The Young Assassin

At the age of 12, Natham had already filled a single piece of paper with his numbers of slaughter. He counted the list of names with his fingers but immediately gave up when he found out that even his own pair of hands is not enough. He stood in the midst of a messy pile of corpses, his eyes close as he inhaled the familiar scent of metal. Natham breathes it in like oxygen allowing its fresh scent to circulate unto his lungs. It filled him with power, with memories that he can only remember by sniffing fresh blood. Once it had driven Natham with guilt that he almost ended up hurting himself. As he stared at the fresh corpses nestled against the cobbles, eyes staring blankly at the roof, he felt his chest burned with pride. He lifted them from the darkness, he thought. He relieved them from the torment of this world. Natham thrust his gauntleted hand to his robe hiding the parchment bearing the names of the dead with great gentleness. Despite his crimes, Natham still paid them respect. It was not fear from the ghost that drives him to care for their names, for the remains of their identity, rather it was the honor that he gained by tearing their flesh and stabbing their heart with his dagger. He bowed his head and muttered a silent prayer. Hands resting on his knees. As he opened his eyes and walked towards the door, he turned back and whispered something in the air. The dead will understand.

“The empress does not accept guests without a written invitation.” The guard insisted his eyes furrowed. He held his spear in a defensive stance toward Natham. His back at the ironed gate that was lidded with golden initials that Natham couldn’t decipher. Natham scowled, his hands reaching towards the side of his trouser where his dagger laid hidden behind his robe. “Perhaps you are unaware of the weight this message I bear?” Natham responded. “Tell me your name kid, perhaps I can deliver that message of yours to the empress.” The guard responded, his hand brushing his shaved chin. “I'm afraid that would not be acceptable,” Natham muttered, despite the tremor brought by his frustration, he managed to mask it with a sly grin. He pulled his arms from his trouser showing the glistening curve brought by his dagger. He held it with respect as he showed the scratches that were caused by tearing dozens of flesh. “You see, I’m not a man of patience.” He muttered, fingers tracing the curve of his dagger. The man chuckled in reply. “Like I said kid, NO!” he grunted. Natham stared at the man in the eye. After a few seconds of silence, he knelt down and rested his dagger on the wet cobbles. With his gauntleted hand, he pulled a folded parchment from his robe and lifted a small pen. He beamed at the guard. “May I ask your name?” The guard scowled. “What is this now, kid?” “Name, mister.” Natham insisted, sweat trickling from his forehead. If he could not get this man’s name, he won’t be able to sacrifice his kill. He had to convince this man, otherwise, he would be tempted to slash him without honor. The guard glared at Natham. He pointed his spear at Natham’s chest muttered softly. “Stop messin round kid or I--” Natham grip the spear and pushed the guard with his gauntleted hand. He pulled the dagger from the cobble and started tearing the man’s flesh without honor nor pride. He stabbed him below his chest allowing the man to breathe longer so he can taste the sharp twisting of the dagger beneath his gut. The man coughed; fresh vibrant blood emerged from his mouth. Natham inhaled its metallic scent, it was always better when it's fresh. He breathes it in voraciously like a man licking his empty goblet of wine. With the last final blow, he pulled his dagger from the man’s abdomen and pierced it through his chest. Natham sighed tear began to streak to his cheeks. It did not fill him with pride nor with honor. Rather, it was a shame that starting to nestle to his skin. As he pulled the dagger from the man’s chest and trudged towards the gate, Natham didn’t look back, he left an empty portion of his parchment blank. He did not mutter a silent prayer, he did not thank the air, rather he was consumed with shame that he left the corpse bloodied, shattered, and nameless.

“Forgive me your excellence, but there’s a boy in you’ re--” A boy wearing a black robe and leather trousers emerged from the door. His hair was tangled in a sharp mess, right hand covered with a rusted gauntlet. Despite his disheveled countenance, he carried himself from a doorway with a sense of superiority. He bowed half-heartedly to the empress, his dagger hanging from his bloodied hand. He held her eyes for a long moment his hand tightening into a fist. "Pardon me, your-excellence." He spoke, his voice was deep for a child. "But I'm here to save you." The empress peered at the assassin, she knew what he was here for. She stood from her lavish throne and walked towards the child, footsteps echoing from the marbled floor. Behind her, guards began to aim their arrows at the boy's head. The empress shook her head at the guards, they lowered their weapons hesitantly. As she made it a few inches from the boy, she began to speak in a melodious voice. "Child," she said. "Tell me who sent you," she demanded. Natham stood for a while, silent. He examined the empress's face with disgust. This is what he had been waiting for, this is what he was born for. "I'm here to seek revenge, I'm here to seek payment for overdue debts," Natham responded. He felt his voice shaking with revulsion. The empress beamed, she traced her crooked nose and cackled in a very unwomanly way. "And what will you gain from vengeance young man? Another name of nobles on your list?" She asked mockingly. "You cannot raise the dead from the ashes, damnation! You are as naive as your burned parents." Natham felt his chest tightened. He lifted his dagger and throw it to the woman's chest. The empress seized it between her fingers. A dribble of blood streaked from her palm. The empress traced the scratches on the blade. "Thank you for returning my knife," she muttered, her fine hand clutching the bronze hilt. Natham stood aghast. he glanced from the dagger and the empress, his knees trembling with horror. For the whole time he had clung to that dagger, he treated it as a part of himself, a portion of his emotions. He valued it more than he valued his own life. Natham stared at his gauntlet, lights of the candelabra's reflected on its shimmering gems. He tossed it to the walls his heart beating loudly against his ears. "Now, now child, there is no need for an outburst." The empress gestured one of the guards to fetch the rusted gauntlet. "Surely, you understand now child." Natham stared at the marbled floor, he felt his whole body shook as he sagged to the knees to the floor. He peered at the vague reflection of the young boy from the floor, he felt his lips trembled with anger, or was it revulsion. It was not the empress that killed his blood, it was not the empress that turned him into this beast. It was him. Blood did not fill him with power, it reminded of anger, it reminded him of his thirst for vengeance. He had killed a lot of lives, he had deprived children of love from their parents, he did not save them rather he condemned himself to darkness, to emptiness. Tears ran from Natham's cheeks, for the first -time since escaping from the gutters, he felt truly like a child again. He felt small, he felt unloved, he felt alone. The empress knelt beside Natham, her eyes red like the color of fire burning Natham's flesh. She handed him the dagger. For the first-time Natham knew what he was truly here for. He pulled the parchment from his robe and wrote with his bloodred ink Natham. He accepted the dagger with all the honor and pride he carried. He pointed it towards his chest, the dead will understand, he thought.