His hair had gotten a bit singed from the fireplace, which had taken quite a bit of work to fix. It wasn't enough, but at least he had a hat to cover it up.

Snow continue to fall as he headed for the perpetually open front gate of the guild.

"Off for a visit, then, Mr Teatime?" Mr Stippler asked.

Jonathan paused at the gatehouse. "Uh, yes, sir."

He took his time to put the paper on the counter and pull down the thick student roster. He seemed to take particular satisfaction in how the student squirmed impatiently as he licked his thumb and searched for the correct page.

"It's a cold one tonight. You have enough layers?" He asked.

"Plenty. And I won't be long."

"Don't rush, now," the porter said firmly as he made a note in the correct spot. "It's Hogswatch, after all."

"Yes, sir. I know."

Soon as the book was put away, Jonathan vanished into the night. Far too used to this sort of thing, Mr Stippler casually returned to his paper.

Assassins did not mourn death, as it made their line of work quite difficult. But a certain amount of sentimentality was not only encouraged but fully expected. After all, how could one properly understand the (extremely lucrative) value of a life if they did not respect it in the first place?

It had been made clear, in Jonathan's case, that he was to visit his parents at least once a year. Around Hogswatch was preferable, since that time of year was already family-centered. Jonathan had pointed out that sometime without so much snow would be more logical, but it hadn't seemed to matter. He agreed he would, once everything else was finished, which earned him a disapproving look but not an order to make it a higher priority.

The carving had been accomplished far earlier than expected, as had his essay. He'd already snuck seconds of the holiday pork pie, and there was nobody around willing to play Stealth Chess with the only student left on campus. All of it several hours before he could reasonably head to his room, even if just to read in bed.

Despite his best efforts, he had officially done everything he had to do that evening. And so, once again, Jonathan sat cross-legged in his snow in front of the gravestones.

If they squinted, the administration could see the graveyard from the Guild. That meant there was a significant chance they could see whether a teenager in full black was in the right spot so, as had become his annual tradition, he had to calculate out the minimum amount of time he'd have to sit there. An hour at least was preferred, but the snow continued to fall and he could probably get away with half of that if he feigned a cold.

Based on the lateness of the inhumation bell, there were twenty five minutes to go.

Jonathan's natural eye may have become useless, but his other senses were plenty sharp. He'd heard all the mutters from the older Assassins as he walked by. It had become the general consensus that he'd killed his parents. How exactly it'd been done was as up for debate, argued as fiercely as would be expected when trying to figure out how a kindergartener would brutally murder two fully-grown adults. There was even a theory he'd done it specifically on a business night so he'd be found quickly and wouldn't need to go very long between meals.

Of course, it'd been a very long time since anyone had bothered to ask him how things had gone. And they'd certainly never tried to find out his opinion on his parents.

Probably for the best, as he didn't have one really. He was sure the Guild's rumor mill would be disappointed.

From what he remembered, his childhood had mostly been spent playing off to the side while they worked. When a fall had ended up costing him an eye, they found him one from who knew where. It was special, and supposed to help him, they said. And they hadn't been wrong, of course, but he was sure they hadn't anticipated the sort of side effects that came from shoving something like that into a place it didn't want to go.

It'd all been an accident as the result of an accident.

Happenstance.

And a decade later he had no idea what he was supposed to do while he sat in front of two rather plain looking stones that meant less and less to him as the years dragged on.

Were he still the sort to think about those sorts of things, that might have been the hardest part to accept.

If he told anyone that, there would probably have been knowing looks passed. The same people who assumed a recently orphaned child who'd only just learned to read was capable of making major life decisions would see this as callousness as proof of his brutality.

Or maybe they'd just have stared at him blankly. Assassins by and large desperately clung to their family trees, and couldn't understand not wanting to worship any dead ancestor. Most especially one's parents. Maybe there was something wrong with Jonathan, instead.

Not like they spent much time raising you.

"Yes, but traditionally you're supposed to at least care about the people that brought you into the world. If nothing else, they didn't let you die when you couldn't even feed yourself."

Thanks for having a shag and changing diapers. Let's go before I crack. It's freezing out here.

"Ten more minutes."

The eye grumbled.

Jonathan went back to looking at the stones very hard.

He supposed he could spend the time wondering what he could have become if they'd gone to a proper glass blower and gotten him a 'real' glass eye. The sort that had a pupil and didn't chatter all day. He probably would have ended up being shipped off to the Armourer's Guild to continue the shop he would have inherited. Or maybe he'd have become a Historian. He did love sifting up information in the library.

Or, just as likely, the guild might have offered them the chance for him to take an education in honor of their contributions to the art of inhumation. And other than being warm on Hogswatch everything would be exactly the same. Maybe nothing could have prevented him from being an isolated nutter that fostered horrible rumors as he headed towards taking the black. So, really, his parents didn't matter much at all. Maybe they even would have held him back. He certainly wouldn't have discovered the fatal flaw in the headmaster's defenses if he had been sitting around a tree with a family.

There you go.

Jonathan sighed through his nose. "Do you remember why I agreed to the Guild's offer?"

Wasn't paying much attention to your end.

"Just as well, I guess. I wanted eggs."

What...?

"The whole thing happened before dinner, so I had to go to sleep without any. By the next morning I was starving, and nobody had bothered to give me anything to eat before I was rushed off to the Guild. When I was getting dressed, the Matron promised me anything I wanted if I was good and agreeable in the office. And I'd asked for eggs." He put his chin in his hand. "Great reason to choose your path in life, right?"

You found your true calling. Most people never do. Who cares what you traded for it?

"Shouldn't I care, at least?"

Don't see why you should bother. Dwelling on it won't change anything.

"I suppose." He stood up. "Ready to head back?"

I was ready ages ago.

"I know." Jonathan headed out of the graveyard. "Did you want to play Stealth Chess tonight?"

Sounds fine.

"Alright."

He frowned as something came up on the mental map, and deeper when he identified it.

Nobody moved like an Assassination student, particularly one who'd taken the dark, and nobody understood that like unlicensed thieves. An average citizen might see the coat paired with cat-like agility and predatory nature and give them wide berth, but only the true underbelly of Ankh-Morpork understood that it was in a boy who had no experience or licensure to back that up yet.

There was a lot of pride, to those sorts of people, in taking out an Assassin. There was significantly less in taking out a student, of course, but they usually did have belongings that pawned well. Whether they walked away at the end was up to them, really.

"Nice and easy, lad," the thief said. "Just hand over your valuables and I'll be on my way."

The knife glistened in the moonlight. Very tacky, Jonathan noted, compared to the lamp-blacked knives Assassin's prefered. And dangerous, since it was quite easy to tell where the weapon was at all times. He'd never have seen the proper knife Jonathan carried. But, once he caught sight of Jonathan's eyes, locked on, and stared, it was clear that it didn't matter. He wasn't looking for a weapon at all.

"Wh-what are you?"

"I'm Jonathan Teatime. What's your name?"

The thief seemed shocked when he was stabbed in the stomach, and like he'd seen a monster when he limped off fast as he could.

Jonathan stood, stone-faced, and watched him disappear into an alley. "Not fatal, right?"

Long as he finds a decent Igor.

"Then I don't think I'll have enemies anymore." He wiped off his knife. "Come on, let's go play Stealth Chess."

Sounds fun.

Mr Stippler looked up from his paper, and raised a dull eyebrow at the smear of blood on Jonathan's cheek. "Had a detour, then?"

"Unlicensed thief, sir," Jonathan said, just as plainly. "I'm in for the night."

He pulled the thick book down again. "Happy Hogswatch, then."

"Hm? Yes, same to you." Jonathan headed past without waiting for clearance.

The rest of the holiday was quiet.

Families ate. Friends drank. Jonathan sat in the common room with intense concentration on the game board while the eye glowed and swirled.

And deep in the dank underbelly of Ankh-Morpork, brand new rumors of a crazy-eyed resident of the Assassin's Guild started to spread.