Squat behind a chimney of the lower market, Michael peers his head around the corner to view a local pub of the slums. Even after confronting Noah at the tavern, he still has little to no leagues on who this Inferno Assassin group is or their leader; let alone who had hired them. So after completing his morning workouts, he immediately scouted back to the slums of Arendelle and kept to the shadows as he watched whores and gamblers and thugs prowl the area.
He checks his pocket watch for the third time. Truthfully, he didn't really know who to look for. If these Inferno Assassins were hiding out in the kingdom, and if they were smart, then of course they wouldn't be strolling around in colors of red, orange, and yellow. Or maybe so, he doesn't know.
The fact of so little information he possesses makes him want to scream. Every other person seemed easier to investigate in his earlier years. Even at the age of sixteen he had single-handedly acquired the battle plans of one of the top generals of the King back home. Then there's a covert mission he and four other men were sent on when he was seventeen to attack and eliminate enemy assassins tracking them for half the winter.
As he checks around the chimney for his fifth time in the passing of two minutes, he tries to keep an eye out for any signs of glinting metal behind cloaks, darker clothing with masks and to see someone look over their shoulder.
Then he spots it. He sees a figure walk towards the front entrance of the building, guarded by a burly man with tattoo covering the entirety of both arms and coated in clothes of ebony. The figure has a dark colored cloak on, but just as he enters the tavern, caught in the glimpse of the golden light.
His cape glows a deep red.
Careful not to knock his shield into the brick, Michael eases his way off the roof and shimmies down a drainpipe into the alley below. He does his best to hide it under his cloak. Despite its benefits of battle, it could be a dead giveaway. Even thieves and assassins didn't wander around with shields on.
Michael slowly peers out from the alleyway and finds nothing. The guard at the front door keeps turning his head from side to side and Michael snatches a bottle from a passed out drunkard. He slides from shadow to shadow until he's adjacent to the guard.
Throwing the bottle across the way, the guard jolts when he hears the crash, allowing Michael to swoop in and knock him unconscious with the hilt of his dagger. He quickly drags the thug underneath the shadows and adjusts his legs to make him look like he's fallen asleep on the job. Not only will this allow Michael inside, but it'll flood the tavern with people to conceal within the crowd.
Slinking his way inside, one can find the cutthroats, the monsters, and the damned of Arendelle. The filth come here to exchange stories and make deals, and it is here that any whisperer of the Queen's attempted assassination will be found. Michael heads down the steps into the speakeasy, the reek of ale and unwashed bodies hit him like a stone to the face.
It makes no difference how many see him. None will bother him tonight.
He has one plan in mind, and through whatever means, he will execute it. Thank goodness the princess and queen weren't here with him tonight. But then again, he did leave without their knowledge.
The cape billows behind him, his face remaining expressionless beneath his obsidian mask as he moves towards the bar counter. The barkeep is already pale, his sparse hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He tries to peer beneath peer beneath Michael's cowl as he halts at the bar, but the mask and hood keep his features hidden.
"Drink?" The barkeep asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
"No." Michael says, his voice is contorted and deep beneath his mask.
The barkeep grips the edge of the counter. Michael leans on the bar, crossing one ankle of the other. The barkeep mops his brow again and pours him a brandy. "On the house," he says, sliding it to Michael. He catches it in his hand, but doesn't drink it. "How can I be of service?"
Michael spins the glass in a circle in his hands. "I'm looking for the Inferno Assassins." he says, using the name that this group has already been titled. "I'm plotting an assassination on the royal family too. And it would seem that they need my help. So where are they?"
People lean back in their chairs, straining to hear. Let them spread rumors. Let them hesitate before crossing his path.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The barkeep's face turns pale.
Michael reaches into a pocket and pulls out a glittering fistful of gold. A mere eighth of his pay for the week. All eyes watched them now.
"Allow me to repeat my question, barkeep."
"No need." A voice speaks behind them.
Michael looks over his shoulder and finds the man he was hoping to gain the attention of. Turning to him, the barkeep takes back the brandy drink. With a sweep of his arm, the gold is off the counter.
The man is cloaked in black like Michael, only his attire and cloak seem to ripple red in the limited light. Michael can already see two duel swords with long curved blades and a gleaming snake etched into its gold pommel.
"I'm not sure whether to laugh or to spit." Michael snarls.
"I'd watch your tongue, boy." The man replies with a narrow of his eyebrows.
"I would if I knew you'd be a challenge."
The man's gloved hands clench. One slightly twitches towards the hilt of his swords, but lowers. Michael doesn't need to kill him, not yet. He just needs to taunt enough that he can piece more of the plan together. Hopefully they'll be that stupid.
"So you want to join our faction?" the man asks.
"I'm, interested." Michael phrases. "Though it would seem they'll hire anyone these days. I heard about the failed assassination, and it would seem someone of my talents will be of use to you. Maybe even make you all seem like an actual threat."
"If our master was here you'd shut your mouth." The man takes a daring step forward. That enough makes the people sitting near bolt out of his way.
"If he was, then maybe it would be a challenge. But what you don't understand is that you're a representation of him, and if this is all he has to offer, then I am severely disappointed."
The man growls beneath his cowl.
"What is your objective after the elimination of the Queen and Princess? Have him take over the throne? A mere grasp of power for dictation of the kingdom?"
"More like he wants to expand his empire."
"What?" Michael's heart pats slightly faster.
"He has more power than you dare to let on. His empire is spreading."
"Well, at least he's doing something right, I suppose." Michael purrs.
"If you so desire, I am the third ranking of his most trusted assassins. And I'll be more than happy to test your blade and shut your mouth." The man challenges.
"And to whom do I have the pleasure of challenging?" Michael asks.
Beneath the man's mask, he can sense the smirk. "Aaron."
"Good. I've been searching for some entertainment." Michael says.
But he barely finishes his sentence, barely manages to bring up his forearm – protected with a steel vambrace – to block his face as the Aaron's dagger readies to slice at his nose. Michael's free hand manages to grab a dagger from his belt and parry Aaron's next stab for his eye. The people in the tavern squeak and scramble out of the way as the brawl begins. They cower in the corners and the barkeep ducks behind the counter.
Michael pulls forth another dagger and he sidesteps out of the way of Aaron's oncoming kick and slices a cut along Aaron's calf before spinning and goes to slash at his side. But Aaron blocks it with his short sword and their metal clangs against one another before Aaron's fist plows into Michael's jaw.
Pain crackles along the side of his face, traveling up his temple and around his skull. Michael's back slams into the wall but he keeps his sense in check as he ducks under the next punch armed with a spiked knuckle brace. But the next one comes striking like a viper at his side and Michael stumbles back, clashing with a table set. Blood dribbles down his chin and Michael and sense the throbbing pain of his split lip.
As Aaron charges Michael grabs a chair and swings it towards Aaron as he swings a spiked mace. The collision sounds with a bone-shaking rumble and Michael can feel the power of Aaron as he's sent flying backwards, through the closed tavern door and into the street, the chair flying next to him. Michael's stomach clenches as he catches the waft of charred wood and his back aches with the feeling of splinters impaling his spine.
On your feet, Michael commands to himself.
Pushing to his feet, Michael looks over his shoulder, and his eyes wide as he finds Aaron's mace glowing. The head of the weapon flickers and spits with fire.
"Why does your master want the Queen dead?" Michael commands.
"Power!" The assassin comes up behind him, but Michael spins and strikes him with a roundhouse kick. Stumbling back, Aaron blocks Michael's coming punches and kick to the shoulder. "That woman doesn't deserve the crown. He seeks to unite her kingdom with many others he's conquered! The creation of a new world!"
Aaron then spins under the blade of Michael's dagger and kicks him in the stomach. Michael is sent skipping back, but he's on his feet before he even finishes rolling. Aaron stabs his sword into the flame, turns it once, and then swings. Fire explodes as if from the mouth of a dragon. The fire swarms over Michael's cloak, setting it aflame.
Michael wastes no time, jumping backwards and slicing off his cloak where it attaches to the clasps atop his shoulders.
As Aaron plows for him, Michael takes two long strides before leaping up and kneeing Aaron in the jaw, then kicking him in the neck. He's sent twirling in the air and crashing into a wooden crate of a wheelbarrow.
Michael charges forward in a sprint as the assassin groans and struggles to his feet. Michael crosses his arms and hurls forward. He feels the air leave Aaron's stomach as his arms hit his sternum. The force jerks the wheelbarrow forward and down a slight incline of the road.
As it gains momentum, Michael punches Aaron left and right before pushing off his feet, leaping off as the wheelbarrow crashes into an open-ended carriage of cabbage and potatoes.
Drawing two serrated daggers, Michael spins and dives down like a bird of prey. He spins downwards, but only slices at a sack of spuds. Then Aaron's foot swipes like a snake, knocking out Michael's feet. Michael doesn't even hit the ground before Aaron's knee rams into his stomach and then he locks his hands together and whacks them at Michael's with his mace.
Pain crackles along his cheek, shattering his thoughts, and black dots fill his vision. Warmth dribbles down his chin and Michael knows his nose is bleeding. His back aches and throbs and the urge to vocalize the pain grows more.
He rolls along the stone, sliding to a stop at the base of a street oil lamp; citizens taking attention. Michael summersaults backwards as Aaron comes running now with a dagger in each hand. Michael stands and steps out of the way, the two of them dance down the street. As Aaron's hands go to stab for his face, Michael grabs both of his wrists and swings him to the ground.
Some of the town's people gasp and scream, quickly evacuating the area the moment Michael's eyes spot them.
Wrenching the daggers away, Michael slices off two of the armored belts on Aaron and as he goes to stab the man in the chest, Aaron grabs his wrist and swings him into the lamppost, denting its shaft. Whacking him to the ground, Aaron raises his foot and goes to stomp in Michael's face. But with his shield, Michael blocks both attempts and brings his legs up kicking Aaron farther down the street.
He crashes into a flower stand and they sprinkle all around and on him. He growls as he staggers to one knee. Michael finds the flaming mace on the ground and quickly sprints, gripping it and raising it above his head. He manages to make it to Aaron before he pushes to his feet, and Michael swings it once, twice . . . as he goes for the third swing, Aaron's arm whips out and whacks at Michael, sending him back and crashing into the glass window of a clothing store.
Michael stifles a cry of pain and opens his eyes to find Aaron there again and the next thing he feels is his back crashing through the window. Throwing his head back, gasping for breath, Michael can see the tiles stained with red from the blood seeping into his mask.
It's a toy store; that much he can gather from the stuffed bears dropping around him. he spits out a mouthful of blood, every inch of his back aching from the glass and wood and bruises already starting to form. He lets his blood seep into his mask as he slips between the aisles.
To be honest, he hopes the assassin fled. His body is sore, his head positively aches, and at any moment Michael fears he will pass out from exhaustion. Unfortunately, Aaron leaps through the window, drawing the slenderest dagger from his belt. His boots crunch on the glass, the blade gleaming like quicksilver.
Michael sheathes his daggers and draws his bow, leaning his shield against a shelf. Slipping from shadow to shadow, he watches Aaron. As the assassin rummages through giant bins and chests, Michael winds up a music box with gentle fingers.
He's gone as it starts to sing, and as Aaron chucks a dagger at the mass of shadow. Michael manages to make it to the opposite side of the shop and aims his arrow. As it fires, the assassin whirls around and whacks if away before sending another one aimed for Michael's neck.
As he dodges, Aaron is already there to pin him against the wall. He goes to deliver the deathblow, but Michael grabs his wrist and kicks him away. Punching him left and right, he dodges Aaron's swipe of his dagger and goes and elbows the Inferno Assassin. Michael then spins and swings his leg into Aaron's head.
His blow falls short as Arron tackles them back through the window and into the streets once more. They tumble and roll, and Michael manages to pin him beneath his knees.
Aaron's eyes struggle to open, and Michael feels irk as he sees the assassin smirk. "Not bad, you certainly hold up to your title."
"Excuse me if I'm not appreciative of your compliment." Michael snarls. He then spins his dagger between his fingers and raises it high. The guards won't be able to contain Aaron even if Michael brings him to the dungeon. If escaping the dungeon was less than mere child's play for him, for Aaron, it won't be much of a challenge. "I'll give you one last word for your men before I dump your remains into the sewers."
"You're fighting a war you don't want to start, bastard." Aaron chuckles. "You kill me, and I'm sure you'll attract their attention."
Michael coldly smiles and leans his face in close enough to the assassin to kiss him. "That's what I'm hoping for."
Faster than Aaron can react, Michael jabs his dagger down into his chest. The assassin shudders, and Michael watches his eyes grow distant as he twists the dagger before yanking it out.
He watches the assassin slump and his eyes grow distant. Glazed with the far-seeing stare of the dead.
Michael doesn't have time to chop up the body into bits, but enough to tie it up and leave it hanging by the neck, and then disappearing into the shadows before the citizen he saw in the threshold of their cottage home, call the guards on patrol nearby.
Michael has enough sense to snatch a cloak off a drunk dozing on a corner and wipe the blood from his face, even though it takes several tries to keep his hands steady as he runs. Once the cloak conceals his ruined clothes, he makes for the main gates of the castle grounds – where the guards recognize him, though the lights are too dim for them to look closely. His head throbs and his bloodied lip hurts like a bitch. He just has to get inside, get to safety . . .
But he stumbles on the straight road into the castle courtyard, and his run turns into a staggering walk before he even gets to the castle itself. He can't go in the front like this, not unless he wants everyone to see.
The pain throbs with every step he takes as he disappears under a shadowy alcove heading for the servants back entrance through the courtyard. Not the best place, but good enough. Hopefully the castle was smart enough to have mystical healers.
One foot in front of the other. Just a little further . . .
He doesn't remember getting to the servant's doors, only the coolness of the metal studs as he pushes them open. The light of the hall burns his eyes, but at least he's inside.
The door to the mess hall is open, and the sounds of laughter and clinking mugs float towards him. At least his body still has feeling.
One hand braced against the wall, the other holding his cloak tightly around him, Michael slips past the mess hall, every breath lasting a lifetime. No one stops him, no one even looks at him.
There is one door down this hall that he has to reach – one room where he'd be safe. He keeps his hand on the stone wall, counting the doors as he passes. His cloak catches on the handle of a door as he passes by and rips it away.
But he makes it to that door, to the room where he'd be safe. His hand slips on the grain of wood as he pushes against the door, and resorts to using his shoulder. Shoving the door open, he nearly fumbles to the ground from the pounding in his head and the pain that sears through his joints. He hears the gasp of a woman and the clattering of mortars and pestles before hurried footsteps approach him.
Gently hands brace him up and he lifts his head to find golden-brown eyes wide and gaping at him.
"It's not as bad as it looks." Michael breathes.
Unfortunately, his knees buckle but surprisingly, the healer braces him sturdily and helps him stumble over to a chair. Sitting down, relief floods his joints, only his stomach feels like it is still moving. Michael suddenly wants to remain standing so his stomach can feel like it is slowing down.
Before he can give her a fair warning, Michael hunches over and begins to convulse from his spinning head. The woman already has a trash can in front of him as Michael heaves. His body is coated with sweat and reeks of blood.
Once he's sure he is done and his stomach is empty, he wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. The healer doesn't say anything, and Michael doesn't feel any fear as she takes out a large hunting knife and rips open his shirt. Her face is a professional mask as she yanks the fabric down to his waist, revealing the severe bruising spreading across his back. There are little splinters and bits of glass poking out as well.
After he hears her sigh, she walks over to her worktable and pours some kind of liquid onto a rag before handing it to him. "Smell it, slowly. Take deep breathes. It will help with the headache and stomach."
Michael does as ordered. Almost immediately, the nausea eases and his headache dulls. He keeps his breathing steady as the healer removes his belt of weapons and twists open a small metal tin revealing a pale green ointment and the smell of medicine permeates his nose.
"It might sting a little." She tells.
Michael merely shakes his head and then he feels her fingertips rubbing along his back. The ointment is cool for one second before heating up, but Michael hisses only because of the pressure her fingertips as she glides over the bruises of his back. Then it starts to cool again and Michael can't stop the sigh of relief that escapes his lips. There's still his bloodied nose and bruises on his face, but his back is her main priority.
As she moves to examine his face, Michael tries not to look her in the eye, not that she would care either way. She doesn't ask questions, and he is glad. His upper torso is now bare, his shoes taken off and tossed to the side, and now all he wears is the pair of bloodstained pants. As the healer moves to his front, she takes his chin and slowly begins to smear the ointment around his face with her fingertips.
She's a pretty young thing. Apart from her golden-brown eyes, she has a long black braid over her right shoulder and smooth, tan skin. While her cheeks are slightly pink, she keeps her face serious and expressionless. No doubt built up over the years with her job and experience.
"I'm surprised nothing is broken." She comments as she wipes her hands on her apron. She turns back to the table and starts to grind something.
"You and me both. But is there anything serious?"
"Not form what I can tell, surprisingly. Must've been some grudge match though." She says, patting whatever it is she's grinding in the mortar.
"How long will it take to heal?" Michael asks.
"The bruises will have to heal on their own, and a few of the cuts will be gone within four days if you apply the tonic I'm giving you three times a day."
"Alright."
There's the sound distant doors opening and the clicking of shoes. Something about the stature makes the healer grow more rigid and her work speed increases. She quickly turns and hands Michael more of the tonic for the cuts on his arms. As he rubs the tonic on his arms, the door to the healer's room opens.
And in steps a familiar blue-heeled foot, and following it is the Snow Queen.
Elsa had come down to the healer's chambers to ask for clarification on a tonic, but her sentence stops dead when she finds Michael shirtless, and with bruises and cuts along his arms.
His sapphire eyes find hers but instead of seeing worry or surprise, she merely finds exhaustion. In her arms, she is carrying a couple of scrolls and books, but they clatter to the floor and her feet hurry to Michael, her hands grasping his mostly uninjured shoulder.
"Michael!" She cries. "What happened?!"
"Elsa, I'm fine." Gods, his voice is like sandpaper.
"Your injuries say otherwise!" She looks to the healer. "When he come here?"
The healer keeps her attention on the Queen even as her hands continue to mix a small pile of red-toned spice. "He arrived only seven minutes ago."
Elsa turns back to Michael. "What happened?" She commands.
"I'm just doing my job." Michael says.
"What happened?"
"I was investigating the Inferno Assassins, and I managed to find one. And yeah he got in a few good hits but –"
He stops when he sees her shaking her head, placing her fingertips on the bridge of her nose.
"Look, I managed." He snaps. "It's mostly bruising and a few cuts. None of them deep."
"You look like you were used as a punching back." Elsa says, her tone harsh. She can feel something pooling in her stomach, something cold . . .
Michael immediately springs from his seat, throwing the wet rag to the ground. It's speckled with bits of red from the dry blood on Michael's face. "You hired me to find out who it is that's trying to kill you. And that's exactly what I'm doing!"
"I never gave you permission to run around picking fights!" Elsa counters.
A viscous snarl contorts Michael's lips. "Since when did I even ask for your permission? I work alone, and I do it my way. And if you've got a problem with that, then you can find someone else!"
He doesn't give her a chance to respond before he stomps over to the healer, taking the ointment with a mumbled thank you, and storming out of the room.
Did he just walk out . . .? On her?!
"Michael!" Elsa hollers after him. He gathers up the skirt of her gown and hurries after him. "Michael." She calls as she sees his powerful back muscles expanding and contracting as he walks.
When he refuses to stop, Elsa huffs and shoots out her hand. The walls of the hallway turn sharp blue with ice and it spreads out in front of Michael into a wall. He stops just in time, but doesn't turn towards Elsa. Instead, he sighs and folds his arms, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
"Michael." Elsa says as she catches up to him, standing off to his side. "Look at me."
He does, and Elsa can't help but think of how his tan skin and bright blue eyes make him highly attractive. His expression is a mixture of annoyance and anger, and the bruises along his jaw are purple and brown. "What?"
"What are you so upset about?" Elsa challenges. "You're the one who left the castle, without my knowing, and then I come down here to find you beaten and bruised and bleeding!"
He gives a deadly grim. "At least I'm alive. You can't say the same about that Inferno Assassin."
Elsa swallows and stares at Michael. "Why didn't you bring him to the castle?"
"If your guards couldn't contain me, then they sure as hell wouldn't be able to keep a real assassin in their jail."
"I thought you weren't one to kill!"
"And I said that sometimes I need to take matters into my own hands." Michael growls. "Again, if you have problems with how I work, find someone else. Now let me through!"
"No!" The ice cracks, but hardens as she stomps her foot to emphasize her prickling anger.
"What more do you want?"
Elsa steps her way in front of Michael. "I want to know why you didn't tell me you were leaving!"
"That's none of your business." Michael says averting his gaze.
"You're working for me!"
Michael pushes off the wall and look into her eyes. Elsa feels her blood run cold when she sees the deadly calm and anger honed in his face; hardening his features. "I told you, Queen, from the very beginning how I work and what you would witness while with me."
Elsa despises herself for how weak her voice sounds as she says, "But I also said that I wanted to help you –"
"That doesn't entitle you to hang on my arm and escort me to every mission I go on. I told you this is dangerous in more ways than one!"
"Well if you won't let me join you on every mission, then let me help some other way. Remember, I'm filthy stinking rich, and I can have just as many good contacts as you!" Michael coldly laughs at how spoiled she sounds, a contrast from her normal gracious demeanor. "What is so wrong with me trying to help?"
"Because it puts your life on the line. And it's already treading on a thin wire as it is."
"I told you I wasn't afraid." Elsa emphasizes through grit teeth.
"And I believed you. But I'm worried for you."
"Oh, so you can worry for me but I can't worry for you? Is it because I'm some helpless damsel in distress?" The ice crackles more, sharp spikes, slowly protruding towards them. Elsa keeps an eye on one that's close to the back of Michael's neck.
"Don't even think about playing that sex card with me!" Michael snarls, his eyes flashing.
To her credit, she holds her ground. "So it's only about the pay I give you. If I get killed you don't get paid."
"It has absolutely nothing to do with that!" Michael yells, his fist plowing into the ice, crackling it and the hallway echoing the heavy reverberation until she can feel it in her bones.
"Then what's so wrong with me wanting to help, let along wanting to worry about you?!"
"Because I'm not some silly fool – and I'm not saying you are – who can't protect himself and use his head!" Michael yells.
"Did I ever imply that?" Elsa counters.
"No, but you act like I'm leaving you behind, telling me how you worry, and insist you help me with things, and –"
"Because I do worry!"
"Well, you shouldn't! I've been looking after myself since I was thirteen years old!"
Elsa takes a step towards him, her eyes sparking. "Believe me, Michael." She snarls with grit teeth. "I know you can look after yourself. But I worry because I care. Gods help me, I know I shouldn't, but I do. So I will always tell you to be careful, because I will always care what happens."
Michael blinks, his brows raising. "Oh." Is all he manages.
Elsa sighs, and as if she had blown a wave of heat against the ice, the spiked wall melts away; a small hole starting at the center and slowly spreading outwards until it reaches the bricks and then they slowly ebb away until only wet stone is left.
The Snow Queen rubs her arms and lean against the wet bricks, her cape flowing behind her. She sighs and sniffs.
"Look," Elsa sighs. "when I eighteen, my parents . . ." She rubs folds of her gown between her fingers. ". . . my parents died at sea; in a shipwreck. At the time, I was still afraid of my powers. And my father would always try to help me find a way to cope. So with them gone, I just felt, powerless. Afraid. It took forever to try and control it, and I guess, for some odd and maybe stupid, reason the idea of you leaving the castle without me, I guess it just has that same abandoned feeling. You're the only person who has made me feel safe in, forever."
Michael doesn't say anything, and only glances at Elsa before he leans his back against the wall, tucking his hands into his pockets, the bloodied shirt thrown over his shoulder. The torches make his skin glow golden, and she can see more scars dotting across his body. Had she been a fool to tell him something so personal?
"My parents were killed too." Michael mumbles, the words themselves stiff as if it's difficult for him to even say it. "Butchered on the block right in front of me." Elsa turns towards him and steps closer. By the gods . . . "They were accused of helping out the rebels of our kingdom. After that, my hatred for our king grew enough that I joined up with the rebels, and soon dethroned him. While I'll never get the answers I need, I'd like to think, or more rather hope, that they're proud of me for what I'm doing."
Elsa rubs her arm again. "How – how long did it take you to come back from that kind of loss?" she asks.
"I didn't. For a long time, I couldn't." He leans his head back until it bumps the bricks. "I felt hollow, empty. He took away everything and everyone I cared about, and I kept thinking that everything I did was for not. And that I would never be able to redeem them. I think I'm still . . . not back. I might never be. Carrying around a wound like that, it cuts you; like a dagger to the heart."
Elsa nods, lips pressed tight and turns her attention to the ground. They are alike in so many ways, but different in so many more. If they aren't who they are, they could've been friends.
Then again, who's to say they still can't be? It takes an immense amount of self-control to not reach up and place her hand on his chest. To feel that warmth, yet that anger that fuels him so strongly. Her eyes trail along his arms, his chest, his beautifully gleaming abdomen as they ripple. She's never seen someone so handsome. Instead, she resorts to fiddling with her braid.
"Maybe," she says, quietly enough that Michael looks at him again. "Maybe we can find the way back, together."
Something roils in her stomach when those sapphire eyes look to her. They have similar pasts, having to look after themselves, fearing the unknown and carrying weights that leave nothing but exhaustion and an anger that has slowly ebbs into a hollow silence.
"I would like that very much." Michael barely whispers.
He smiles, and she returns it without hesitation. Her hand then extends out and she links their arms together, despite Michael's shirt still thrown over his shoulder. They walk down the hallway more and up the set of stairs on their left towards the ground floor.
"So how was the assassin?" Elsa asks with a soft smile.
"He wasn't a total waste of my time. He was the third in command."
"What?" Elsa gasps.
"Yeah. He had a flaming weapon, which I assume will be a staple of all of the Inferno Assassins." Michael itches his hair and holds open the door for her until her train is past the threshold.
"While I know this is a bad time to mention it," She clears her throat. "But Anna and I will be hosting a ball tonight."
"What?!"
"At least let me explain!" Elsa chuckles, holding out her hands to cease another argument he is about to propose.
"Elsa . . ." Michael pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please, listen. Anna and I had this planned weeks prior before your arrival. And you are going to attend and be on guard, as you've been hired to do."
"Do you not understand the dangers of this?"
"Do you not understand the advantage of this?" Michael raises an eyebrow. "With you recent killing of the assassin, they can't resist sending another member out to avenge him or seek revenge."
"Exactly."
"But, this'll be your chance to take out another one, and maybe this time this one we can capture and interrogate."
"I don't exactly trust your guards and your dungeon. It couldn't hold me. Let alone hold you and your ice abilities."
"With you there, what could possibly go wrong?" Elsa smirks. "You're not doubting yourself are you?"
Michael gives her a sly grin. "Don't even try to test me. If you had seen the battle I had proposed to Aaron, you wouldn't doubt me in the slightest."
"I never said I did." Elsa says, already assuming that this Aaron was the assassin Michael killed.
He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. Gods, even his hands are scarred up to his fingers. "I don't know if you're incredibly stupid, or incredibly smart."
"Watch what you say, Michael. Remember I control how much you get paid."
"I'm usually never in it for the money." Michael says.
"Then what does please you?" She smiles. Michael says nothing but shakes his head but chuckles softly.
Despite the heat rising in her cheeks, Elsa links their arms again and they walk each other through the hallways. Their silence wrapping around them like a warm blanket.