The Shadow of Death

I knocked on the door. I knew they themselves wouldn’t answer, but a servant was good enough. Or a slave. A woman opened the door, freezing the instant she saw my appearance. I cocked my head to the side taking her in. Her clothes were all but rags, seemly too small for her. A slave, then. Subconsciously, she reached a hand to the hem of her dress, tugging it further down, all while maintaining that frozen eye contact I had come to relish.

First came a whimper, with her hand clutching at the grey dress, her knuckles turning white. Then came the scream. She shouted for the guards; she looked around frantically; no guards came. After a moment of silence, she looked at my clothes again, and I could see the realisation swirling through her irises: the guards were dead.

I knew what came next. They were always the same, clinging onto their pitiful, wretched lives. If someone had offered to kill me, I wouldn’t beg. I would accept it with open arms. After all, what is life but pain? But no. Not yet. Only once this job was done would I dare to die. Just this last one. She fell to her knees, clutching those calloused, dirty hands to her exposed cleavage, begging for life, spewing empty promises, praying to gods that had long since abandoned humanity. In her eyes, she was lucky. I didn’t come here for her. I brushed past her curled up form, almost certain that the blood coating my clothes had transferred onto both the slave and the door. Although it wouldn’t show up on the door. He had always liked blood — maybe that was why the door was the same colour.

“What’s going on?” a female voice called out from another floor. Heels clacked on a wooden staircase. It would take no longer than a minute for her to get to me. The clacking sound grew louder as she strode through a kitchen, then past the rooms of the slaves, past one of the many bathrooms, and finally into the reception room. Just like the woman at the door, who had long since run away, this lady froze, taking a sharp breath in through her deep red lips. She was quite beautiful with her pale skin and piercing grey eyes, and her thick brown hair coiled tightly in braids around her head. Beautiful, and humble. Everything one would want in a wife. Humble enough to take the servants’ set of stairs. Or maybe just smart.

I stared back at her. Did she recognise me? Did she remember me? No, it didn’t matter. It was her fault. She would oversee everything. She knew what her husband did. She knew everything. How could she not? She was in charge of the slaves and servants, after all. She shared the blame.

But did she deserve a slow, painful death? I was tempted. How couldn’t I be? She would stand there, looking down on me with those sad, wallowing eyes. Those eyes that seemed to ask for death whenever they met anyone else’s. Was I the only one who could see it? Surely not.

The lady’s eyes darted over to a knife resting on a table next to a bowl of fruit. I smiled. Now I hadn’t expected this. Maybe she didn’t crave death after all; maybe she was still overcome with the base instinct of survival. I supposed it must be hard to erase that instinct from your life… but I had. Her eyes slithered back to me, evaluating my movements. I didn’t move, instead raising my eyebrows. This noble had never fought a day in her life. What made her think she could fight me now? The answer to that is, she didn’t. Lunging for the knife, she brought it to her neck and sliced across her skin. That was one of the few times someone managed to stun me. I watched her choke on her own blood, gargling as it bubbled out of her open mouth and ran down her ornate white dress, spreading through the fabric like a plague. Before long, her body swayed and slumped over the table, spilling the bowl of fruit and staining that too with blood.

I couldn’t say how I felt. She had robbed me of my revenge… and yet she was still dead. Should I have been pleased? Angry? I didn’t know. At least I didn’t have to decide how to kill her. But her husband — that wasn’t hard to decide. His death would be slow and painful, and I would make him regret his whole existence. But was he here? Did he hear his wife coming down the stairs? That slave screaming at the door? Would he come downstairs when he didn’t hear his wife?

I decided to stay in that room in which guests were received. After all, I was very familiar with it — not much had changed. The walls were still the same icy blue, seeming to tell the guests that their hosts wanted them gone. The paintings hanging on the walls depicting far off, deary lands announced the longing for escape; even if those places weren’t exotic and lively, anything would be better than this country. Once you’re here, you’re stuck here forever. I would know. Everyone knows. The couches stood, scattered about the room at random intervals. To any newcomer it would have looked like they had been moved about by someone, but I knew better. The master had beaten a slave within an inch of their life when the couch had moved as he sat down. From then on, they were fixed to the floor. No one could move them even if they wanted to.

A creak came from next to the room I was in. Of course. He always was too proud for his own good. A piece of scum like him would never use the servant’s passage, not even to catch someone off guard. His puny, pathetic brain could never comprehend strategy. The main staircase had always been creaky. It gave its trespasser away on the first step. And he wasn’t completely devoid of his senses. I knew he would know that something was wrong. Still, I suppose I was thankful I had more time to prepare. The staircase was hidden by a wooden door to the right when you enter this room, and it was beside that where I crept over and stood. The door would open towards the staircase. They had always complained how inconvenient it was. They had never changed it. And they never would.

With each step, another creak sounded, and then silence. Another creak, then silence. I counted the creaks, waiting and waiting until finally the sixteenth sounded. I grasped the dagger strapped at my hip and slipped it out of its sheath, a slight scraping noise and my breathing the only sounds I could hear. The door opened in a quick, noisy movement and the man jumped out, right into my outstretched dagger. I had done this so many times before, but this one was different. This man was different. I let go of the dagger embedded in his chest. His eyes were stuck wide, showing too much of the whites. My lip curled in disgust at this well-fed, clean-shaven noble.

“It must be nice knowing that even if your clothes get dirty or destroyed, you will have more waiting at home.” I would have to beg the villagers for yet another set of new clothes later or find a way of cleaning them… maybe even steal some.

The man didn’t reply, instead bringing his hands to his wound, then lowering himself to the ground. He took slow, deep breaths. Was it getting hard for him to breathe? I hoped it was. This was how he had made me feel so many times before. This was exactly what I wanted.

I crouched down, looking into those pained, wide eyes. “Does it hurt?” I whispered, a smile toying at my face. “Does it? Do you feel the pain I felt all those years ago? I hope you do. I hope it’s worse. You’ll never be free from my wrath. Your blood will run through the river, and everyone will rejoice. No one will mourn you.”

“Who… are… you…?” he choked out before erupting in a coughing fit.

The smile dropped from my face. I snatched at his chin, bringing his gaze back up to look at me. Blood dribbled down from his mouth onto my fingers, but what was a bit more blood to add to my appearance? Especially when this man was suffering just how I had dreamed for him to. I searched his eyes, looking for a lie. He had to be lying.

“Look harder,” I said with force. “You know who I am. You remember me, I know you do.”

He shook his head, his eyes un-focusing and re-focusing. His breathing became even more laboured.

“You know who I am,” I shouted. “You know, you fucking bastard. You remember me! You remember her! You remember all the others you killed. I know you do.”

His chest stopped rising and his eyes became glazed. Blood dripped out of his mouth, and my hand recoiled. I wiped the blood on my hand onto the bottom of his shirt. I didn’t want his blood tainting me. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

I got up. And I ran away.