Patience (for Priestess Skye)
Title: Patience
Rating: T
By: grey_damaskena
Summary: The greatest skill of the assassin is patience.
Notes: I . . . am not quite sure where this came from, and was not expecting it at all. It aligns with only one of the requests given, but I hope it's acceptable nonetheless . . . it's a bit on the dark side.
Warnings: Sudden violence, as one might expect in anything involving assassination.
The unsteady, tuneless plink of the biwa drew him across the frosted garden. He followed the path from one artfully arranged view to another, because why not? Men were impatient, Death was not. All save the eight sages of legend came to it eventually. Tonight surely many would come, he thought, pausing to twist his mind among the runnels of a carefully-displayed rock. If this one was an hour delayed, it would make little difference.
Beyond the rock, the path rounded a corner, and a concealing hill fell away to reveal as if by magic a graceful pavilion, curved eaves gilded by the moonlight. At that moment the biwa paused, and so did he, wondering if he had been seen. But there was no way to approach the pavilion save openly, bounded as it was by only this brief open space and the water of the pond.
Death was patient, men were not.
The biwa’s strings sounded again, this time accompanied by a man’s voice-pleasant enough, but rendered tuneless by inebriation.
He breathed out, the faint puff of air briefly catching the moonlight, and walked without subterfuge to the pavilion. Inside he found his mark, sprawled against one column in a silk robe. There was a carafe of wine beside him, and a cup, and the winter air brought the sharp smell of alcohol to his nose. The biwa lay across the nobleman’s lap, his fingers indolent on neck and plectrum; the long wisps of his black beard brushed against the instrument’s polished wooden belly when he opened his mouth on each warbling note.
The assassin noted that his teeth were still quite good for a man in his fourth decade. Healthy, then.
Perhaps Death was not so patient after all.
He cleared his throat pointedly, and the mark looked up-but only to glare at him. “Singing,” he slurred indignantly, “iner’uping. Iner’uping me. Quiet.”
“Perhaps you’re not entirely apprised of the current situation,” he said, politely. “I’m here to kill you.”
“Know that. Know that. The Black Wolf, aren’ you?” The mark shook the plectrum at him in a gesture that could be creatively interpreted as threatening. “Knowed you were coming. Knew. So the wine, you knew. Know. Wine! An’ singing. Yer iner’uping. Ssshush.”
The assassin went and leaned against the railing of the pavilion as the mark sang. The pond was perfectly still and serene, a mirror to the clear night sky. The moon floated in it like a coin. Like a bright mirror- but no, the pond was the mirror, and the moon was the face of the beloved. Indeed it was as beautiful as the mark’s out-of-tune paean was informing him. Even played by clumsy fingers, the biwa had a sweet tone to it. His fingers twitched involuntarily against the wood- but no. That impulse, that skill, belonged to someone he had already sent along the way to Death. It had never belonged to him, and that act had ensured that it never would.
The biwa cried in discordant protest when it struck the flagstones of the pavilion, and the flying plectrum knocked over the carafe, spilling the wine to stain the stones wetly- like blood. The mark’s body broke the liquid mirror of the pond, and the assassin set his staff between the drowning man’s shoulders, held him down until his struggles ceased.
That was the thing about murder; it was astoundingly easy. Death was impatient, eager, like a lover yearning for her beloved. And men rushed towards her, drunk with desire, singing.
In exactly two days, he was kneeling on bare stone, his head bowed, making his report. His words were clear and precise, unhesitating. There was silence when he finished; the Emperor never asked questions beyond his first, the words that released the voice of his assassin: “Is it done?”
And the words that silenced his assassin again, honoring the pact they had made: “You may look at me.”
Always the Emperor met the eyes of his assassin. In the darkness they were as colorless as the moon reflected in a still mirror, and the assassin’s were like wine spilled on stone. Both were unflinching.
Death was impatient, but the assassin was not. In cleansing the world he would send many. So many that even Death would be overwhelmed, and never notice the two who did not come.
He was patient, he reminded himself. Patient.
Rating: T
By: grey_damaskena
Summary: The greatest skill of the assassin is patience.
Notes: I . . . am not quite sure where this came from, and was not expecting it at all. It aligns with only one of the requests given, but I hope it's acceptable nonetheless . . . it's a bit on the dark side.
Warnings: Sudden violence, as one might expect in anything involving assassination.
The unsteady, tuneless plink of the biwa drew him across the frosted garden. He followed the path from one artfully arranged view to another, because why not? Men were impatient, Death was not. All save the eight sages of legend came to it eventually. Tonight surely many would come, he thought, pausing to twist his mind among the runnels of a carefully-displayed rock. If this one was an hour delayed, it would make little difference.
Beyond the rock, the path rounded a corner, and a concealing hill fell away to reveal as if by magic a graceful pavilion, curved eaves gilded by the moonlight. At that moment the biwa paused, and so did he, wondering if he had been seen. But there was no way to approach the pavilion save openly, bounded as it was by only this brief open space and the water of the pond.
Death was patient, men were not.
The biwa’s strings sounded again, this time accompanied by a man’s voice-pleasant enough, but rendered tuneless by inebriation.
He breathed out, the faint puff of air briefly catching the moonlight, and walked without subterfuge to the pavilion. Inside he found his mark, sprawled against one column in a silk robe. There was a carafe of wine beside him, and a cup, and the winter air brought the sharp smell of alcohol to his nose. The biwa lay across the nobleman’s lap, his fingers indolent on neck and plectrum; the long wisps of his black beard brushed against the instrument’s polished wooden belly when he opened his mouth on each warbling note.
The assassin noted that his teeth were still quite good for a man in his fourth decade. Healthy, then.
Perhaps Death was not so patient after all.
He cleared his throat pointedly, and the mark looked up-but only to glare at him. “Singing,” he slurred indignantly, “iner’uping. Iner’uping me. Quiet.”
“Perhaps you’re not entirely apprised of the current situation,” he said, politely. “I’m here to kill you.”
“Know that. Know that. The Black Wolf, aren’ you?” The mark shook the plectrum at him in a gesture that could be creatively interpreted as threatening. “Knowed you were coming. Knew. So the wine, you knew. Know. Wine! An’ singing. Yer iner’uping. Ssshush.”
The assassin went and leaned against the railing of the pavilion as the mark sang. The pond was perfectly still and serene, a mirror to the clear night sky. The moon floated in it like a coin. Like a bright mirror- but no, the pond was the mirror, and the moon was the face of the beloved. Indeed it was as beautiful as the mark’s out-of-tune paean was informing him. Even played by clumsy fingers, the biwa had a sweet tone to it. His fingers twitched involuntarily against the wood- but no. That impulse, that skill, belonged to someone he had already sent along the way to Death. It had never belonged to him, and that act had ensured that it never would.
The biwa cried in discordant protest when it struck the flagstones of the pavilion, and the flying plectrum knocked over the carafe, spilling the wine to stain the stones wetly- like blood. The mark’s body broke the liquid mirror of the pond, and the assassin set his staff between the drowning man’s shoulders, held him down until his struggles ceased.
That was the thing about murder; it was astoundingly easy. Death was impatient, eager, like a lover yearning for her beloved. And men rushed towards her, drunk with desire, singing.
In exactly two days, he was kneeling on bare stone, his head bowed, making his report. His words were clear and precise, unhesitating. There was silence when he finished; the Emperor never asked questions beyond his first, the words that released the voice of his assassin: “Is it done?”
And the words that silenced his assassin again, honoring the pact they had made: “You may look at me.”
Always the Emperor met the eyes of his assassin. In the darkness they were as colorless as the moon reflected in a still mirror, and the assassin’s were like wine spilled on stone. Both were unflinching.
Death was impatient, but the assassin was not. In cleansing the world he would send many. So many that even Death would be overwhelmed, and never notice the two who did not come.
He was patient, he reminded himself. Patient.