The fact that the Cat's mind was capable of having many thoughts at once during times of great stress had already been proven, both when her master had admonished her for her disregard of his tacit instruction to mind her own damn business (in that case, admonishment had occurred at the point of his dagger while she was pinned against her own door in the dark) and during her adventure with the lords of the canal. In the former instance, she had been capable of feeling terrified of the very real danger presented by the menacing Lorathi, making calculated decisions meant to remove herself from the threatening situation alive, and both admiring and learning from Jaqen's masterful execution of just being himself: the most skilled assassin in the most elite of all the assassins guilds. In the latter instance, she had been able to receive information from her senses about her surroundings (her cold, wet, mucky, airless, eel-infested surroundings), begin a countdown in her head that would inform her as to how long the breath in her lungs would sustain her, and lament what she had thought was her master's involvement in placing her in such a precarious and disagreeable position, all while working out how she would survive despite the odds seemingly not being in her favor.
Here, yet again, was an instance of the girl's mind fracturing to allow different parts of herself to ponder each of the various considerations of her circumstances; to feel all of her battling wants and warnings, weighing them against one another. That this most recent layering of her thoughts had been inspired by something as sublime and remarkable (and astonishing) as being kissed by Jaqen H'ghar was proof that the great stress that inspired her separation into multiple parts performing simultaneous tasks did not have to be a completely unpleasant thing, despite her past experiences.
Unfortunately, it was also proof that even something as glorious as this, this unforeseen fulfillment of her most closely held desire, could never be a simple or an easy thing; at least not for a girl training to be a Faceless Man. As much as she wished it were not so at that moment, she knew that within the walls of the House of Black and White, every happiness was tainted with apprehension and every action was subject to judgment.
And punishment.
We're not within the walls of the temple, though. Not really, the apprentice told herself weakly, knowing that it was stupidity to quibble with herself but torn between caring about that fact and ignoring it completely. She thought, We are outside of the temple, repeating the words over and over in her head like a desperate prayer; like a child clinging to some idea of a verbal talisman; as if saying there are no monsters under my bed three times quickly while clenching her eyes shut would make it so and protect her through the night while she slept. She played this frantic game with herself, all while holding fast to her wish that this would never end, and knowing that it had to.
For both of their sakes.
Jaqen's arms were tight around her, the heat of his palms branding the skin over her spine, insistently pushing against the small of her back. His mouth was moving over hers, slowly and with a restraint that was somehow detectable to her through his measured breathing against her cheek and the side of her nose; through the steady pressure of his hands, searing her bare flesh. His hair, unbound, fell forward as his head inclined toward hers, and the soft, scented strands tickled the skin of her cheek and beneath her jaw. She smelled spices. Cloves and ginger. Soap. Leather. Her senses were nearly overwhelmed. She received their input in overlapping waves and she barely had time to comprehend it all.
Touch and smell and taste.
Apprehension. Desire. Doubt and yearning and ecstasy.
Warmth.
Tickling. Twisting. Tingling.
Breathless.
Weightless.
Careless.
Dangerous (no!)
Yes!
And her mind split itself off into pieces.
Part of her perceived each of these sensations and tried desperately to make sense of them, attempting to understand the effect Jaqen's touch and kiss were having on her (through a filter made of disbelief and elation and craving) and to respond in kind; here raising onto her toes again so that she might find the leverage she would need to press her mouth more firmly to his; there using her fingers to lightly trace the fading scars at his neck, from just beneath the angle of his jaw to the sensitive spot where his neck met his collarbone; wounds now more pink than the angry red she recalled. Part of her remained cool, logical, and very appropriately alarmed; alarmed about what the Kindly Man might say (and do) when he discovered what was happening in his courtyard, by his fountain, between his assassins; alarmed about how this choice would affect her relationship with her master, a man she admired and desired but above all else, a man she needed and therefore, could not afford to lose. Part of her simply exulted, driven by something deeper and more instinctive than conscious thought, and that part could not measure or quantify; that part could not interpret or consider; that part merely felt and wanted and sought; that part heedlessly tempted and pleaded and beckoned with quiet sighs and subtle movements and gentle shivers, beguiling reactions all; that part lured a man along the path to his own destruction and deprived him of his reason and his sense of self-preservation.
That part invited him to burn as she burned.
Surrender.
The assassin moved one hand up his lovely girl's back, dragging it slowly in a way that made her insides thrum in continuous, small vibrations, like the strings of a harp or a mandolin being played by a gifted minstrel. She felt him move the hand over her shoulder and then his fingers were lightly grazing something there. Gradually, he pulled his head back from hers, his lips tensing for a second longer before they left her mouth and she fluttered her lids open, expecting to find his bronze gaze probing her eyes. But he was not looking at her face; his attention was on her right shoulder as his fingertips lightly danced there.
"A man remembers this scar," Jaqen murmured, tracing the imperfection gently. "He has seen it before... Felt it before."
The girl gave him a bewildered look, unsure of when he had ever noted that small scar and confused by the suddenly suggestive tone of his voice.
He quirked up one corner of his mouth, a dimple appearing on his cheek as he purred, "In the bath."
The memory flooded her mind and she vacillated between wry amusement and acute embarrassment. She recalled that she had been impatiently waiting for him to finish telling her about his trip to Westeros when he had interrupted his tale to query her about the scar. If memory served, she had told him the wound resulted from a fight she had with someone who refused to finish telling her a tale, making her impatience for her master to get on with it very clear. The girl started to chuckle at the memory but her laughter turned immediately to a small gasp as she then recalled that shortly after that, the blanket of bubbles that had shielded her from her master's gaze had fled and he had seen her reclining in the chilled bath water, clothed only in goose-flesh.
"A girl never did tell a man honestly how she came by it," the Lorathi assassin continued in a low voice, "and a man was shortly too distracted by... other things to remember to ask again."
The girl's cheeks flushed and though Jaqen could not make out the blush in the dark of the nighttime garden, he knew that it was there.
"A man does not complain," he purred in a soothing voice, giving her his mocking reassurance. "He rather enjoyed the distraction."
How could he tease her at a time like this? And how could his teasing make her feel so… so…
The girl's fingers slid from her master's fine, dark doublet, a remnant of Marco, curling inward as they did. Her hands formed tight fists that she used to push deeply into her own gut to still its twisting; to stop that falling sensation; to regain some of her breath and her wits.
Jaqen cocked his head to the side, both hands now holding her shoulders. His one thumb absently stroked her scar as he watched the movements of her fists, saying, "Does your belly trouble you, sweet girl? Did you mistakenly ingest some of your own concoction at the wealthy man's home?"
Arya simply shook her head, her eyes steadfastly staring at one of the clasps of his doublet as she tried to banish the trembling feeling in her chest and the airy feeling in her head. She pulled at the various threads of her thoughts in an effort to formulate a coherent argument either for or against this blatant defiance of the Kindly Man's wish that she remain apart from her master for the time being. She found that every time she managed to think of four or five intelligent words with which to state one point or another, the image of Jaqen towering over her while she lay shivering in her bath arose and blasted her thoughts apart, rendering her speechless.
Damn his interminable teasing! she huffed inwardly.
"No?" he asked, starting to sound concerned. "Why so silent, then?"
The apprentice drew in a slow, steadying breath and mustered her resolve. It took all she possessed to pull herself from her master's hands and walk away from him, moving from the fountain to the familiar, dark stone bench beneath the lemon tree. She was surprised by how shaky her legs felt as she walked.
It has been a long night, she thought, telling herself that it was exhaustion brought on by the events at Lord Atius' manse and the climb over his garden wall and then all the rowing and the long walk home that caused her sudden weakness. It could not be the kissing. That would be absurd. The girl reached the bench just in time and dropped gratefully to it, bracing herself by placing her palms flat against the smooth surface of the seat.
Jaqen had turned to watch her retreat from him, his expression unreadable. When his apprentice finally looked up at him, he left his spot near the fountain and approached her cautiously, stopping two feet in front of her and crossing his arms over this chest in an expectant gesture.
"Jaqen," the girl began hoarsely, and then stopped to clear her throat, hoping to make her voice stronger and more sure, "you know what he told me."
There was no doubt as to which he the apprentice was referring.
"A man knows," the assassin acknowledged. "He spoke with a man about this as well."
She had not known that. Knowing it now made her feel a bit sick. The Kindly Man had expressed his wishes to both of them.
This will not be good, she realized, closing her eyes and burying her face in her hands. An only partially defined fear of loss began to bubble up from within her and she shook her head, trying to deny the troublesome thought purchase in her mind before the worry could fully form. The Lorathi could sense the distress radiating from his apprentice and so kneeled before her, pressing his chest against her knees and grasping her hips with his hands, seeking to comfort her. At his touch, the girl dropped her hands into her lap and looked down at his face. When the assassin saw her gaze settle on his eyes, he smiled up at her. It was a small thing, that smile, but when she saw what was behind it… when he allowed her to read what was behind it, her brow wrinkled and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it lightly. Jaqen's smile widened until he was grinning then and he reached for her mouth, dragging his fingers across her lip and tugging it from between her teeth.
"A girl should not worry so. Do you believe a man would allow any harm to befall you?"
"It's not just me that I'm worried about," she shot back, her brow now furrowed in consternation.
Jaqen tilted his head, his eyes earnest as his smile faded and he gazed intently into his apprentice's troubled eyes.
"Please don't look at me like that, Jaqen," she whispered.
"A man's look is what distresses a girl?"
"No, the Kindly Man's impending anger is what distresses a girl. A man's look…" she sighed, her voice trailing off.
"Yes?" the assassin prodded.
She started to chew her lip again, and then, realizing it, gave a slight start and released it from her teeth before her master could touch her mouth again. It was too hard for her to think when he did that.
"A man's look makes it too difficult for me remember my duty," she said quickly, looking away from him. "It makes me only remember what it feels like to be kissed by him." Her belly was full of snakes again, and there were butterflies in her chest. In a whisper almost too faint to hear, she added, "And it makes it too hard for me to breathe." She held her breath then, waiting to hear what her master would have to say to that, but not daring to look at him.
After a pause, Jaqen chuckled softly and that drew a sharp glare from his apprentice. He gave her look of mock contrition and stifled his laughter, glad to have her gaze upon his face once again.
"How does it feel to be kissed by a man?" he asked her, his eyes still playing at seriousness, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
The girl dropped her head back as she dispelled a great breath of air and gazed at the night sky through the leaves of the lemon tree, crossing her arms over her chest. He was teasing her again, trying to make her forget her worry, she knew, but the question gnawed at her nonetheless.
Yes, her little voice piled on, go ahead and describe that feeling. Tell him it makes you feel as if you have an assortment of animals nesting among your innards. He'll like that.
The girl grimaced at her little voice, and her master, seeing the change in her expression, said, "Oh, come now, it surely cannot be as bad as all that."
"Jaqen!" she hissed, exasperated with her little voice, with the Lorathi's teasing, and with the fact that he was forcing her to be the level-headed one (when all she wanted to do was fall into his arms and let him kiss her and kiss her and kiss her). "We cannot do this now! After my trial, then we..."
"Then we have no assurances of anything," he interrupted. "Lovely girl, a man has said he will shield you from any harm. A man will deal with your Kindly Man. What are you so afraid of?" As he spoke, he lifted his hands and placed them on either side of her face, stroking his thumbs along her cheekbones, feeling the soft skin there and seeking to soothe her worries.
"Losing you," she whispered to him then. "I'm afraid of losing you. I've never been able to keep anyone who has ever meant anything to me, not ever, and if we do this, I will lose you, too. I know it."
"Lose me?" the assassin murmured, his voice both gravel and honey. He guided Arya's face down to his own. "But lovely girl, you've only just found me."
I know, she thought sadly, but then all she knew was the feel of his lips on hers, and she felt her concern and her sadness dissolve and disappear completely, replaced by driving thirst and a feeling of burning. She was seized by the notion that only Jaqen's kiss could quench the fire and so she met it and pressed it and demanded more, her sudden intensity drawing from her master a rumbling sound that reminded her of a wolf growling. The girl found that rather than dousing and cooling her burn, however, the embers of the smoldering wildfire that she carried always within her sparked again to life and the flames licked up from deep inside, spreading from her belly outward, scorching her whole body, inch by inch.
When Jaqen finally pulled his mouth away from hers to lean into her and bury his face against the white flesh of her neck, the girl closed her eyes and tried to stifle her gasp, pulling her bottom lip once again between her teeth. Had her master seen her, he would have wondered which of her worries troubled her then, but in truth, she was not chewing her lip as she usually did, but tasting it; tasting him; savoring the spice and heat he had left on her as she slipped her trembling fingers into his hair and pulled him closer and closer.
"Oh," Arya breathed, the word drawn out into a soft, sighing lament, "we are doomed. We are doomed."
Yes, her little voice agreed. You ought to enjoy your pretty things while you still can.
Jaqen had been reluctant to let her leave him, but his apprentice had finally convinced him that she needed to change out of her ruined gown and get some sleep. The Lorathi had then hooked one finger barely beneath her neckline and traced the length of the bloody material from one collar bone to the other, saying, "A man will be sorry to see it go."
"What?" the girl demanded, incredulous. "You never wanted me to wear this! You hate this gown!"
"A man hated that Biro forced a girl to wear it so he could leer at a girl's flesh."
"It wasn't my flesh he was interested in," Arya reminded her master. "Are you saying that only Biro offended you? Now that he's gone, I can bare my flesh all I like and it doesn't bother you?"
"A man is saying that now that it is your flesh that is being bared, he sees a certain… charm to the garment."
Jaqen had grinned wickedly then, and she made to punch his arm in vexation. He caught her fist before she made contact, however, uncurling her fingers forcefully (though she truly did not put much effort into her resistance), and then kissed each slender digit one by one, causing her heart to hammer at her chest most uncomfortably.
And the light-headedness he was causing her was bloody inconvenient.
"Honestly, Jaqen," the girl scolded, "I'm supposed to be the impetuous one! You have to let me go!"
"A man is so sorry, lovely girl," the Lorathi started, speaking between finger-kisses and not sounding the least bit sorry to her ear, "he just finds you so appealing. Perhaps if you did not wear such tempting clothing, he would be better able to exercise his self-control…"
The Cat snorted and rolled her eyes, pulling her hand from his grasp as she told him how ridiculous that sounded.
"You have the most self-control of any man I know," she pointed out.
When her master reflected on how his lovely girl looked in her gown of blood, and how he had only touched her in the gentlest of ways, he thought that perhaps his apprentice was right; he did have an inordinate amount of self-control. Giving a comical sigh of exasperation, the Lorathi rocked back on his heels and stood, offering Arya his hand and pulling her up from the bench.
"Very well, then," he acquiesced. "Run away to your cell and put on something more appropriate for sleeping. A man recalls a certain gift a girl once received from a ship's captain. That should do."
"More appropriate isn't exactly the way I would describe that garment!" the girl declared.
"Well, given a girl's more recent taste in attire, a man thought a girl would find it fitting enough."
"It's not my taste!" she railed. "I can't wait to get this stupid thing off!" She plucked at her skirts as if to demonstrate just how horrible Mattine's dress really was.
"Just so," Jaqen answered, but added, "though perhaps you should allow a man to help you. He recalls how much trouble the knots at your neckline gave you before."
Arya hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then swept her hair over and shoulder, turning her back to her master.
"Actually," she started, throwing him a look over her shoulder and offering him the knot. With a bat of her lashes, she continued, "Only if you don't mind…"
Her mentor chuckled at her bold counterstrike and swiftly worked the knots with his nimble fingers. When the ribbon securing her gown fell free, she held the red and white bodice in place with her hand and turned, thanking the master assassin with overdone courtesy and an elegant curtsy befitting a lady in waiting. He snorted at her and swatted her bottom, sending her scampering down the path toward the temple. As he watched the girl's skirts flutter around her ankles during her flight, he shook his head and thought, doomed, indeed.
The girl had finally made it to her cell, determined to shed the ruined gown Biro had made her wear while she served in his house. Her arrival had been slightly delayed when she encountered the black and white cat that roamed the temple. The tom had meowed at her, slowing her progress as he sauntered from the shadows of the garden and stood between her and the door that would let her inside.
"Oh, have you concluded your nighttime activities, little cat?" the girl asked, bending to scratch him behind his ears. The tom had not been named (appropriate, considering his chosen home), and so she always referred to him in this way. He arched his back and purred loudly to express his appreciation of her attentions. He then rose up and began scratching at the wooden door, marking it with his claws. She took that as an indication that he was ready to go back inside.
"Very well, then. Just don't leave any mice by my door like you did to the Bear last month."
There was something singularly unpleasant about stepping on a half-eaten mouse with one's bare foot, she thought before she and the cat proceeded to enter the temple. They went their separate ways in the main chamber, the mouser leaping onto the pool ledge and the girl continuing down the side corridor, intending to enter the stairwell that would take her down to her floor.
"Don't drink the water, little cat," she called down the passageway to the tom before she pushed through the stairwell door. He just looked at her with his inscrutable feline gaze and proceeded to lick his paw.
Once in her room, her offending gown puddled on her floor and exchanged for her plain sleeping shift (she was gratified to see the laundresses had salvaged it after her turn in the canal muck), the Cat found that she was recovered (mostly) from the weak-kneed feeling she had experienced in the garden. She chastised herself for such a display of ridiculous delicacy, and in front of her master, too, though she was glad he had not mentioned it to her. Still, she expected to be tired and so laid in her bed but sleep would not come.
Her mind, she discovered, was rather occupied.
There was much to think on, and much that intruded into her mind, demanding her attention, but she wasn't ready to sort it out just then. It was too new, too tangled and overwhelming. She wanted the thoughts to cool before she made any attempt at deciphering them. Still, the damnable concerns and thrills taunted her, buzzing around in her head like swarming honey bees whose hive had been disturbed. And when she thought of Jaqen, it was as if he were kissing her all over again. The sensations returned to her in a rush.
Falling, burning, and a sort of breathless, ardent yielding…
And then the messy nest of warring thoughts descended, heavy in her head.
Want and worry. Disobedience and desire. Possibility and peril. Certainty and confusion.
And then, bewilderment. She was bewildered by the fact that Jaqen had chosen her (again) and that she had just gotten more than she had any right to expect from the one man she never believed she would have any claim to, yet all it had done was make her want more. More and more and more.Selfish.
Self.
"Can No One love?" she wondered aloud in a hoarse whisper.
She knew how the Kindly Man would answer that question, and it gave her a tight, cold feeling that she did not like. She threw her blanket off and leapt from her bed, rummaging through the clothes in her trunk until she found a pair of fitted breeches and a loose tunic. She donned them, slipped her small throwing blade into a sheaf at her wrist, and left her cell, determined to do something that was not worrying about Jaqen or the principal elder or her own muddled thoughts.
She settled on trekking to the inn, determined to let Olive know about her plans for Syrio. Well, perhaps not her exact plans. But the wench deserved to know that the little pot boy was safe and hadn't just disappeared in the aftermath of Biro's death. She also thought she might probe the girl about why she had come to believe that Lord Atius was her father. As she slipped again into the deserted garden and overtopped the wall, she wondered what Olive would think of the Pentoshi widow showing up in her chamber well past midnight, dressed like a boy, informing her that she was taking her half-brother away for religious training. Ah, well. She supposed she could polish her story and give it a more convincing sheen on her walk over.
The Cat moved like a shadow through the streets of Braavos and felt a certain, inexplicable tension as she approached the inn. She decided to try the alleyway door which led to the kitchen, hoping the cook had carelessly left it unbarred so that she might slip in easily and unnoticed. As the girl turned down the appropriate alley, she saw a figure at the other end, exiting the narrow lane on the bay side. He was nothing more than a graceful shadow to her eye and then he was quickly gone from her sight, but she suddenly experienced that uncomfortable prickling sensation of her neck and arms that told her something was not quite right.
She tried the door and found it opened easily. Now, though, instead of feeling relieved, the discovery only intensified her apprehension. The Cat slipped into the familiar kitchen of the inn and peeked into her old cell. It was empty—the new cook must have gone home to her husband for the night. That meant there were very few guests in the inn and the older woman did not expect to need to rise early in order to attend to her duties. Quick as a snake, the apprentice entered the chamber and dropped to her knees, feeling the underside of the mattress for a tell-tale slit in the ticking. When she found it, she reached in and retrieved the two small blades she had left there before she departed the inn for the wealthy man's home. One, she tucked into her boot. The other she slipped inside of a long, narrow pocket in her breeches; one designed for just such a purpose.
As the young assassin moved into the common room, it struck her that the inn was preternaturally quiet.
It is late, she reasoned.
It's not right, her little voice warned her.
She had to admit, there was a pervasive sense of dread about the place, and she could not decide if it was more foolish to pay it too much heed or to ignore it. She wavered between dismissing her foreboding as a result of a mind overwrought and embracing it as the instinct her master had assured her she possessed in abundance. She then thought of the retreating figure in the alleyway and slipped the dagger from her pocket back into her palm before making her way slowly up the stairs.
When she reached Olive's door, the Cat paused and just listened. The silence seemed to pulse in her ears and her temples began to throb. Blade raised to chest level, the girl pushed into the serving wench's chamber and could just make out Olive's plump form stretched out on her bed in the moonlight which streamed through the open window. Straining for sounds of the wench's breathing proved useless as the pulsing in the girl's ears had grown audible and tamped down the ambient noise. Frustrated, the Cat approached the bed and muttered, "Nar 'amala," setting the fat candle on the wench's table ablaze.
Olive lay on her little bed, her curls arranged so that they framed her pretty face. The wench was unnaturally still, her eyes open and glittering like glass, staring at nothing. Her lips were slightly parted, forming a small O, as if preparing to draw in a great breath. The Cat did not have to touch her to know that she was dead, but she approached the serving girl's corpse and laid her hand upon Olive's smooth, untroubled brow anyway.
Oh, Olive, the acolyte thought sadly. I warned you.
For there was no doubt in the Cat's mind that the order was responsible for this.
The Bear, Arya then thought with a sharp pang, closing her eyes and dropping her face into her hands. She felt the cold steel of her blade against her cheek as her sorrow for her brother filled her. This will ruin him. I have to find him and tell him before he stumbles in here and finds her.
She left her friend's room, drawing the door shut behind her. She made her way through the inn, compelled to make an inspection, looking for evidence of the order's involvement despite knowing that there would be none. And knowing that the absence of such evidence was the evidence.
She found Will next, crumpled on the floor of an otherwise unoccupied guest room down the corridor from Olive's cell. His throat had been cut and his blood was already thick and sticky on the floorboards beneath is head. The girl's legs felt leaden and her expression was sad as she finally entered Staaviros' office. The innkeeper was hanging from a rafter, his face purple, his eyes and tongue bulging. A bloody knife rested on his desk, in plain sight. She understood very well what such a scene was meant to convey. It had been arranged perfectly.
The Cat tiredly dropped into a chair across from the hanging man, staring up at him forlornly. He had been kind to her. He had always treated her gently and he had offered her protection from the wealthy man.
Olive, she understood in a way, even if it pained her greatly. But Will and Staaviros? They were merely props. Looking at the innkeeper's discolored face, it was hard to accept that death was a gift just then. And she did not think her brother would think it such a wonderful gift, either, once she told him what she had found here. She did not relish bringing the news of Olive's death to the Lyseni, but she felt obligated to do it, anyway.
Was there really no other way? she thought angrily. Was the wench really such a threat?
The girl rose wearily, knowing that lingering was pointless. She could not complete the task that had brought her to the inn and everyone here was beyond her help. She left Staaviros where she had found him and slipped through the inn, finding the alley door once again and walking through it without looking back. She had Syrio. There was nothing left for her at the inn anymore.
The Cat was certain that she hadn't been asleep long enough to justify anyone waking her up just yet. Maybe I'm dreaming, she thought hopefully as the hand once again shook her shoulder a bit. Even though her cell was as dark as pitch, she could not bear to open her eyes, her lids heavy weights that she did not have the will to manage just then. She groaned and turned away from the offending hand, rolling onto one side. The hand then slipped around her neck, wrapping around her throat, not threatening, just touching. She could feel a face move to the crook of her neck and warm lips kiss her there. Then, there was the scent of cloves, rather stronger than she was used to.
A dream, then.
As lips brushed lightly at her nape, she rolled back toward the warm sensation, sighing. The hand trailed down to her shoulder and she was being kissed behind her ear then. She shivered and said, "Jaqen."
Abruptly, the kiss ended.
"You disappoint me, little wolf," said a voice that did not belong to her master.
The handsome man.
The girl instinctively recoiled with a startled gasp, fully awake now, and then sat up quickly. In the dark, she could not see where he was and so bumped her head rather hard against his. Barking a curse as her hand flew protectively to her wounded forehead, she hissed the phrase that caused her candle to flare to life. She saw the offending master rising from where he had been sitting on her bed, rubbing at his temple.
"A most inelegant retreat, my girl," the handsome man reproved.
"I already told you that I'm not your girl," she spat. "What are you doing here? And why do you smell that way?"
"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice infuriatingly casual. "I thought I would try something new."
He was wearing his familiar handsome face once again, and dressed in the finer clothes he preferred. He would have been at home among Biro's guests now rather than his guards.
The Cat pulled her blanket more securely over her chest when she saw the way the master was looking at her.
"Why are you here?" she demanded. "What do you want?"
"I want you to get dressed. We have work to do."
"What?"
The master gave her a disdainful look and spoke to her as if she were a young child. A particularly dim young child.
"You are an acolyte and therefore require training. As the master you obviously prefer is not able to perform this task at present, it falls to me to complete your education. Now, get up and get dressed. You have five minutes. If you are not in the corridor in that time, I will come back in here and dress you myself."
The girl looked at the handsome man sourly, throwing her covers off and muttering about what sort of education includes kissing a girl's neck when she's only barely awake as she picked up her only recently discarded breeches and tunic from the floor next to her bed. The master smirked as he walked through the door to give her privacy.
"The best kind of education," he answered her, closing the door and drowning out her angry cry.
Five minutes had passed, and then six. Seeing no sign of the little wolf exiting her room, the handsome man pursed his lips, irritated at what he perceived was the girl's testing of him. He reentered her room to find her fully dressed and sitting on her bed, facing the door.
"Did I not just say that you were to be in the corridor in five minutes?" the master growled.
The girl looked up at him, the grey of her true eyes clouded with worry. The look drew him up short.
"I have to do something first," she said in a quiet voice.
It was on his tongue to challenge her, to admonish her for thinking her desires took precedence over his commands, but sadness seemed to have encased her and he could not understand why. His need to discover the truth superseded his irritation.
"What troubles you, little wolf?" the handsome man asked, take a seat next to her on her bed.
She sighed.
"I need to find my brother. There is something he needs to know."
"Which brother?"
"The Bear."
"Ah. Well, you won't find him. He's been sequestered until he can complete his final trial."
"What?" the girl cried. "I just saw him last night! When did this happen?"
"Some time after you saw him, I'd wager," the master replied dryly.
"But... how did you... when..."
"Why do you need to see him?" the master interrupted, and then, almost uncomfortably, asked, "And why do you look like... that?" He waved his hand vaguely at her face.
"Like what?"
The handsome man placed a hand under the girl's chin and turned her face to his. He used his other hand to stroke the crease between her eyebrows and the downward tilt of her mouth, saying, "Like that."
"I... Oh, never mind. I just need to talk to my brother."
"Well, that is impossible, so you will talk to me."
The master's voice was somehow both imperious and sympathetic. It was almost as if he cared about what she was feeling, but would allow no defiance in the matter.
"I wanted to tell him that... someone is dead."
"Oh, that," the handsome man said dismissively. "Be at ease, little wolf. He knows."
"What? What does that mean? How could he know? It just happened!"
The handsome man sighed heavily, irritated once again.
"It means that he already knows his little paramour is dead," the master said in High Valyrian. "Is it easier for you to understand in this tongue?"
"But... but..." she sputtered, ignoring his tone.
"He knows because the thing was done by his hand," the assassin continued. "He knew before you knew. He knew before anyone knew. Now, can we continue on as planned? There is much to do today."
The girl looked at the handsome man, aghast, whispering, "He wouldn't. He… he couldn't. He loved her!"
"Let that be a lesson to you, little wolf. There are two sides to love, and one of them is very dark."
She gasped at his cavalier tone. The Bear had not killed Olive out of any darkness, she was sure! She could not deny that he had the potential; he was a nearly-Faceless Man, after all, but she had seen him at Biro's feast, dressed in his finery. He was happy. Her Bear could not have done this, no matter what this smirking assassin was saying.
The handsome man saw the doubts playing out across her features and he admonished her to rule her face.
"Besides, what I have said is the truth, so you can stop glaring at me and calling me a liar with your eyes. I do not dispute that the Lyseni loved the girl, though I cannot fathom why, but this was his work. It may comfort you to know that what he did, he did for love as much as for obedience."
"For love?" she repeated, her tone indicating just how dubious she found the assassin's claim. "You're saying that my brother killed Olive for love of her?"
"Just so," the master replied. "For love of her. And you."
The handsome man had refused to explain his cryptic reply to her (for love of her. And you), saying simply that it was not his tale to tell and that when she was reunited with her brother, she could ask him herself. He then ushered her out of her cell, clucking his tongue at her as he watched her rub at her eyes sleepily.
"Tonight, you are to retire immediately after the supper hour. No more of these unsanctioned late night activities," the master chastised her.
She wanted to argue with him, telling him that she was a woman grown and did not need to be scolded like a toddler or assigned a bedtime, but the way he had referred to late night activities had caused her heart to clench. She did not know if he meant her impromptu trip to the inn or her activities in the courtyard garden (which were decidedly more pleasant than her grim discovery of the corpses of her friends, but were no less harrowing), so she remained silent as he led her to the small hall.
"Eat quickly," he instructed, "and then meet me in the training room."
She nodded, still not speaking, and then left his side to take her place at table. Little Loric was seated across from her and his eyes lit up when he saw her face. So he had regained his eyes.
"Welcome home, Cat!" the boy cried happily.
"Thank you, Loric," she answered, her voice still quiet and ragged with sleep. And other things. "Have you seen the Bear?"
"No, not yet," the boy replied, practically bouncing in his seat. "I heard he came back last night, and that he earned his face." He shared the news enthusiastically, leaning across the table and relaying it in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. "But I haven't seen him. I did see the new boy, though."
"The new boy?"
"Yeah, that boy Syrio. He just left a little while ago with the principal elder."
"Syrio was here?"
Loric sat back in his seat, looking befuddled by his sister's sudden vehemence.
"Yes, he sat right next to me and ate some honey cakes. He said he was brought here by a girl named Mattine. I told him that I didn't know any girl named Mattine, but he seemed pretty sure."
The Cat felt cold fingers of fear creeping up her flanks, under her arms, and across her neck. Olive's glittering eyes, Will's slashed neck, and Staaviros' purpled face crowded her mind and wildly, she thought, Syrio wasn't there. Was he supposed to be? Did the order wish him dead, too? She fought for calm, not wanting to alarm Loric or raise any suspicion. In a sweet voice, she asked, "And he left with the Kindly Man? Just a little while ago?"
"Yes. Well, maybe half an hour now. They left together. Do you think the principal elder will let him train? He seemed like a nice boy."
"A very nice boy," she agreed. A boy she would not allow to come to harm. She picked up a hot, crusty roll from the table, stuffing it in her mouth. Giving Loric a small wave, she bounded from the room, intending to find Syrio. And her Kindly Man.
In the end, her search proved a short one. As she left the small hall and flew into the main temple chamber, she collided with the principal elder at full force. She bounced off of him and landed in a sprawl on her backside, looking up at his robed figure with a shocked expression as he stood straight and tall, nary a hair out of place.
"Valar morghulis, little Cat. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"I…" she started, then remembered her courtesies. "Valar dohaeris, master. I was looking for you."
"Ah, success then," he said to her with a smile, offering her his hand. His grip had a strength belied by his elderly appearance. She knew that in this place, looks were nothing if not deceiving, but it always surprised her when the Kindly Man reminded her that he was not, in fact, a frail, grandfatherly man. When she had run into him just then, it had felt like she was hitting a stone wall.
The Cat swatted at her legs and bottom, knocking off the nonexistent dust and straightening her tunic before she met the elder's piercing gaze. His eyes were startlingly blue, even in the dim of the main temple chamber. He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to speak.
"I need to speak to you. A matter of great importance."
"Then we are of like mind," the elder returned mildly, "for I need to speak to you as well. A matter of great importance."
Her heart began to gallop, but her face betrayed nothing as she bowed her head slightly and said, "I am at your disposal."
"Indeed."
He looked at her for a long moment and then indicated that she should walk with him. The girl fell into stride with the principal elder and they walked to the back of the temple and through the garden door, stepping into the dappled sunlight of the dark path that meandered through the courtyard. Just like Jaqen, she thought, recalling the times she had spied the two masters together in just this way.
Spied. Poor choice of words. Or, perhaps not.
Will Jaqen be hiding in a tree, listening in? her little voice queried. The girl would not dignify that with a response, even in her own head.
"What did you wish to discuss?" the Kindly Man asked the acolyte as they strolled together.
"Syrio," she stated simply, looking up to gauge his expression at her answer. A small smile appeared on the elder's face.
"Ah, yes. Your little pot boy."
"I was told that he was with you this morning."
"Just so."
"I thought… that is, I believe he is a perfect candidate to train. Among the order."
"Do you?"
His reticence was beginning to frustrate her.
"I see in him such potential," she stated, trying to keep the pleading tone out of her voice; trying to be just as matter-of-fact as the elder was.
"Hmm."
"I… Is he… What has happened to him?" she finally burst out.
"Happened to him?" was the elder's bemused reply. "Why, nothing, I should think. Not yet."
Not yet. The words chilled her to her core.
"What do you mean?" the Cat asked, and her voice sounded weak to her ears.
"I mean that the boy has likely not even arrived at his destination. Or, if he has, Brusco has probably not had time to figure out his duties."
"Brusco?"
What was he talking about?
"An inauspicious beginning, to be sure," the principal elder conceded, "but I know of several rather talented assassins who began their training in just this way."
He looked at her meaningfully, and the girl could not contain her shock.
"You are not the only one who sees potential in the boy," he told her, giving her the look that had originally led to her christen him the Kindly Man in the first place. "My brother told me of your fondness for the boy, and how he aided you with your recent mission. I thought perhaps the boy showed an inkling of promise. I have sent him to Brusco."
Relief washed over her and the tension that had stiffened her limbs left all at once, nearly causing her to fall as she felt like her bones had turned to ribbons. Syrio was to be trained. He was safe.
"I am… most grateful," the girl said to him.
"Not at all," the Kindly Man replied. "Gifted candidates are a rare thing. I can think of only a few truly gifted acolytes to enter these doors." Here, he placed his hand on her shoulder, stopping her progress. A lump rose in her throat as she realized that she was standing in the same spot where Jaqen had found her last night, on the far side of the fountain. "When the Many-Faced god sees fit to guide such talent through our doors, we must not let it go."
She swallowed hard, trying to understand if he meant his words only in reference to Syrio, but knowing that was unlikely. With the Kindly Man, there was always a deeper layer of meaning.
"What was it that you intended to discuss with me?" she asked when she felt safe in speaking again, nearly certain her voice would not crack.
"Hmm," the elder mused, furrowing his brow in a practiced way. "It seems to have completely slipped my mind."
The Kindly Man smiled slightly at her, telling her he had other matters to attend to just then. She nodded her understanding.
"Valar Morghulis," he murmured, marking an end to their conversation.
"Valar dohaeris," she returned, her voice full of the reverence he was due. The girl dropped down to sit on the lip of the fountain pool and trailed her fingers over the surface of the cool water as he turned to leave her. The principal elder had only taken a few steps when he called back to her over his shoulder.
"Don't drink the water, little Cat."
The girl uncharacteristically lost track of time as she sat by the fountain. Her memories of the night before, of Jaqen's touch and kiss and words here in this place, battled with her thoughts about all that she had learned this morning, both from the handsome man and the principal elder. That Syrio was safe, and would be trained, filled her with a satisfaction that was hard to quantify, yet her joy at the knowledge was tempered by her discovery of her brother's involvement in Olive's fate. And the fate of Will and Staaviros, too, she mentally tacked on. It wasn't until her stomach began to grumble at her and she looked up, noting the position of the sun, high in the sky, that she realized it was time for the midday meal. She had passed her entire morning lost to her own thoughts.
The girl rose from her seat and reentered the temple, bound once again for the small hall. When she entered, she felt as if she were the premier attraction at a mummer's show. All eyes focused on her. There was Loric, who always looked at her with an adoring expression, and there was the waif, who regarded her with amusement. The Kindly Man blandly noted her entry but betrayed no particular emotion about it. Jaqen was there, too, and his look was… enigmatic.
And then there was the handsome man.
He did not bother to hide his fury from anyone, and if she hadn't been certain it would send him flying over the table at her, she would have told him to rule his face.
When the Cat saw the way the Rat's master was regarding her, she suddenly realized that she was meant to be training with him all morning. The girl had gotten so bogged down with her own cares (and her thoughts of her master, or, more precisely, her thoughts of his hands on her shoulders and his lips on her fingers) that she had completely forgotten their appointment. She sucked in a breath and had the good sense to cast the master an apologetic glance before she sat down. A few more of her younger brothers and another two masters filtered into the room after her and slowly, the atmosphere returned to normal.
Even though there was the usual conversation going on around her, and even though Loric peppered her with questions seemingly every minute, there was an undercurrent of tension of which the Cat slowly became aware. It was illustrated by the way the handsome man continued to frown at her and shoot daggers at her with his eyes while Jaqen studiously ignored her. Neither of their behaviors were the norm and so she felt out of sorts. Even though she had entered the room hungry, her appetite waned under the strain. She mostly picked at Umma's crab and cheese pie (she was sure the motherly woman had made it especially when she learned of the Cat's return to the temple and so she swallowed a few bites out of guilt) and tried to keep her eyes on the lower end of the table where her raucous brothers sat. Still, she could feel the scrutiny (and the lack of scrutiny) coming from the upper end.
Soon, the girl gave up completely and pushed her plate away. When the meal had ended and the servants of the Many-Faced god began to filter out of the room and move off to their various duties, the Cat found that she was side by side with Jaqen, near the back of the crowd. He did not look at her or even give any indication that he was aware of her presence, which was appropriate and wise, but caused a sort of stabbing sadness in her center. She glanced off in the opposite direction from him because she feared her eyes might traitorously reveal her mood to anyone who happened to see her. When she did, she felt his fingers lightly graze her palm, stroking it two, then three times, enough to know the contact was not incidental, before he veered off and headed for the front of the temple and out of the ebony and weirwood doors. She stood by the pool in the main temple chamber and watched him go as the room cleared completely but for one little blind boy in his robe of black and white who was lighting candles by the Mother's feet.
The Cat had no assignment yet, but expected to be detained at some point by the Kindly Man to discuss her mission. She thought to go to the training room and make up for her missed lesson of the morning while she waited for the inevitable summons. It was in the stairwell that the handsome man finally caught her.
"Tell me it is your difficulty with languages that led you to misunderstand my very explicit command to meet me in the training room after your breakfast," he growled, his teeth gritted as he grabbed her and unceremoniously threw her against the wall of the first landing. He had surprised her by coming up from the lower flight as she distractedly looked at her feet, wondering where Jaqen was heading.
"I was walking with the Kindly Man!" the girl explained rather breathlessly. She was ashamed to admit that he had startled the breath out of her. "We had matters to discuss!"
"Yes, I am sure you did. Strangely, he told me this himself when I saw him, not a quarter hour past the time I expected you. He managed to find his way back to the temple from the garden. Did he bind you to a tree or a bench and abandon you there?"
"No," she replied, her tone more insolent than was advisable. The handsome man tightened his grip on her throat.
"Then I fail to see what excuse you can offer me that I would find satisfactory."
"If you knew where I was, why didn't you just come and find me?"
It was the wrong thing to say. His expression was cold when he said, "Little wolf, it is not for me to come find you. I am the master here, a fact I plan to remind you of in the training room."
He leaned his face closer to hers and soon the side of his mouth was touching her ear. He breathed hotly for a moment and then whispered, "This makes twice you have left me waiting for you. There will not be a third time."
The handsome man pulled the Cat roughly from the wall by the neck of her tunic, nearly lifting her off of her feet as he did. He spun her around and for a delirious moment, she thought he meant to toss her down the stairwell. Instead, he waited for her to regain her balance and then released her, bidding her to lead the way.
It seemed that there was more than one terrifying assassin with in the House of Black and White.
True to his word, the handsome man had demonstrated his fighting prowess and applied all of his considerable skill without mercy, making it clear just who was the master and who was the apprentice. The Cat tried to ignore the fact that most of what he was doing to her (and what he was doing was knocking her to the ground, frequently and often gleefully) was meant as retribution for her earlier transgression and attempted to glean whatever lessons she could from it.
They were sparring both with training blades and their bodies in a glorious combination of hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. At distance, their blades clashed sharply but when they drew near one another, the Cat quickly learned that meant the assassin planned to assault her with a sharp elbow or a fist or trip her with a sweeping kick. She also quickly learned not to expect a hand up when she found herself on the ground. Rather, she had best roll quickly away or spring up, lest she find the master's blade or the heel of his boot grinding into her breastbone or her belly.
It was frustrating and painful and she spent most of her time avoiding his blows rather than attacking him (truly, he was in a frenzy), but slowly, she began to adjust to the style and when she managed to finally fell him, she was filled with the sort of triumphant elation that she could only find in combat.
Blood and steel.
The master was quick to rise (she was too distracted by her own surprise at having knocked him down to incapacitate him afterwards) and when he did, he attacked her with a new vigor. This time, however, she met his challenges rather than concentrating merely on avoidance, finding the exercise a satisfying outlet for all the vast emotional turmoil she had experienced just within the past day. While she spent a fair amount of time scampering away from him and even more time striking the hard stone of the floor with her back, her arm, her knees, and her arse, those moments grew further and further apart. Instead of tiring, she felt as if she were growing stronger and she began to read his moves and understand what it was he intended, almost before he had even begun his attacks. This new expertise seemed to be accompanied by the most minor feeling of dizziness, but she managed to continue fighting on without falling.
At last, she had him. They were three feet apart and she knew he meant to bring his longsword crashing down on her from above. Just as his blade raised high in the air, the girl spun toward him like a dancer. His sword crashed down and struck the empty spot where she had just been standing and the unexpected absence of the girl threw him slightly off balance. At that precise moment, the girl pivoted to his side and threw her leg around him, catching the master behind his already buckling knees, forcing them to bend and sending him crashing down into a kneeling position. She pushed herself against his back and threw her forearm across his windpipe, pulling back savagely as she panted, "Yield!" into his ear.
There was no hesitation as the master reached behind him, and quick as a snake, wrapped his hands around her throat, squeezing as he rasped, "We are at an impasse, little wolf. But I'd wager I can squeeze the life out of you before you could do the same to me."
As if to prove his point, he clamped his iron grip even tighter around her neck and the pain shot up her throat to the space behind her eyes.
"I yield," she croaked, releasing the master's neck. Before she could understand what was happening, the assassin had spun around on his knees and knocked her backwards. Once more, she found herself laid out flat, only this time, instead of him jabbing her with his sword or his heel, he merely pinned her to the ground with his body. Not that she had been inclined to go anywhere with the wind knocked out of her, anyway.
"Do you think you will be sparring on training grounds with Westerosi knights, little wolf?" the handsome man asked her as he smirked down at her pained expression. "What is this yield you keep blathering about? Assassins are not bound by a sense of fairness."
"How else are we to know when the fight is over?" the girl asked.
"When one of us can no longer fight, the fight is over," he answered as if he could not fathom a stupider question being asked of him.
"I can't fight anymore," she whined.
The assassin gazed down at the girl, her hair thrown messily into her face and all over the floor around her and apparently took pity on her, releasing her pinned wrist so that he could gently brush the hair from her eyes. She smiled wanly at him, the picture of gratitude, and then used her newly freed hand to form a fist which sailed into his jaw with an audible crack. The master grunted in pain and pulled back from her enough that she was able to use her knee to force him off of her. She used his reeling momentum to knock him onto his back and then she pounced onto his chest, securing his arms with her knees as she sat astride his belly. The girl sat up tall, keeping him from using his head to butt hers. She smiled prettily down at the master and lifted her brows.
"I always enjoy showing a little mercy myself," she told him, mimicking his accent perfectly and paraphrasing something he had once told her, "but I make a point to finish the job first."
"Well done, little wolf, but surely you must realize that you cheated shamelessly."
"Cheated?" the girl squeaked, affronted. "How so?"
"You read my moves before I made them. I could feel you poking around in my head."
"I never!" the Cat cried. But she had. She had done it without even realizing it. "Well, maybe a little, then," she admitted with a thoughtful look, "but surely you wouldn't really expect me to forgo an advantage for the sake of fairness. We're assassins, after all, not Westerosi knights."
The master gave her a withering look and the girl winked at him insolently. He pursed his lips but after a few seconds, he smiled and then began to laugh.
"Just so," he relented, his chuckles dying as he gave her a meaningful look and pushed his pinned arms against her knees, barely able to move her.
"What?" she asked. "You don't expect me to let you up, do you? You've already said the fight is over when one of us can't fight anymore. Do you think I trust you enough to release you? We're staying like this until you fall asleep!"
He snorted but before he could reply, their banter was interrupted by the sound of the training room door opening. The both looked up to see Jaqen peering at them, his face expressionless. Arya felt inexplicably guilty to be caught in that posture. For his part, the handsome man was positively elated, judging by his wide grin. And Jaqen… Jaqen was unreadable. The Cat leapt to her feet but did not speak. After a brief pause, the Lorathi nodded to them and withdrew.
"I would not recommend poking around in his head just now," the handsome man said to her as he stood, "or you might see firsthand the evidence of the darker side of love."
Over the next few days, the Cat saw very little of her master. Well, very little of her Lorathi master. Of her handsome master, she had seen quite a bit. So much so that they were beginning to bicker and tease like siblings.
The girl thought of some of the looks she had caught the handsome man giving her then.
No, not quite like siblings, she thought.
When she did see Jaqen, he did not usually openly acknowledge her, respecting her wish to avoid incensing the principal elder by flagrantly disregarding his edict. The Lorathi still hoped to convince the girl that he would not allow her to be harmed. He did not believe there was any real danger, based on the Kindly Man's demonstrated reluctance to truly correct the girl for anything during her years of training. There was something at work that Jaqen did not understand, something that protected the girl, and although he was uncertain as to the reason for the special regard his lovely girl received from the order, he knew that with a little care and caution, they could use it to their advantage.
But in order to come to some sort of terms with Arya, her master first needed the opportunity to speak to her, and those opportunities were lacking at present. She was nearly always in the company of either his handsome brother or the principal elder, the latter having taken quite an interest in the details of the girl's successful mission at Atius Biro's manse. The Kindly Man was frequently seen strolling with the girl through the garden or down the long corridor between the main temple chamber and the front doors, discussing various aspects of her plan. He was particularly interested in her use of her own concoction.
"Ingenious," the Lorathi heard his master remark to the girl as he passed them by the temple pool.
High praise indeed, Jaqen thought. Perhaps his sister was right. The elder did seem to value the girl most of all the acolytes. Perhaps more than many of the masters and priests as well. But why?
When the Cat's master did find himself in close proximity to her and the circumstances allowed for it, he found ways to touch her or catch her eye so that he might give her a look that only she was meant to read. Once, they had even passed each other in the empty stairwell, and the Lorathi had quickly swept the girl into his arms, burying his face into her hair, letting her scent wash over him. He had murmured, "Lovely girl" before he pressed a kiss upon her lips. It had been days since he had been able to kiss her, and the need to do so again was almost dizzying. As quickly as it had started, however, it was over, the sound of the stairwell door opening announcing that they were no longer alone. Jaqen's bronze eyes burned with regret but a look at the girl's worried brow convinced him to release her. They had separated swiftly and continued on their separate ways.
As he pictured the girl's soft cheek and remembered the feel of her beneath his palms, he thought he really must find some time to speak with her. Alone. His fingers ached to touch her.
And there was this matter of a kiss, and perhaps something more; some interaction between his brother and his lovely girl with which his handsome brother had recently taunted him; a matter he most fervently wished to discuss with his apprentice.
I Was Broken—Marcus Foster (also, check out Rob Pattinson's cover)
Stubborn Love—The Lumineers
Take Me Home—Lisbeth Scott and Nathan Barr
What's This Life For—Creed
So Cruel—U2
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed Kissy-Face Jaqen with the Kung Fu grip. I worried it was a bit overdone, but really, can there *ever* be too much Jaqen H'ghar kissing? And on that note, I am so very excited to direct you to a creation of Pandorica 11—a lovely drawing of the reunion between Jaqen and Arya in the courtyard garden. I'm always so in awe of people who can draw and paint. Even my stick figures need work, but I digress... When I received the PM saying a drawing of that moment had been created and uploaded to Deviantart, I felt like a cross between a Price Is Rightcontestant hitting the $1 space on the Big Wheel and a Nobel Prize winner! That is to say, I was completely thrilled. Please take a look at this lovely picture. I do, several times a day (Jaqen... *le sigh*). You can either go to my Fanfiction profile page and click the direct link, or you can type this into your browser: hopeful dormouse . deviant art dotcom / art / The-Assassin-s-Apprentice-Fanart (remove the spaces and change the word "dot" to an actual DOT, as FF is being a party pooper and no matter how I type that out, it won't accept it). Enjoy! And thanks again, Pandorica 11 (a.k.a. hopefuldormouse)!
Acknowledgments: thanks to JinxedSydney for her input on that first, ridiculously convoluted sentence. Of course, considering that it remained ridiculously convoluted even after her input, she may wish to disassociate herself from it entirely…
