~If only I had known~
By Ola
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A/N~ yes, yes, there are quite a few thief/assassin stories circulating out there right now. Here is one more. If you feel this is therefore infringing on your rights, feel free to comment, and if you are right, I will take this story down. I hope I'm not unconsciously taking someone else's ideas. On a brighter note, well, this story isn't very happy (hah, so why did I say brighter?) oh well. Hope you enjoy it. It will be a one long chapter fic, (no reason to cut it in two just to have a cliffhanger and another little chapter) unless you swarm me with reviews or I get a new idea, because as it stands right now, I'm flat out, and this is a 100% done. =) so here it is, another of my attempts at a Misty fanfic (so obviously, none of it is mine, except the characters and whatever's left of the plot after I'm done with it =)
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He casually ambled past the jewelry maker's booth a second time, carefully glancing at the young woman that stood there, looking at the man's wares. There was no doubt. It was her. The long black hair, the height, the slim almost boyish frame under the fine summer dress, and the slightly upturned nose. Yes, it was her. It was the young woman he had been paid to kill. He couldn't see her eyes, and briefly wondered at their color, and then wondered why he should care. She was to die by dawn, one way or another.
His walk brought him to the edge of the marketplace, and he sat on the curb of the street, nonchalantly watching the passersby. The young woman waved away at something the merchant's told her, and walked away empty handed, leaving behind her a frustrated trader, and in front of her an excited young man. She was coming his way. He let her pass, and waited for a few people to fill in between them before he stood, brushed the dust off the seat of his borrowed pants, and followed in her wake, carefully looking at her while appearing to do anything but. It was a trick he had learned by watching other thieves and assassins. Most of what he knew about his current job had been learned that way as well. By watching. Watching, following, and thinking for himself.
It hadn't always been like that. The street living. There was a moment in his life –what seemed like a life time ago- when he had been a happy and carefree
boy, as normal as a boy could be. His parents, although not rich by any stretch of the imagination, had done their best for him, placing him in a local school to
teach him his letters and numbers. They wanted to give him the chance to become something they were not. They wanted him to rise above the filthy and
dangerous lives of Exile's Gate. And it had seemed, for quite a while, as if they had succeeded.
The houses, never spacious and wealthy to begin with, were becoming shabbier and smaller as the young woman left the busy atmosphere of the marketplace well behind her and turned into a little used side street. She had a way about her that spoke of confidence and safety. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, perhaps it was something more subtle. But it was there, a sign that clearly told him to keep away.
But I took the job. I can't back off now. Not and live my life as I do now, because there would be severe…consequences. Yes, he had not lived this long near Exile's Gate without learning that pledging your word here was as important as with the Heralds, if not more so, for if you failed to give what you promised, well, let's just say it would literally cost your life.
He squared his shoulders resolutely, and silently followed the young woman. He went past the door she entered, noting the peeling green paint on the door as a marking to remember the house by. A few minutes later, he was crouched behind a bin on the other side of the dilapidated street, prepared to wait what was left of the late afternoon and the beginning of night to make sure she did not leave. And then…then he would worry about his job.
Time always seemed to stop during waits such as these. Waiting for the kill. And his mind wandered, despite all he did to keep it on a short leash. It wandered to many places, although most often, it went back in time, far, far back, to times of happiness and safety.
He had gone through his schooling with remarkable ease which surprised him as much as his parents. And as he grew and learned, he discovered a love for
herbs and healing itself. It was for him a perpetual wonder, how bones could be set, and people made feel better with a simple leaf or a tea. He didn't need a
gift to heal, only skilled hands and a good and clear head. His life seemed to be a straight and easy road, as his parents found him a master to apprentice
with, out in the country, but close enough to Haven to visit every few weeks. Yes, those were times of happiness. Happiness in learning, in discovering the
world, and in the unshakable knowledge that both his parents loved him as much as he loved them. Even his master, as masters went, was exceedingly good
humored, although he did have his bouts of rough temper. But that was then.
A noise close behind and somewhat to his right made him pivot on his heels, his hand hovering near his dagger sheath, ready for any attack, while he silently swore at himself for going off into dream-land. It was a dangerous habit he could not shake for all the years on "the job." He knew it could, and would be the end of him one day, and still he could not ward off those daydreaming spells. When he was much younger, and quite new at leaving on the streets, he had wondered, full of hope, if it was a gift such as the Heralds had. His young mind envisioned himself in a clean white uniform, eating for all he was worth, and sometimes galloping on a white horse, leaving only dust trailing behind him. But then came the memories of what he had done, of how he had ended up where he was. No, he could never be a Herald. He learned that as quickly as … the other things. And here I go again. Stop it! You can't keep on living like this! You won't keep on living if you do!!
He schooled his mind by driving every memory far, far away from the forefront of his thoughts and determinately looked at his environment. The muzzle of an unnaturally large rat pocked from behind a piece of wood, rattling another piece of…something … as his claws ticked on it. He relaxed his stance somewhat, and let his eyes finish the survey of the tiny streets he had lodged himself in. he felt no imminent danger, and try as he may, his mind went back to the past again.
The time of happiness had been short live though. At the end of the second year of his apprenticeship, he had come home to a tragedy. He had thankfully
Few memories of that day, only remembering the pain, the shock, the fear, and the deep, numbing ache of loneliness at finding his parents…
they…someone…
They were dead. Lying in a dark red puddle of blood that flowed sluggishly from their slit throat. He was a good enough healer by then to know that
they had died a few hours before he came back, and that they were quite irrevocably dead. He didn't remember what had happened then, only the anger
and the fear had stayed with him. For he had sworn himself he would find the bastards that had done this and do the same thing to them. Or die trying. At
least I was not stupid enough or too overcome by grief to go at them right then and then. He had gone back to his Master, dazed though he was,
determined to at least finish his studies. He had paid particular attention to body pressure points, those little bundles of nerves sitting right there beneath the
skin. Fortunately for him that he had, for it came in handy quite a few times. As did other things. It was strange really, how much his studies as a healer had
helped him in his survival on the streets. Not only because he knew how to take care of his own injuries and how to prevent them, but also because it had
given him the advantage to know where to strike to incapacitate someone. Or kill. And that was one of the biggest ironies in his life, for what had started as
a career in healing ended up as the vocation of thief and assassin.
Concentrate! Damn it! And so he did, for a little while, until night fell, until the stars moved overhead, and until the world was plunged into deep darkness. And then he acted, long before the moon rose.
His borrowed clothes had fit the daylight area he had found himself in earlier that day; he may have passed for the son of a well-off merchant, or a trader in his own right. It had been necessary to blend in, as he had been doing for the past few days, spying on his quarry. But now, the light colored clothes were as useful as a glass of water to a drowning man. Not that he hadn't anticipated that fact. He carefully left the little street, looking in all the world like a slightly drunk rich boy staggering home. A few corners later, he squeezed through a tiny hole in a brick wall, and quickly changed his attire in the dark. After waiting for a few heartbeats, he again came out, now only one more shadow among so many others.
It had been relatively easy to slip inside the young woman's house through the top attic's open window. The oiled windows hadn't squeaked, the wooden floorboards hadn't protested his weight, and no servants or guards stood vigilance over their mistress. The road was clear. It was strange how sometimes, his "job" seemed so easy. Quickly in, and as quickly out, the "job" done with no blood, and only a thumb-sized bruise starting to darken on the victim's neck. Others however, were quite the contrary. Knives flashed, blood flew, his own as well as his victim's, and sometimes other's too. Unexpected guards, unexpected awakenings, unexpected circumstances…Times during which I thank who ever took care of those things that I was still alive. And that the job was done, because otherwise, whether I was alive or not wouldn't matter for long. He had learned from those mistakes, learned not to take on someone he couldn't best, and not to take on a job he could not accomplish. He had seen enough others receiving their "punishment" for their failure.
No, not this time either. I don't think it will be any harder that that last woman, too months ago. But what about that old man? You had thought he would be an easy target as well, and look what he got you. A broken arm and a near-evisceration, a little voice reminded him.
But I was young then. I didn't have experience.
And what, you think you are old enough now? Nineteen doesn't make you a master.
It makes me good enough to survive. He replied grimly to the voice, and closed his mind off. This was one time he could push any thoughts or daydreams away, and simply do what he had to. And so he did.
He had made the tour of the entire small house, reassuring himself that no one was awake at this hour, and was again standing behind the young woman's door, clearly hearing her deep and even breathing. With one last prayer to the gods, he slowly eased the door open and slid into the room, carefully closing it behind him. It would not do to wake the woman with a chilly breeze. The room was relatively small and empty, not what he would have expected from her. But then, you hadn't expected her to live in this shabby house either. Her bed was pushed against the wall, her body sprawled on the cover. He could only see the general form, for it was shrouded in shadows. For a moment, he hesitated. Get yourself together. The house is as quiet as the night. It won't be harder than any of the other regular ones.
He took another step toward her, briefly wondering what had made him falter, then resolutely pushed that thought away and leaned toward the body.
And saw the whites of her eyes shining in the darkness.
He instinctively backed away and crouched, as something swept the air above his head. That little voice in his head had time for one last sarcastic comment before his world narrowed to him and his opponent, for that was what the woman had become. She definitely was not a victim anymore. At least not for now.
She was out of her bed in the blink of an eye, mirroring his position, her body covered only by a large, baggy shirt. And he only had time to wonder why she didn't call for help before she flung her arm at him and the blade of a knife whistled a hair-length from his left ear. He used his own knife, vainly trying to incapacitate her arm or go for the neck. But she was quick. Damn quick. Quicker than he was. He didn't feel the cut on his thigh until blood trickled into his boot. The wound was long but shallow, not yet a danger although the blood could make the floor slippery. He danced away from her and marked her arm, shorter and deeper than his own cut. She winced away and they circled warily around each other.
Why doesn't she call? Why isn't anyone coming to help her? A realization dawned on him. Because she doesn't have anyone to help. She's alone. That's why she learned to fight for herself. That's why she survived so long here, alone and unaided. Because she doesn't need any help. Well, at least it put one worry out of his mind as he watched her carefully, trying to anticipate her moves. She was good, her speed took her above a normal criminal's range and skill, but her own skill lacked refinement, as if she had learned by herself, keeping faith in her speed to keep her out of troubles. And perhaps it did, in the open, but it was of no real help in close confinement, once he figured out that the fancy knife movements weren't genuine skill. And she had a peculiar flickering of her wrist just before an attack. You're done for, girl. Never fall into a pattern. He waited for that moment again, parried her thrust, and got ready to deal the final blow…when a beam of moonlight briefly illuminated her face, before she quickly moved away into the shadows. But that one glance froze him in place. He wasn't aware of the knife that thudded into his shoulder, or of his own knife dropping to the floor from nerveless fingers. He could only see her eyes as they had shone in the moonlight, and feel a fear not his own.
Hers. He was feeling her fear, and her shock, and wondered whether the dizziness was hers as well. Although he was enough of a healer to know what was happening, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. But neither could he force himself to kill her now. No, that was out of the question. While his mind whirled in circles, he briefly wondered why she hadn't killed him yet. She surely had the chance and the opportunity, even more than one, as he simply stood there, as if struck dumb. One of those little knives of hers in the right place and he would be lying on her floor, cold.
Because she knows. She feels it too.
A sudden fear gripped him by the shoulders, a fear that he knew was not hers. His mind screamed at him to get out. Now! He vaulted over the windowsill before he could reconsider his option, and came down in a controlled tumble that tore at his shoulder wound. Later! Take care of it later. Leave! Now! He ran into the night, trying to outrun the fear, and…and the sense of terrible loss. No!!! No!! He ran until his ragged breath chocked him, until his legs gave way and he crumbled into a trembling heap. Even then, he saw her eyes.
Green.
He didn't know how he knew. It could have been any light color, blue or gray, in the faint moon light. Oh, but you do know…
Only then did the young woman move, nine streets away, falling to her knees and touching the drops of blood with fingers that shook, her face unreadable, hidden in the shadows.
~*~*~
He was roused from his half unconsciousness by the searing pain in his shoulder. The little white handled knife was still lodged in his flesh; it and something darker that trickled down his arm gleamed in the late hours of night. He didn't know what time it was, or exactly where he was. The pain and the adrenaline lasted long enough for him to get to his "home" and sketchily clean and bandage the wounds. His healer's mind warned him about infection and blood loss, but the rest of him was too tired and too confused to care, intent only on getting it done and sliding lifelessly on his cot. As soon as he lied down, some of his nausea subsided, but the pounding in his head redoubled with a vengeance.
But he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. That brief glance of her face was forever branded in his memory. There also was the soon to appear problem of his employers getting wind of his failure. He knew they would come; he had a day or two at the most to retry before they asked for answers. But no, I can't… Of course he couldn't. No, not her. Better kill himself. And they will come looking for him anyway.
And after they are done with you, they'll go looking for her… a morbid voice pointed out. He knew it was true, and a wave of fear swept through him. For a moment, he couldn't think; and then he almost sprang to his feet to go back and warn her, before his vision blackened. You wouldn't even get as far as down the stairs in your condition, and you want to go running the street at this hour? You have a day. Make good of that time. Easy to think, but a lot harder to actually perform. He didn't like lying still. He didn't like inaction. He didn't like waiting. But you had before. Remember those two years. You waited in silence. You waited for the right time, and you succeeded. Had you gone off by yourself, that first day, to hunt those bastards down, you would never have lived to tell the tale.
But I could have gone to the guards. I should have gone to them for help. They would have taken the word of a hysterical fourteen years old crying about murder over anyone else's. Or they would have asked for a Herald to truth spell me, although I doubt they would have needed to.
But were would be the revenge? Nowhere. That's where.
He heaved a mental sigh and tried to control his shivering, as old and painful memories decided to resurface and flood him with anger, loss, and grief. You could have tried for a job as a healer, you certainly had enough experience by then, or even a guard… a little voice whined. But he snorted at it. Not after what I had done to those bastards. Not if I wanted to go after them myself.
And how did it feel to finally get your hands on them? The bitterness cut him like a blade, and he didn't even reply, because he knew that he had been wrong. But how should he have known? As a young teenage boy with visions of heroic deeds, it had been easy to assume that he would gloriously track the murderers down, and cut their throats just as they had done to his parents. He did track them down, but ended up using those pressure points. Maybe not as fast, but very silent and safe. And very unsatisfying.
Trying to rid the world of murderers, you turned into one of them. And now, they'll turn on you like the pack of savage rats they are. And when they're done with you…they'll go looking for her.
The same fear that had gripped him in the young woman's house now took him by the throat and wouldn't let go.
For the first time in a very long while, he cried himself to sleep.
~*~*~
Dawn came too soon and too late. Too soon for his groggy head, and too late for his mind and heart, who screamed at him to move. Now! No. Check your wounds first. They weren't too badly off. Nothing a few days of rest couldn't mend. But you don't have a few days. You may not even have a whole full one. Stop. Think. Don't barge in, not knowing what you're getting yourself into.
But I know! I do know…
He pressed the cup of warm willow bark tea to his forehead and tried to think rationally, shutting his heart out of the equation. But it didn't work. He just couldn't forget her. He wasn't a healer for nothing. He new exactly what was happening to him…and to her. Oh yes, he knew…he knew all the grimy and disturbing details of what would happen to him if she died, and what would happen to her if he was killed. It wouldn't be pretty. Oh no. It would be a lot worse than a simple, clean cut to the heart or throat, for it would last a very long and painful time. Like surrendering life. He shuddered again, despite the warmth coming up from the street, and resolutely stood up, making his mind up. There wasn't really that many choices anyway. Not if I value her life.
~*~*~
He heard their footsteps, fanning out behind him. They had closed off the north end of the narrow alley, and more were most probably on the way to do the same to the south side. Even as his thought formed, several light brown shapes separated themselves from the lighter forms of the adjacent buildings. Several, for there were more and more of those appearing every moment. He kept on walking slowly, as if unaware of the human barricade, all the while glancing surreptitiously at the dilapidated houses on either side of the long alley, searching for a means of escape. Because if he didn't escape, he would be done for, this time. And no amount of his knowledge would help this time, not when he was so obviously and outrageously outnumbered.
He knew it was them. What he didn't know was why they decided to come at him in full daylight. They never had before, in all the time he had worked for and dealt with them. And they were too many of them for it to be a mere talking and business session. They know. They have their own eyes and ears. They know something happened last night. They want to make sure no one gets wind of this. Bad for the business and bad for their own skin if the guards were alerted. Knowing why they had come didn't make it any easier to bear. Not when he had to warn one of their victims. Not when he knew that without answers, he wouldn't live to see the sunset.
The facades of the houses were unnaturally smooth, the rickety and dirty appearance belying any kind of hand or foot holds. Not uncommon in such a part of the city, for where thieves and assassins lurked behind every corner, it was in the house owner's best interest to make it as inaccessible as possible. No, there would be no wall scaling today. And no escape from the trap he had so stupidly walked into. He should have known. He had accepted an assignment and failed to deliver. There would be hell to pay. And more literally than even he could make himself believe.
A few shutters banged close as people saw what was about to unfold right at their very doorsteps. They didn't want anything to do with another street brawl, and none of them would even think of letting him escape through their house. As for the guards, they rarely came here. There was enough trouble in the more reputable parts of town; they didn't much like antagonizing gangs of hardened bandits. Not that they would get in between two fighters, who most probably were cut throats. Let them kill each other off, and there would be less vermin for the guards to clean up afterwards. No, he was alone here, and on his own. Like I've been all my life.
He carefully loosened the little knives hidden in his arm cuffs and counted his opponents. Four in front, three behind him. Damn them. Three he could have taken in a place of defense of his choosing. Perhaps even four, but seven? Out in the open? With his shoulder and leg loudly reminding him what had happened last nigh? He snorted to himself. Yea right. It was strange really. Why had his employer taken on so many of the thugs to dispatch him? Why not another one like himself? It would have been quite a bit less…showy. Should I be impressed that he thinks one or two are too few for my skills? Or should I feel slighted that he didn't think enough of me to pay for a professional assassin? Pff, think about your feelings afterwards. If you're left with any feelings at all that is. This is not the moment to analyze yourself in this manner.
He didn't have to remind himself of that. One of the men in front of him took a slow step toward him and slammed a heavy wooden club into his open fist, while leering at him in a most disgusting and self assured way. Well, at least they're not used to stealth and rapidity. That's to my advantage. But that's probably the only thing to my advantage. Stop that, you idiot, you're depressing yourself. After that point he didn't get too much time to think. The four waited only long enough to be sure that their three backups were there before they took him on, each swinging a bat that would have crushed his scull had any of them connected. He simply jumped back and crouched at the ready, dispatching one of them with the flicker of a wrist while the burly man recuperated from his swing. That leaves six of them, against three throwing knives, and two long daggers. The others simply sidestepped their fallen comrade and pushed him in against the other advancing thuds by sheer force.
He whirled and slashed the air with his dagger, cutting thin air as his target barely jumped back in time. Those three from behind were faster, and they had long knives of their own. He let fly another of his little blades. It thudded in another one's shoulder, sending him reeling back with the force of impact. Then he smirked as adrenaline rushed through his veins, pulled the other dagger out of his sheath, twirled the two in the air for a second, and began his dance of death. He had no intention of going down without putting on one of his most glorious fights.
His world narrowed down to his knives and the air around him. He wouldn't have been able to tell what time it was or how badly he was hurt yet. Not enough to surrender. Never enough to surrender. I'll go down fighting. He snarled and lunged, as two of the bat-carrying brutes assaulted him at the same time. He inadverantly let one club find its target, almost crushing his right leg form under him, but he scored on the other guy, severing the artery in his neck with a clean sweep of his knife. Of the original seven, three were now dead, and two severely wounded, but the remaining two were fresh, while his strength was sorely beginning to lack. The midday sun was hot on his skin, and the sweat made him fear to loose his grip. He was also cut rather badly in several places, and enormous bruises darkened his skin where those clubs had succeeded in breaking his defenses, one of which had cracked a few ribs as it smashed into him from the side. The speed was costing him much in energy as well, and taking away his much needed breath. The cut throats realized he was at the end of his line and picked up the pace. They also got smarter; the wounded "clubs" paired with the fresh "knives" and while one group distracted him, the other struck from behind. He saw them coming, but had no place to dance out of reach. No place, no strength, and no breath. His hand tremble with the strain, and his vision was starting to blur and darken.
A surprisingly detached part of his mind ticked off his symptoms and injuries on his finger, counting the minutes left for him to live. There were frighteningly few of those left. Before he had time to feel angry at his body for slowly letting him go, he was clobbered on the back of the head and for a heartbeat, his world turned black, while his knees gave way. Time seemed to stop. He faintly heard a curse and a gurgling scream and a little part of him wondered why he wasn't dead yet, while another part laughed at what was happening to him. That's twice in a day. You get trounced, and expect to die. He managed to open his eyes just as something white flashed in front of his face to lodge with a solid thump in a gray-brown shape that refused to focus into view. He blinked and stared at the new person to join the group, his mind refusing to accept the fact that someone had just killed off another one of his opponents and incapacitated a second.
The newcomer, whoever he was, was a whirlwind of speed and energy, and he marveled at his agility. It wasn't a fighting technique he was used to see on the streets, and neither it seemed was it familiar to the remaining men, for they lost their rhythm, and another one fell. He didn't even know how or why. The world was starting to spin and darken.
It's…only noon.
Not s'posed… to be dark…
His thoughts were starting to leave as well. It was hard to put coherent sentences together, or even understand what he was trying to tell himself.
One hit…too many. That…last one. Bad.
It was very bad indeed, for while the newcomer spared with one of the remaining thuds, the last cut throat circled around the fight and came at him from the side. He didn't look like anything more than a man sized dark blur. A blur with a long object in his hand that gleamed in the sun. Thoughts vanished all together, and instincts took over. He rolled away from whatever it was that smashed the ground with a screeching sound. A blade. But before he could spring back up, the man was already standing in front of him, his long dagger coming down at him .
He didn't know a human body could feel so much pain and still retain consciousness. It didn't seem possible. Everything hurt, everything burned. Someone screamed, a high, feminine-pitched scream. It was strange really, how much he could feel and hear. He would have thought that as pain took over his body, his senses would fail as well, just as his vision had. The healer part of him was saddened that he would never get a chance to learn a little more about this phenomenon. It really was fascinating how a little pebble dug into his shoulder, how the sun burned his face, how something warm and sticky tricked from his forehead down into his eyes…how everything became quiet.
Where they all dead? Or did they simply go away, and left him to bleed himself to death? He didn't really care anymore. A strange peacefulness came other him. I'm dying. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't angered. He had seen it coming. No one lives long on the streets. It was time for him to let go. Go someplace safe and warm, if the priests told the truth.
From one …Haven
…to another…
But…you don't deserve …
…the Havens…
That thought shook him to the core. He had never thought about it. And now he became afraid. Afraid of the perpetual dark, of the unknown…did the dead wander the world as lonely ghosts for eternity? With no respite from the never ending afterlife? He didn't know. He had never paid much attention to what the priests said, unless it was about the Havens. And…and what about her? She'll…she'll…die…too…
Oh yes, he was afraid. Afraid enough to fight for his life. Again. But mostly for hers. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes. He saw red, but couldn't move his hands to wipe it away. His whole body now shook with uncontrolled tremors, and a wave of cold began spreading through him. He already couldn't feel his feet. And as the numbing sensation grew, so did his panic. He tried to cry out for help, flinging dignity and honor to the four winds, but it came out as a pathetic like moan, barely audible even to his own ears. He was alone. So very alone. And he was dying. It wasn't fair.
He felt his eyes fill with tears, he felt their saltiness mingling with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth…and he felt …he felt smooth hands caressing his hair and gently cradling his head. He blinked again, and wondered if he was seeing an angel.
But angels don't cry.
Angels don't try to close your wounds to keep your life from slipping…
But this one did.
"Don't go…please…don't go…" she whispered near his ear, her voice raw with emotions. He knew that voice. He knew the owner although he never heard her speak before. And his heart constricted excruciatingly. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He wasn't supposed to have tried to kill his… … she wasn't supposed to find her…her… him…like this…
His vision wavered again, and he clutched at her arm, so afraid to let go. He couldn't see her anymore. He couldn't feel much of anything anymore. Except the unbearable pain of knowing he was indirectly killing her. No! NO!
He poured all he felt, all the shock, the grief, the pain of the imminent loss…and the all encompassing love, toward her. But even as he waited for her answer, the pull of darkness became too strong, and his hand became a limp weight in hers. He never heard her answer, he never felt her acknowledgement.
And he died, never knowing
the name of his lifebonded.
~*~*~
A/N~ comments? Reviews? I would really appreciate any of those. =) I hope you liked it.