. Your head feels thick and dizzy, as if the ale you drank before was finally taking effect.
Then again, it might have been the light caresses of Rahim's breath on your face or the touch of his hand as he reached up to cup your cheek. More likely, it was the way his mouth felt under your own and the way he carefully ran his fingers through your hair.
Yes, that was it.
It had to be.