Arrogance

When he arrived at the castle gates, the sky was pitch black. His large hood was pulled up over his head and his cloak hung loosely about his shoulders. No one in the kingdom would recognize him. Anonymity is a necessity of the assassins.

He scaled the high stone walls of the castle as easily as if he could fly. Many would later convince themselves that he could. His dark cloak did billow around him like wings. The assassin always appreciated these notions; they suited him. There was a reason the terrified populace called him the Angel of Death.

He slipped through a window and found himself in the grand throne room. It glittered in its excess, even at night. The throne rose, ten feet tall and golden, in front of the Angel. He promised himself he would return later to carve an intricate "A" in the soft gold. They had to know he did it, of course.

Two guards were always stationed to the left and right of the throne, keeping watch over the country’s symbol of power. The assassin knew that the crown would be resting on the cushion. It was no time for thievery, however.

The guards were facing away from him. Clad in heavy armor and bearing ceremonial spears, they would be no match for him. The assassin had slit one of their throats before they even managed to notice him.

“Hey!” the other one called, brandishing his glorified stick at the intruder.

The assassin raised his head, showing the man his face. It was a face any of the people would recognize. It was the face of the last man the Angel of Death had killed, for assassins wear the faces of their victims.

The Angel could not remember what his face once was; he had been through too many. Besides, assassins no more have their own face than their own name in this country.

Becoming an assassin, having identities stripped away, was how many of the more talented criminals served life sentences. The Angel wished that he was allowed to remember his crime.

He lunged at the guard, twisting easily past his spear and slicing it cleanly in two. The stick was no longer glorified. The guard was young and inexperienced; there was a reason he was set to guard the throne and crown at night. He dropped the stick and fell to his knees.

“Please. Please. My mother is expecting me home,” he said. His voice cracked a bit.

The Angel was not without pity; he was only here to kill one man. He slammed the hilt of his knife on the man’s head, knocking him out.

He told himself that this act of mercy was simply so that the man could tell everyone what it was he saw there that night. Truthfully, the Angel had no love for unnecessary murder.

His path now was to be simple. He turned towards the servants’ entrance to the throne room. The door was small—barely wide enough to fit the Angel’s shoulders—and it was painted to blend in with the azure blue of the wall.

He knew no guard would be standing behind that door. The servants’ corridors were widely known as a confusing maze. Many men had died on their way to sneak through the castle. It was the arrogance of powerful men to leave it unguarded.

The Angel of Death would never fall prey to such arrogance. Of course, he also had spent months memorizing the map of the halls. It would take him about five minutes to get to his target. Six or seven, if he had to subdue any servants.

He slipped through the door and set off along the path, so well-memorized that he could probably traverse them in his sleep. Three paces forwards, twenty left...

As he made his way, he felt a small smirk curl his lips. Over the past few months, he and a female assassin had been quietly competing with one another. She was a well-accomplished assassin from her home, nearly an even match for the Angel. The Angel was certain that this kill would put him over the top.

Then, perhaps, it could put him over the top of her. He had noticed how charmed she seemed to be by him. It was a sure thing at this point when he would return with the face of the King, a worthy trophy to be sure.

Women were not allowed to kill men, and vice versa. He had told her all about his plans. She seemed amused. He knew that it wouldn’t be easy, of course.

Who could beat a king?

The Angel of Death could.

No servants were in the hallways and so, as the clock tower outside donged its mournful song of midnight, the Angel reached the door of the true King of the land. If kings are given the power by a god, then surely an angel can take everything away.

He opened the door and found the King lying on his back, perfectly still. His beard was finely trimmed. His hands were resting upon the enormous curve of his belly. His nightclothes were of the finest silk. He was the picture of royal excess.

There was one problem; perfectly still was far too still.

A high, almost sweet giggle filled the room. The Angel turned and saw, perched upon the dead King’s dresser, a girl. She was laying back, one leg dangling lazily. The crown that had been in the throne room was perched crookedly upon her copper curls. Her dark assassin’s cloak with a purple “LM,” for La Morte, was familiar to the Angel. It was the assassin girl he had been competing with.

“Oh, my Angel,” she said.

She sat up, making a show of rearranging her limbs and lifting her head to look at him. Or, rather, so that he could look at her.

Curved and warped over her delicate, feminine face was the image of the King.

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