Into the Storm

"The death of one and all will mourn,

The day the King turns to tale.

The death of two and fate is torn,

The night a son refuses to fail."

Cornwall

537 C.E.

He wasn’t a big man, but he was tall and had just enough muscle - muscle he kept well trained. The kind that could hoist him into shadows and out of sight, the kind that could finish the job at the final moment of stillness. And that final moment was spiraling rapidly into perspective for the other man in the room.

He was seated, the other man, leaning back in his armchair, resting his eyes. He’d been that way for the better half of the evening, basking in the warmth the fire within the hearth in front of him had to offer. With an abrupt and strained chuckle, he shattered the utter silence.

“I’ve sensed you in here for the past twenty minutes, assassin, but I’m going to take the liberty assuming you’ve been here for far longer than that,” the man spoke before adding, “We call you Falinn.”

With a smile, the assassin materialized from the shadows.

“It means ‘the hidden’.”

“And I call you Lancelot,” Falinn replied before giving a wicked grin. “It means Lancelot.”

The knight laughed, his amusement reaching his tired eyes, before heaving a great sigh. “I always wondered who would be next, how long I would have to wait before you came for me as well.”

Falinn breathed, watching the man closely. He wore no armor, had no weapons. He made himself a very simple target to eliminate.

“For so long I was angry at you for killing my brothers, assassin, but now,” The man shook his head, his eyelids heavy. “I am jealous of them. Life has become such a burden, especially if you have had to endure what you have caused us.”

Falinn could commiserate with the man – he had endured similar losses to that of the knight, he understood life’s nasty twists all too well – but said nothing, keeping his face hidden beneath the shadows of his hood.

“I’m tired of waiting, Falinn.” Lancelot confided with a heavy breath. “I’m ready for you.”

Falinn pulled the thin dagger from its sheath, stepping closer to the man.

“But first tell me why you do this?” The knight demanded, managing to find Falinn’s eyes in spite of the assassin’s hood.

Falinn let the silence answer for him as he took another step.

“At least let me see the face of the man who has killed my brothers and has the intentions of sending me to visit them.” Lancelot pressed, throwing an open palm to the air, as if beseeching for a final request.

The assassin faltered, knife in hand, before catching glimpse of a bronze ring wrapped around the man’s right wrist.

“Where did you get that?” He hissed, his voice dangerously low.

Lancelot’s eyes found the object of interest and narrowed. “It was given to me after you killed one of my brother’s.”

“That particular brother-in-arms, Sir Lancelot,” Falinn spoke before slowly pulling his hood back. “I did not kill.”

Color drained from the knight’s face.

“Scarlip. Then it’s true.” Lancelot all but whispered. “They really were your sons.”

The assassin watched the knight, the consternation that furrowed his brow.

“Then this truly is your revenge, isn’t it?” Lancelot enquired. “I suppose, then, I should accept my death willingly. Your sons were wronged, and I did nothing to stop it.”

Without proper warning, the once deathly still assassin struck like a coiled snake, bedding his blade deep into the man’s chest.

Lancelot released a short gasp before Falinn pulled the dagger from him. The assassin was faultless with the accuracy of the incision – the man would die almost instantly.

And he did. Falinn made sure of it. It was the least the noble man deserved, he supposed. And anyway, the assassin didn’t want the final thing that the man felt to be the theft of the bronze bangle, stolen from his dying appendage.