PART ONE

He carried his executions with precision. He wielded his sword, laced with madness, carrying countless victims on its steel blade. Night after night, sleep escaped him but he didn’t need it anymore. It would only let the voices reap, feed off his vulnerable mind and remind him of the blood and coldness. Therefore, he used the night to remove his targets as his orders entails, their lives mechanic and counted off like nothing.

Tonight, he prowled in dark submission to his orders. What he does and has done is inhumanely dangerous and indescribable, and he’s aware he would receive death in a result of his failure to commit to those things. He only follows, boundaries uncrossed unless sanctioned, his name a cryptic code of symbols and roman numerals like the rest of them. Nothing of value anymore, the hatred festering to apathy and their pasts remaining aphotic and unsound. When he destroyed his own remnants of who he was and they took in his ashes, he knew there was nothing more for him, and he was only alive to take lives under orders.

Tonight changed that.

The wind blistered against his skin. His legs shook in lethargic but determined movements to get where he needed to. Dark ravens scattered the bleak skies, creating dark shadows along his path. The sky was gray and the sunlight was dim with melancholia.

The path to his target was treacherous but he continued, hoping the weather wouldn’t rot him away. Through the flakes of prickly snow clinging to his eyes, he saw his way around the mountains. His eyes were trained. They cautiously peered beyond the masses of snow, picked up on animal prints, and kept him from falling. His skin was rough and hard like stretched armor around his muscled structure, thick from scars and had a resistance to the snow and blunt weapons. The stiff fabric of his cape crinkled and crunched against the dark breaths snow enveloped him in, providing enough protection for him. His mind was trained on his provided data about his target and did not waver in the flakes of slitting ice or the undertones of blue that was softly painted over his lips and eyes.

As he became closer to the peaks, the threads of death were hanging dangerously around him and prickled his neck and followed down his spine like chilling sleet. The burning ache for thirst was making him more desperate for shelter. The lack of feeling in his hands would result in the lack of control of his blade and the scorching of his lungs every time he shuddered a weak breath weakened him further.

Yet he continued, sweeping dark tangles of hair from his eyes. The wind grew stronger, soughing umbrage and provoking the existing with taunting gusts of wind, just daring him to keep going. Just daring him to die. His feet halted when his path was hindered by tall shards of ice and rock that split in a small crevice. He reached his whitened fingers to wrap around the slabs of wet rock. The structure was hardened by the violent winds, layering the rocks in a submersion of dark ice that left them unmoved by the tyrant snow. He traced his boot to find a surface to balance on, and climbed unsteadily until his arms clung to the slippery slope of rocks.

He ascended, disregarding his constant shaking and quieted his body in fixated deliberation. When he reached the top, roughly 25 feet from where he stood, he labeled it as a barrier from trespassers. It meant he was nearing his destination. He pulled his lower lip in a bite, tasting the undertones of metallic plasma and the grave texture of bitterly riven skin. Fog emanated from his shortened breaths. He clung fiercely to the rocks, not daring to stand and be taken away by the wind’s chaos.

Although he was enduring the miles he had to travel, his body was slowly rotting under the blizzard’s ice. His back hunched, eyes threatening to close and his conscience threatening to leave him. When the wind levelled, he crawled slowly towards the edge of the other side. There were only sheets of levelled snow blanketing the rocky surfaces where he would land.

He moved carefully, riveting his body in a swift turn so that his legs hung over the edge of the other side. The white furor blinded him from his attempts to balance his feet. He listened beyond the dark moans of the blizzard and heard the soft crunching of his boots as he found a platform. Before he could descend, the wind grew and harshly pushed itself and pounds of hardened snow and ice against him furiously.

His figure cracked against the surface of gritty rock. His clavicle and ribs darkened under his pale skin from the impact, ruptured veins letting blood deviate and spread like blackened venom through his chest. Inside of him, his body warmed, red mist perspiring and raising in airy slivers within him. Slowly, it sloped up his throat in salty secretions and finally slavered from his icy lips.

Pain racked him, neck corded with breathy grunts escaping him. The snow before him was crimson and dark. His eyes darted under him, yearning for himself to land safely. Even as his muscles tautened further, his arms loosened by degrees from feebleness. The wind grew in its ferocity yet he calmed his racing heart and devised a plan in order to survive.

With controlled breaths he released the mountain of rock and hit the ground, the snow swallowing his shins. Aside from the injuries, he’s won against death as he did many times before. He was an assassin, ruthless and created from machines and crimson blood. The essence of his soul was glaciated until it crumbled behind the metal membranes and grim conductors that he was filled with, the only remaining pieces of humane constructs are the hematic liquids coating his lips. His chest heaved and his teeth remained clenched from the muddled bruises and enflamed lesions surfacing on his skin. He reached inside his cloak. Warmth filled his hand from spilled blood. He frowned, presuming the fall from the jagged structure gashed his side. He continued to walk through his path, but paused when his senses prickled through the dark waves of snow.

The wind suddenly stopped. There was only silence. It reaped and taunted him. Something was weighing him down, heavier than dread. Whoever he was after was now aware of him, and knew the reason he was there for. His foot shifted, darkened eyebrows creased in unease. The snow under his feet shook above the trembles of the ground.

The gray landscape did not permit him to see through it. His only choice was to feel. Taking an icy hand, he brushed a warm breath against it, and placed it against the mountain walls. The shaking vibrated his figure and rattled his core. The top was crumbling down towards him. He raised his head to the peak, slowly washed away by the barricade of dark clouds. Emerging from the haze were nebulous masses growing like an overpowering shadow above him.

In fluid movements, he evaded the colossal rocks that pummeled and decimated the surroundings. The ground shook, aftershock rumbling his body into weakness until it brought him to his knees.
His wounds flared from the stretch of muscle and movement, crippling him to the ground. Ravens gathered in the sky and fled from the danger and animals escaped in fleeting figures through the barren landscape in the far distance. It became silent again, the boulders becoming gravel and large amounts of heavy snow. He couldn’t run. He was stuck between the towers of mountain rock on his left and a darkened abyss on his right. Behind him was the large icy rock he had to climb upon, and before him were the large masses of rock that fell from above.

Clinging to his icy wounds, he decided to maneuver his way out of this trap. He carefully inspected the fallen boulders from a distance to make sure none would fall down again. Quickly. Quickly, he must find safety and tend to his wounds. Quickly, he must finish his mission. Quickly, he must find a way to continue living. The somberness around him darkened into night, the cackles of wolves and caws of the birds intensified. He went through the pockets of his cape, surfacing a crinkled paper. When he unfolded it, he absorbed every inkling, the height and weight, hair color and name…though his mind was faint. The tendrils of sanity were being cut slowly through him as passage of time continued.

He rose once again, but consciousness left him in the snow.

PART TWO

He woke, surrounded by surreal warmth that he believed was a dream. Death, even. The smell of embers rose in his nose, and the blanketed warmth he felt was the wrappings around his bare torso. It pained him to move. He took in his surroundings, the room flushed with orange lighting. His eyes followed the crafted tables, the reflection of himself in the mirror, to the figure of a young woman. Immediately, he tensed, yet the tightening of his muscles sent a sharp pain that chattered down his ribs.

"Do not move, please, or you’ll reopen your wounds again.”

She turned around and watched him as he watched her, both taking in the other. He swallowed, his eyes conflicted with himself.

“Are you ok?” She asked, voice heightened in a tone of worry.

The sound of her voice made him shiver. Worriment was not a processed emotion needed for his employment. It was not given to him and he did not give it. The tone struck him in confusion, and even a slight form of comfort that he wasn’t used to.

“Who are you?” He rasped, careful in his movements.

“It does not matter,” she whispered. “Are you feeling better?”

“The wrappings are constricting, but it reduced the swelling.” He grunted, pulling his torso against the headboard of the bed.

“I will change them soon, before dinner. Speaking of that, are you hungry?”

His brows lowered, dull eyes staring at her. He couldn’t remember anything. His mind was dark and obscured. What he recalled was that he was venturing somewhere, but nothing beyond that. His attention turned toward the girl.

She spoke quietly, but his thoughts were on the sight of her. She was young. Despite the cold, her skin was supple in its color, hints of light sepia and undertones of umber. Her eyes stricken him in its odd color, the mix of toasted chestnut and cutting speckles of icy blue. She covered herself in layers of clothing to battle the cold.

She approached him, the scent of cooked food hitting him. She lifted his arms, and carefully unwrapped the muslin cloth that hung tight like second skin. The dried blood unsettled his mind, bringing back his memory of who he was and a knowing thought that the blood he usually saw spilled wasn’t his. Now, he was the victim, his life in someone else’s hand, someone else’s choice. He watched her, how deliberate and slow she was in her movements and how careful she treated him. The only question he asked himself was: why?

“I do not deserve this. Why are you helping me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She chuckled. “Are you still in shock? You and I are the same… why wouldn’t I help someone?”

“It isn’t wise to help strangers.”

“It’s also considered unwise and sadistic to watch someone die, so I’ve ran out of choices.”

He became silent after that.

He was presented with a wooden plate of dried vegetables, woody grains, and seared meats. He ate quickly, sipping down icy milk as he finished. Before his mind could stop himself, the words he’d never heard nor say in years left his lips.

“Thank you.”

It confused him, the act of kindness implemented on a half-dead assassin in the snow. He could not understand, but his heart did. It desired warmth and aid, something not given or present in his society. He couldn’t calculate its efficiency in battle. Friendship and comfort is something better off dead in his profession. But inside he thirsted for it like any other human.

“Here are your things.” She handed him his coat and gloves, along with his weapon. “I just wanted you to know there weren’t stolen or anything. You still need to heal for a few more days before you could defend yourself out there.”

“Thank you, but I must go. I have something I must do.”

He said it once again, surprising himself even more. He went through the pockets of his jacket, taking out a scrap piece of paper. Unraveling it, his memory restored. It was her. Now he remembered his purpose. What his identity composed of and what it carried out. He remembered what he had to do, and now he was here. It was simply a mission, yet he found himself unwilling. He couldn’t. Should he follow what was deeply imbedded in his identity, or should he leave her? She helped him, an act of kindness he hasn’t been given before.

So, he decided.

He strapped on his jacket and grabbed his blade and gun. With the sound of metal, she turned fearfully. He raised it towards her, the sound of sheer metal resonating in their ears.

“Take this, and protect yourself.”

She took the handgun from his grasp carefully. He watched her eyes glazed over it, before whispering a small thank you.

“Thank you,” he said finally, then disappeared in the cold night.

End