A man traipsed through the forest, probably searching for clues as to how he had even ended up there in the first place.

He didn't know I was watching; nobody ever did.

I watched from the shadows, keeping myself concealed by a camouflage of leaves and dirt. It helped that my cloak was a mottled green, perfect for the green leaves surrounding me on top of the tree I currently inhabited.

Was this the man I was looking for? No, of course he wasn't. The man I am looking for is made of wood. That is the man I will kill.

This is not that man. So he's safe, right?

I decide to ask him for directions. What could it hurt after all?

Creeping out from my spot in the wood, I see him jump in surprise at the sight of me. I would jump too; I'm covered in enough dirt to cover an ant hill. His movements are rigid, but mine are fluid.

I prance up to him, acting like a normal woman as best I can.

I'm not normal; I'm a murderer. An assassin. A killer of people.

"I'm looking for a man made of wood. Do you have any clue where I may find him?"

A shadow crosses over the young man's face, but it disappears just as quickly as it had appeared in the first place.

My face was still covered in dirt, and apparently a leaf was stuck in my hair. I hadn't known about the latter until the man reached over and plucked it from my head, crumbling it in his hand.

"I don't know any wooden men, but I do know that you need some medical attention." He points to a gaping cut I had gotten the week before from a sword fight. It was green now, and looked infected. The scab overtop it was dark.

"Thank you, that would be much appreciated. Does anyone live near here? I should get it bandaged."

"As a matter of fact... I do."

"Oh. Well, I don't want to impose..."

"No, no it's no trouble. C'mon, I'll show you there. You can stay until you heal or however long you need. Not many people drop by anyway."

I nod and begin to trail along behind him, slightly rubbing my shoulder from discomfort.

"What is your name, maiden?"

"(Y/n), and what is yours?"

"I'm August. I go by other names, but those names don't matter right now. We're nearly there, come on."

The cottage in the distance is small, but it looks homey. It's garden is overgrown and the wooden finish needs some improvement, but it looks charming.

We walk a few more minutes before we reach it. August opens the door, and I go in first. A table with two chairs is pushed up against the left side wall, and on the right is a collection of books.

"You like to read, I gather."

"I like knowledge, yes. I also like to build things."

"That's wonderful. Creating your own things adds to the beauty of the world." Just because I'm an assassin, that doesn't mean I can't be deep. I just try to keep that side of me below the surface.

No one expects an assassin as an intellectual individual, but I'm quite against the status quo. Despite what others may think, I love to read. Just because I'm good at decapitating unsuspecting people doesn't mean I like it. Money is everything. Especially for a young girl all on her own.

Tough times, these are.

August leads me to a bowl of clear water. An only slightly dusty washcloth is brought out from a wooden cabinet and dipped into the bowl, disturbing the surface and causing ripples to begin spreading across the top.

He gives no warning as he presses the cloth to my injury. I wince a bit, but hold my tongue. I know from experience not to cry out when in pain. It only shows weakness.

He's careful not to open the scab. There's not much he can do, but he rubs some herbs on it (much to my dismay) and cleans my entire arm, finally binding it. I rinse off my face, and when I'm finished August brings the basin to the window and tosses the dirty water out.

"So, you're looking for a wooden man?"

"Yes. You said you had never seen him before though, correct?"

"I may have some information on him... But you have to tell me why you seek him out."

I had become a wonderful liar in all my years of trickery, and this was a question I had already been expecting. The lie came out before I could even decide whether or not I wanted to lie to this very kind man, "I've been sent by his mother to retrieve him."

"That's a lie."

"I-How do you know? I mean-" I hadn't expected him to call me out on my lie so easily. How could he possibly know? Perhaps he knew the wooden man better than I.

"The wooden man began as a puppet. he had no mother. He was adopted by an old repairman, who taught him all of his ways. The puppet has since grown up. His name is Pinocchio."

"And you know this because..."

"I am Pinocchio."

"That's impossible! Pinocchio's nose grows when he lies!" I'm horrified, suddenly realizing that I will have to kill this kind man. He can't be much older than me! Does he really deserve to die? I suddenly regret not having asked questions when I was assigned to kill this man.

"And when did I ever lie to you, dear?"

"You told me that you didn't know any wooden men! You said your name was August- not Pinocchio."

"Ah, but that's true! Do you ever truly know yourself? No. And many people go by many names in lands such as this. So I simply emitted certain truths. I have learned easily to adapt to my condition."

"But you aren't-"

"Made of wood? That's where you are wrong. Go, grab that knife over there. Stab me in the leg, and see that I am not of flesh and blood. Only magic and wood."

My eyes widen, and I hesitantly walk over to the counter, where a large carving knife is lying. I grip the handle with my practiced hand, but I tremble.

This was my chance to kill him. A quick cut to the throat and his life would be gone. He had practically handed me the means to kill him on a silver platter. But for the first time in my extensive career, I was questioning myself.

August- or, well, Pinocchio- doesn't deserve to die.

Today will not be his death day.

I let the knife clatter to the ground, and then I run.

I'll probably never see him again. The man's whose life I nearly claimed, to add to a growing list.

This life is not for me.

And August has given me the gift of reassurance. I am done with killing.