Introduction to an Unlikely Love Story

An assassin that terrorizes the guilty falls for a voiceless survivor of their cruelty.

My fingertips tighten around the tree branches as my gaze fixates on the carriage below, dappled by sun and slowly maneuvering over the hazardously bumpy dirt road. It's shabby, the dull wood finishes graying and speckled white from salt- must be travelers making their way North from the coast.

The carriage, if you can even call it that, is pulled by a single Breton with an overgrown coat. I scoff, my free hand drifting to the hilt of the dagger strapped to my waist.
If you intend to be an ugly bastard that sticks your goods into the women you drugged unconscious, and you had half a fucking brain, you wouldn't be a dirt poor farmer with no means of connection or protection.


I intend to flay this revolting hog, jugular to ankles, and dry his stretched hide until it's the perfect texture to fashion some new scabbards from.
And I intend to do it slowly, as this trail doesn't see much activity around these parts.


I edge my way down the low-hanging branch until I'm positioned to drop quietly onto the roof of the carriage. I land less gratefully than I'd have liked to, as the lobcock driving the pile of junk bounces over every upturned rock in sight.
As I land with a rather loud thud, my target alerts me immediately to his whereabouts by helpfully shrieking in surprise; inside the carriage on the left side. I clutch the surface with calloused palms and inch my way across the near vibrating wooden frame until I'm crouched over the left door.


I lock eyes with the bastard as I look over the side and into the carriage opening. The blockhead didn't even bother drawing shut the curtains to keep his face hidden. It's like he wanted to be hunted down by a violent assassin.
His sun-damaged skin wrinkles even more as he lets out a holler of fear, probably at the sight of my upside-down face staring into his.



"Hello," I greet him, one hand shooting down and out to grab him by his filthy collar.
He yells louder as I pull him from his seat, holding him over the side of the carriage, maybe six feet of the ground.
Pathetic, I think to myself, my expression speaking volumes as my lips curl up into a sneer. I can hold his entire body weight with one hand.


His boots kick uselessly against the side of the carriage, heels thudding against the wood like a panicked rabbit in a snare. The horse snorts and stumbles but keeps plodding forward, either too tired or too stupid to care that its master is dangling like laundry from my grip.

He claws at my wrist, leaving thin red tracks that sting more from the insult than the pain.
I tilt my head.
"Careful," I murmur. "You might hurt yourself."
He sputters something that might be a prayer. Perhaps a sob. Hard to tell with all the drool flying from his open lips, that are disgustingly chapped, for the record.
Up close he smells like sweat, ale, and something sour. Rotting grain, maybe. Or just him.
Gods, I hate touching people like this. They leave a visible film on your hands, and the odor lasts for weeks.



"You picked the wrong road to travel, my friend." I murmur, tightening my grip on his collar. My arm doesn't strain whatsoever as I hoist him up higher into the air, levelling his ugly mug with my rather handsome one.
"Please," he croaks. "I got coin. I got supplies. Take it. Just take it."
I laugh under my breath.
Coin.
Like I'd risk sap on my gloves for copper scraps.
"I am not robbing you," I say. "I am correcting you."



My dagger slips free with a soft, familiar whisper of steel. Sunlight catches along the edge, clean and eager.
His struggling turns frantic. Too late.
With my other hand I slam him back against the side of the carriage hard enough to rattle his teeth. The wood cracks. He wheezes, breath gone.
I press the blade to his throat, right where the pulse flutters.



"For the record," I tell him softly, almost conversational, "you should have drawn the curtains. I might not have recognized you."
Then I drag the knife sideways.



His corpse plunges down, hitting one of the wheels off the moving carriage and snapping it in two. The miserable contraption pitches violently sideways, one corner digging into the dirt. I crouch low, cursing, and grab ahold of the roof rails with white knuckles.
The horse screams, high and ugly, and bolts. Successfully; the rope reins fray and drop like pieces of taffy being lightly stretched by a toddler.

Of course.

Nothing ever goes clean.
The shattered wheel chews into the dirt like a dying animal and the whole carriage jerks forward, then sideways, then forward again, as if it cannot decide how it wants to die. I cling to the rails, teeth rattling together while the roof bucks beneath me.
"Rot in hell," I hiss, though whether I mean the corpse or the cart, I am not sure. The axle finally gives with a splintering crack, and the carriage tips.

For one weightless second I am staring at the sky through the canopy of branches above, bright and blue and completely indifferent.

Then gravity remembers me.

I shove off hard, boots scraping wood, and throw myself clear just as the contraption slams onto its side behind me.The impact booms through the trees, scattering birds into the air like a burst of ash.
Dust rolls over my shoulders.
I land in a crouch and stay there, palm pressed to the dirt, waiting to see if anything else intends to explode.
Nothing. Just the wind. And the faint, fading thunder of the Breton galloping down the road, free and terrified.
Lucky beast.



I rise slowly, brushing grit from my hands.

The man lies a few yards back, half twisted beneath the ruined wheel he destroyed with his own skull. One leg is bent the wrong way. His eyes are still open. Still surprised. I stare at him for a moment.

"Pathetic," I mutter again.
All that planning. All that righteous fury. And he dies like a sack of grain tossed from a loft. No screaming or begging worth remembering.
No artistry. Just gravity doing my job for me.
I roll my shoulder, annoyed at the dull ache creeping down my arm from catching myself.
"You robbed me of my fun," I tell the corpse. He offers no apology.



With a quiet exhale, I step toward the wrecked carriage. One side has split open from the impact, boards hanging like broken ribs. The door is crooked, barely attached. If he was transporting what I think he was transporting, it will still be inside.

Men like him always keep souvenirs; Rope, cloth, bottles- things that stink of sweet chemicals and nasty intentions. I curl my lip, wedge my fingers into the cracked frame, and pull. The wood groans.
"Let's see what filth you thought worth protecting," I murmur, and peer into the dark interior.





Two round, green eyes peep back out at me like wet leaves.
I freeze.

They belong to a pale young woman with hair the color of chocolate, plaited messily over her shoulder. Her hands are folded simply in her lap, but she's pressed herself into the corner of the carriage, as far as she can get away from me.
I narrow my eyes, deciding how I should forcefully remove her from the wreckage.
Dragging would be easiest. Ankles, probably. Less chance of her grabbing something sharp and getting clever.

Or I could haul her out by the arm and toss her over my shoulder like grain.
Efficient.
I do not have the patience to coax frightened strangers out of holes like some kindly woodsman in a bedtime story. I lean closer instead, bracing one hand on the cracked frame. My hair, straight and black, longer than hers- slips over my shoulders and helpfully obscures my vision.
"Out," I say flatly.



She scoots on her seat towards me, her expression suspicious, but not fearful. Interesting. I move aside, allowing her to exit.
As soon as her bare feet hit the dirt, she lunges forward to bolt.
I shoot my hand out, wrapping my fingers around her wrist and squeezing tight.
Bone and tendon fit neatly into my grip.Too neatly. Gods, she is thin.

"Not so fast, little fox." I grumble.
She twists immediately, trying to wrench free, nails digging into my skin. Silent, furious. Not a single sound leaves her mouth.
No scream, gasp, shout, or plea for help. Just breath, sharp and desperate through her nose.
She kicks at my shin. Misses. Tries to bite my hand.



I click my tongue and jerk her back easily. She stumbles into me, light as a bundle of sticks. I could lift her with one arm.
Pathetic. "Running into the woods barefoot," I say flatly, tightening my grip until she stills, "is how you bleed out or get eaten."

She glares up at me like she would rather take her chances.

My eyes flick to her neck.
A scar, dark mauve and puckered- across the front of her throat.
No wonder you're so quiet, I think to myself. Someone took your voice away.



"Since you cannot defend or explain yourself," I say cooly, staring down at this interesting individual, "I will generously give you thirty seconds to run from view. If I see which direction you take off in, I can't promise I won't follow."

Not to walk her home like some adoring admirer.
To kill her. She's seen too much.



I loosen my grip and let her wrist slide from my fingers. Red marks bloom where I held her. Thin. Fragile skin. She rubs it once, quick and absent, never taking her eyes off me. Calculating, weighing whether I am lying.

I straighten and roll my shoulder, then gesture lazily toward the treeline. "Thirty seconds," I repeat. "After that, whatever happens is your own fault." I tap the hilt of my sheathed dagger, with one gloved finger, for emphasis.



She follows the motion, as anyone capable of doing some critical thinking would, then retreats cautiously toward the treeline. I watch her, eyes landing on her pale, bony feet.
I watch the foliage bend and sway as it swallows her up. She disappears from view, moving more quietly than I expected.
I track the movement of the underbrush, mapping her escape without meaning to. A snapped twig to the left. Ferns trembling ahead. A brief flash of brown hair between trunks. If I wanted her, I could catch her.
Ten seconds, maybe less. The thought settles in my mind with the same calm certainty as checking the weather. I would not even break a sweat.



I find myself becoming interested in her story. Who cut your throat, little fox? How did you survive? Did the betrayal cut deeper than the blade did?

But questions are useless things. They change nothing. Dead men stay dead, mutes stay mute, and so on.

I roll my shoulder again, already thinking about distance and time and the next town south. If she runs smart, she will live. If she runs stupid, something in those woods will finish what someone else started.

Either way, it is no longer my problem.





𓇢𓆸



By dusk the road thins into little more than a pair of wagon ruts and a suggestion of direction. The trees crowd closer, tall and black against a bruised sky, their branches knitting together overhead until the last of the light bleeds out in narrow strips. The air smells like wet bark and cold earth. Quiet country. The kind of place people disappear in without much paperwork.

My cabin waits where it always does, tucked off the road and half swallowed by undergrowth like the forest is trying to reclaim it. From a distance it looks abandoned. Crooked shutters. Moss creeping up the stone foundation. Smoke stains above the chimney that don't wash away with rain.

Perfectly forgettable, perfectly quaint.

The warped steps groan underneath my boots and the door sticks when I kick it open, or at least, attempt to.
"Piece of fucking shit." I mutter, slamming my side against it to force it into giving way. I'm successful the second time.

It always sticks, and I never fix it. Anyone sticking their nose in deserves the warning.



Inside my humble abode, the air is stale and fainty metallic. Partially due to my expansive collection of weapons, partially due to the amount of blood and other bodily fluids caked on the blades of said weapons. I breathe it in with gusto.

Sure beats the sickly scent of flowers and honey and home-cooked meals.

I shrug off my gloves first and toss them onto the table, then the outer coat. Dust falls from the fabric in a thin cloud. There is dried blood on the cuff that does not belong to me. I scrape it off with my thumb and wipe it on the door frame without thinking. The room is small- one table, one chair. A narrow cot shoved against the wall covered in fur skins. Shelves lined with things that look ordinary to anyone else. Twine. Needles. Polishing stones. Jars of dark liquid with no labels.

Tools, if you know what you are looking at.


I light the lantern and the flame gutters to life, throwing long, uneven shadows across the walls. My daggers come off next, one by one, laid out in a neat row on the table. Steel catches the light in quiet flashes.

Routine. Clean them, oil them. Check the edges. It keeps the hands busy and the mind quiet.

Usually.

Tonight it does not.

I drag a cloth slowly down the length of a blade, watching a smear of red disappear. She should be dead by morning, statistically.

She's barefoot, malnourished, with no supplies on her person. The woods are not kind. I've returned to the clearings to drop off corpses only to have them half-eaten by wolves, before the sun rises over the treetops.

Yet something about the way she moved nags at me. Too deliberate and too aware. Not prey.

A fox, I think again. I spit a glob of saliva onto the blade, some lubrication to help scrub off the stubborn, dry blood that refuses to go.



I stand and cross to the small basin, splashing cold water over my hands. The dirt runs gray down the drain. For a second I catch my reflection in the warped mirror above it. Sharp eyes, so intensely light brown that they shine yellow. Sharp nose, sharp cheekbones nicked with tiny white scars. Someone most children would cross the street to avoid. My height and build doesn't help me much with the approachability factor either- tall and lean. Clad in leathery black armor and adorned with weapons aplenty. Even my name has a violent ring to it.
Morgor, I think to myself. What kind of mother names a red, wailing, innocent little baby Morgor? I wrinkle my nose in distate, flicking my hands dry against my trousers. I move to unfasten my belt buckle.
A homeless harlot whose only talent was surviving winters and questionable decisions, that is what kind.

I remember her in flashes, never whole. Tangled hair and bitter breath. Fingers always too tight on my shoulder like I might vanish if she loosened her grip. She used to say the name would make me strong- no one would dare hurt a boy named Morgor. As if the world ever cared what you were called before it beat you senseless. Plus, she made it up, the old batshit hag. Names do not make you dangerous. Hunger does. Cold does. Learning early that no one is coming to save you or help you does.

The belt comes loose with a dull clink and I set it on the table beside the knives. The room feels quieter without the weight of metal on me, like I have shed a layer of skin. I peel off the chest piece next, then the bracers, stacking everything with neat, practiced movements. Like I said, order keeps the mind straight.

The cabin creaks around me as the night settles deeper. Wind fingers the shutters, and something scratches briefly along the wall before scurrying off. Probably a rat. The ones I've accidentally provided blood and meat to- by not cleaning up after myself- have acquired quite the taste for it.

Otherwise, the world out here minds its business. No crowds or questions or unpleasant noise.

Just trees and dirt and whatever sins you drag in through the door with you.