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fictionalized2013-09-07 11:45 pm
acperience) wrote in fictionalized2013-09-07 11:45 pm
fanfic; the first day of your life
Title: The First Day of Your Life
Series: The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Character(s): Zohra, Ryner, with mentions of Biore.
Warnings: Mentions of rape, violence, and death, and implications of pedophilia and sexual assault.
Summary: He was going to die, and he didn't know what to do about it.
Notes: An AU of sorts based on, "What if Zohra hadn't met Pia?" The short version is that his life would be a bit of a trainwreck, but I opted to diverge from what I think would actually happen (i.e. he'd probably die).
—
The First Day of Your Life
—
It’s exhilarating, being at the top.
It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, arms spread out, feeling the wind against your face. For a moment, all your worries are gone, as you instead bask in this atmosphere that you can’t find anywhere else—the atmosphere a place where few can reach, but you have. You climbed and struggled, risking everything, but you survived. You made it this far; you’ve won.
In that moment, you feel invincible.
—But one you’ve reached the top, the only way to go from there is down.
In that moment, he forgot that.
♦
♦
♦
Zohra is sixteen when the war with Estabul ends. He first hears the news out on the streets, when buying groceries (the other Hidden Elites scoff, asking why he doesn’t just have his servants do that, to which Zohra shrugs). It’s the usual routine: buy what he needs to, and then something nice to treat himself, before the shopkeeper asks how he is. He tells her that she’s fine, and she fusses over him to make sure that he’s eating enough. He smiles—a perfect construction—brushing off her concerns.
“I’m an adult, okay? I can manage my own diet!” He huffs, at which the shopkeeper puts her hands on her hips.
“You’re nothing but a child! Honestly, you don’t want to worry your parents from the grave, do you?”
She has never met his parents and knows nothing of them. Not there’s anything to know, but, well.
Amusedly, he wonders how she’d react if she knew that he’s done far worse things to make his late parents worry—if they wouldn’t have outright disowned him for what he’s done, at least. Whatever they were expecting from him, it likely wasn’t this. He’s the opposite of everything that they were: nobodies so easily discarded by this country, forgotten by everyone and known to no one.
And Zohra is far, far from being a nobody.
Still, the shopkeeper knows no more about him than she does his parents. She knows no more than anyone around here, who looks at him and sees a sixteen-year-old child. At worst, a pitiful orphan. Zohra almost wants to laugh at their naivety.
Amusedly, he wonders how they’d react if they knew that they were right next to one of the most dangerous people in this country.
(There is nothing pitiful about him.)
Today, though, their conversation goes a bit differently.
“Ah, Zohra, did you hear, did you hear? Apparently, the war has ended. Good grief, it’s about time…”
For a split-second, Zohra freezes, before relaxing, as a surprised expression spreads across his face. He has always suspected, of course. Short of a sudden miracle, it’s simple enough to realize when a war is reaching its end.
But perhaps a part of him wished—
“Whoa, really!? That’s awesome! Seriously, it took long enough for those damn kings to realize how stupid this war was… It’s pretty troubling, isn’t it? Having stupid royalty and nobility around like this… Ah, well.”
The shopkeeper smiles wryly. “I agree, but you should be careful about saying that too loudly… If the nobles heard, then—”
By that point, Zohra is halfway out the door, his only response a light wave of his hand not carrying his purchases. He walks at a normal pace down the street, but upon turning into an alleyway, his speed picks up—faster, until he’s practically racing to his house in the Hidden Elites’ area, a grim look on his face.
He slams the door to his room shut as he enters, slumping against it as he looks around. There are slips of paper pinned to the walls: assassinations that he’s particularly proud of. Most of his orders otherwise are kept elsewhere, for reference, and the more secretive ones he burned out of professionalism. The amount of missions he’s accomplished over the years surpass a couple thousand, what with receiving orders day in and day out and having little time for much else.
He’s lost track of how many people he’s murdered in cold blood, even long before he became a Hidden Elite. Not that there was much point in keeping track, anyway.
(Every person in the world is the same to him, really.)
Thirteen years of being a soldier, six of which he’s spent with the title he strove for: the Greatest Assassin in Roland.
The best.
The top.
He’d reached it, just as he’d climbed and struggled for. It was shortly after Biore Mente’s death that he received the title, with his predecessor now gone. It’d been the best day of his life, because he’d thought that finally, his survival might be at least somewhat ensured. As long as he kept striving for strength, as long as he kept following his orders and killing whomever he was told to—then he’d survive. This country wouldn’t throw him away.
He’d be given the right to live in this world (in this world where only the strong could live, and the weak died)—
In the end, however, it was a dream he could only half-live in.
And the thing about dreams is that sooner or later, they all have to end.
He remembers how Biore Mente died. As the one he aspired to surpass, it was only natural that he would investigate her death, revealing the truth that now, he’s not certain he’s glad to know. He’s glad, because every piece of information is worth it, especially if it pertains to his own fate one day. He isn’t glad, because he doesn’t want to acknowledge what his life is worth.
Biore Mente, the Greatest Assassin in Roland, who never faltered in her duties, who never questioned her allegiance to Roland—she’d been a valuable resource during the previous war with Estabul. She’d killed, and killed, and killed, and in the end…
She’d killed too many.
She was too active during the war. She knows the inner workings of Roland too well.
So…
Ultimately, there’s only one ending for those who are too informed, isn’t there?
Letting out a shaky breath, Zohra lowers himself into a crouching position and begins to think.
♦
That night, he dreams.
As an assassin, most of his missions are solo, but on occasion, he’s been given tasks with other Hidden Elites. Zohra doesn’t especially enjoy those, as there’s a reason nobody likes them very much, and even as a Hidden Elite himself, Zohra can attest that none of them make for very good conversational partners. At worst, some of them have made less than welcome gestures towards him (though he’s long since past the point of batting an eye at any of them), and it’s enough to say that one of them ended up with a broken arm when he couldn’t keep it to himself.
At best, they fear and respect his title, which he’s been defending for six years. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the glory, but as far as he’s concerned, that’s about all the other Hidden Elites are good for.
Still, he can’t exactly say he hates those missions either. Rather, he deals with them with the same sort of indifference he does everything else with. It’s a tad annoying how some of the Hidden Elites feel the need to dally around, but Zohra knows that even fear towards him, apparently, can’t distract them from their lust.
“You sure you don’t want in, Zohra?” One of them asks, bent over a crying woman, her clothes torn off. Zohra nods and flatly replies,
“Positive. One of us needs to stand guard, y’know?”
The man shrugs, before going back to his conquest, as he and the others cheer amidst the women’s sobs. Zohra tries to tune it out—not because it bothers him (he can’t remember a time when it ever did, to be honest), but because it’s distracting him from listening out for anyone who could disrupt their mission. He spares a glance to the other party, grimacing as he thinks over all the things that could go wrong during sex, from the way it leaves you with focus for little else to the various openings in the man’s position. Not for the first time, he’s thankful that he seems to be as asexual as a rock, despite his so-called comrades’ encouragement for otherwise.
It occurs to him that there are a lot of things that he doesn’t seem to understand (why it’s worth risking your well-being for). Lust is just one of them.
As he keeps an eye and ear out for the mansion’s security, one cry does break through his concentration. It’s different from the typical sobs and pleas, namely because it’s addressed to him.
“Please—you there—please, help us…!”
Zohra stares at her impassively. It’s the sort of uncaring look that comes from someone who thinks no more of why humans hurt one another in this way than of why humans eat and breathe. Perhaps more importantly, it’s the sort of uncaring look that comes from someone who has no intention of being a saviour.
“Sorry, lady,” Zohra says easily, shrugging. “It’s not part of my job description to help you.”
There’s another sob, before the woman manages a feeble—
“How can—how can you be…”
She’s interrupted as the man moves, more cries and cheers erupting as Zohra returns to standing guard. Still, he knows what the remainder of her words would be, as it’s simple enough to figure out.
How can you be so heartless?
Zohra nearly laughs, because truth be told, that’s a compliment.
(After all, no matter how you look at it, having a heart just doesn’t seem to be worth it.)
♦
Unsurprisingly, the order comes a few days afterwards.
Zohra stares at the slip of paper for a while, the details of his next target repeating themselves in his head like a mantra.
Male.
Black hair, black eyes.
Belonging to the 42nd squadron of the Hidden Elites.
The Alpha Stigma monster.
The Greatest Magician in Roland.
Ryner Lute.
And with that, Zohra breaks down laughing. Why exactly, he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s laughing at the country’s lack of originality. Maybe he’s laughing at the idea of the greatest assassin being pit against the greatest magician. Maybe he’s laughing because he’s been waiting these past few days for this, because he knew this was coming.
“Knew it, knew it, knew it…” He mutters, clutching the paper as if it were a lifeline. Which, he thinks, is an ironic thought, because if this document is anything, it’s one thing: his death sentence. Those simple words, demanding that he kill another, and yet all Zohra can see is what’s said between the lines, demanding for his own death.
Zohra Rom was too active in the previous war. He knows the inner workings of Roland too well.
So… shall we have him disappear?
It’s the exact same order that was given to Biore Mente, down to the target. The same death sentence, the same noose around his neck—and he can only laugh, because really, he walked right into it.
“I’m an idiot…” He murmurs, and in that moment, he wonders why he ever let his guard down. He of all people should’ve known, after a life of striving to survive and avoiding what would bring him down (lust, compassion, anything and everything that wasn’t worth dying for—) and even knowing how Biore died, and yet he might as well have tied the noose himself.
For a few seconds, it’s hard to breathe, as if the rope were tightening around his neck, before he slams a fist down on his chest, telling himself to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. He’s an assassin. Even with death a step away, he won’t panic. Panic is yet another thing he doesn’t need. It’s another step towards making a mistake, and he didn’t get this far by faltering so amateurishly.
All he needs is to be a blade—sharp nothingness within him. He doesn’t feel anything. He only does exactly what he needs to. Anything less makes him a failure as an assassin.
He feels nothing.
He cares about nothing.
He only strives for survival.
Everything else is meaningless.
That’s how he’s always lived.
He tells himself that, and—
Screw it all.
In this moment, he allows himself to be the sixteen-year-old boy he is (not an adult, after all, and like this, he knows he won’t even live to see his next birthday) and collapses onto his bed. Though part of him is berating himself for his foolishness, as what’s within him right now certainly isn’t nothingness, and dimly, he thinks, not being able to restrain yourself is how everyone died, isn’t it?
His parents. His friends. People he knew, and people he didn’t. It was all the same.
And now him, if he can’t keep himself under check—but then he reminds himself that it doesn’t matter either way. How professional he is an assassin, how well he can kill his heart and do what needs to be done—none of it stopped things from turning out this way. Briefly, he wonders if there was anything he could’ve done to prevent this, if maybe he messed up somewhere along the way, if he did something to be deemed unworthy, before he laughs again at his own idiocy.
He realizes now where that kind of thinking came from. Thinking of what he could’ve done to earn the right to live. Thinking of what would’ve given his life worth.
And the answer to all that is simple: there isn’t anything. There never was. There was only the foolish him, clinging to that illusion because he didn’t want to accept it.
“… It seriously is troubling, having such shitty nobles…”
He sits up, going over his options. He’s suddenly exhausted, the weight of his impending death hanging over him, and it’s tempting to sleep the rest of his (however short) life away, but he figures that he’ll end up regretting it.
The first branch begins with him trying to carry out his mission. From there, he either succeeds in killing Ryner Lute—which would hardly be a great loss, in this country’s eyes—after which they’d likely keep sending him on suicidal missions until he was finally killed. That, or should they lack the patience, they’d simply come up with some sort of excuse (excuses are the nobles’ specialties, after all) and have him executed. And on the other hand, if he fails—well, that outcome is obvious. Ryner Lute kills him, and the country gets exactly what it wants.
Otherwise, he can try and flee Roland. Perhaps that’s the option anyone else in his situation would’ve chosen, for if he’s to die on this mission regardless, then logically, there’s no reason to stick around. However, Zohra can only inwardly scoff at the option. As idiotic as the nobles are, they wouldn’t be so careless to let him escape that easily. And even should he escape, then what? He can deal with any pursuers that would come after him, and he’s fairly certain he could even find employment in another country.
And then, he thinks, the cycle would begin all over again.
If he’s going to be a tool for the rest of his life, then perhaps he’s better off dying right here and now.
(There’s one more option, should he choose to run, but he can barely even fathom it.)
He thinks for a few more minutes, between listening to the sound of his breathing in the otherwise silent room. Then, with a quiet sigh, he gets off the bed and begins preparing his armour. For a moment, he slips back into his usual persona as he checks his equipment, summoning the oblivion he had before.
“Clasping OK, weapons OK!”
Everything’s in place. For a second, he can almost pretend that he’s just leaving for one of his usual missions, before he shakes his head, because delusions won’t get him anywhere now. Perhaps this is the time where he can finally succumb to hopes and wishes, but despite that, Zohra can only muster a grim resignation to the reality of things.
If this were some kind of fairy tale, this would be where his friends come to help him. In his hour of need, his allies would rush to his aid, and everything would be would be okay. The power of friendship would save the day and overcome everything, including corrupt nobles.
“It’s not part of my job description to help you.”
But that’s nothing but a bad joke to Zohra. He never did like fairy tales for a reason.
And he knows—no one is coming to help him. If he’s going to do anything, he’s on his own. It’s like this that he starts to understand why people cling to other beings the way they do, because he can’t help but feel that if nothing else, an attachment would give him a reason to live. A reason to live for more than killing people, and though that lifestyle brought him happiness, he has nothing left now that he’s not needed.
If he had any friends, then maybe he’d have somewhere to go in this world, but he doesn’t, so it’s a moot point.
“Ah, well.”
Taking in a deep breath, Zohra manages a grin as he looks at his reflection in the mirror, and—
“Well then… it’s time to wrap things up, isn’t it?”
He waves goodbye at his reflection in the mirror, ignoring the tightness in his chest, before turning on his heel.
♦
Ryner Lute is just about what Zohra expects him to be. Though there’s a distinct air of lethargy surrounding him that Zohra’s not sure he likes, his reflexes are sharp and his movements quick. He’s deserving of his title as the “Greatest”, and perhaps more importantly, Zohra thinks it won’t be too bad to die by his hand.
And he knows he will, for it doesn’t take too long to realize that Ryner is stronger than him. And though another day, Zohra might’ve decided to cut his losses and run, he knows there’s no point this time. If all that awaits him is death, no matter where he escapes to, he’d rather be killed by someone strong like this. If he’s allowed to be even somewhat choosy about his death, then this is what he decides.
After a few exchanges, Ryner manages to wrestle the dagger out of Zohra’s hand, and with a kick to the assassin’s chest, knocks him onto the ground. Before Zohra can react, Ryner has him pinned to the floor, the knife high in the air, before he swings it down.
Looks like this is it, Zohra thinks, and manages a bitter smile. In this last moment, he tries to think of happier times—isn’t that what people are supposed to do on their deathbed, or something like that? It then occurs to him that he can’t really think of anything, as right now, he can only remember how his parents and friends died, and how his happiness as an assassin was brought by his ignorance.
Everything in his life has been a lesson, and this is the final one.
I really did screw up.
“Guess I win, huh?”
The knife stops just above his neck.
At first, Zohra can only blink, looking up at the listless eyes of Ryner Lute, before he scowls when it becomes clear the other boy isn’t making a move to slit his throat.
“Seriously? Seriously? You’re not gonna kill me? For crying out loud, do you spare the life of every assassin that comes after you!?”
Ryner shrugs, before moving off of Zohra. He’s half-tempted to try and attack him like this, but instead settles for sitting up, glaring at the boy who won the title of the Greatest Magician in Roland. He’s dressed in the same uniform as Zohra, marking him as one of the monsters that are the Hidden Elites. He should be the same as him.
(The same as Zohra, who killed again and again and has never thought—and still doesn’t think—much of it.)
For a moment, there’s a faraway look in Ryner’s eyes, before he looks at Zohra with an indifferent expression.
“Just ones like you.”
“Huuuuh? What does that even mean?”
Taking out a familiar slip of paper from his pocket, Ryner throws it at Zohra. Zohra doesn’t even need to open it to know what it must say.
“Male. Brown hair, blue eyes. Belonging to the 66th squadron of the Hidden Elites. The Greatest Assassin in Roland. And the target’s name is… Zohra Rom. Unless you wanna tell me that you aren’t him?”
Zohra scoffs. “Don’t you know? I’m so great, they made a bunch of clones of me.”
Ryner stares for a moment, before shaking his head. “They should’ve written ’And he’s a serious idiot’ down too.”
“Jerk,” Zohra retorts on principle, before smiling wryly. “… But they probably should’ve, yeah.”
Because, he thinks, he’s the idiot who walked right into Roland’s hands without realizing it was too late, assured of his own worth all the while. If nothing else, that’s the mark of an amateur.
Ryner watches him for a couple of seconds, his expression unreadable, before he idly twirls the knife in his fingers.
“And… that’s why I won’t kill you.”
“Because I’m an idiot? You don’t kill idiots? Seriously?”
Zohra stares at him like the other boy’s the real idiot here, as Ryner shrugs, apparently unconcerned with Zohra’s bafflement.
“... You have the eyes of someone I once knew,” he says, his tone mostly dull, but Zohra can detect a hint of remorse in there.
Nevertheless, he grimaces and replies, “Gross. Are you trying to flirt with me?”
“With an idiot like you? No way in hell. I’d sooner die.”
“Good, ‘cause I think I’d be sick otherwise.”
They’re both quiet for a while, with Zohra going over his options (should he try and fight? Is it worth it?), before he finally breaks the silence.
He remembers a girl with red hair, red eyes, a smile on her face, and a poisoned dagger.
“… It was Biore Mente, wasn’t it?” He asks, at which Ryner’s eyes snap to his. “The one I reminded you of. It was her, right?”
“… So you know about her,” Ryner replies quietly, which is all the answer Zohra needs as he nods.
“Of course. I’m the Greatest Assassin in Roland, remember? I’d obviously want to know everything about my predecessor—ending with exactly how she died.”
There’s a pained look on Ryner’s face now, different from his usual lethargic expression, but Zohra ignores it and continues, as if reciting from a textbook.
“She was ordered to kill you and told that it would be her final mission. She was told that afterwards, she would be relieved from her duties and given the chance to live a normal life. Seriously, what an idiot. She should’ve known that for an assassin, the only kind of retirement we get is death. Despite that, she never suspected a thing and went after you.”
Ryner doesn’t say anything, and so Zohra goes on.
“She had no idea that you’d been ordered to kill her too. Well, it’s not like the country really cared who died, since their plans went further than that. They predicted that the two of you would try and escape together, and so they had her killed to see if it could drive you berserk. Too bad for them—you didn’t, so their little experiment failed. Biore died in vain.”
“… Don’t talk about her like that,” Ryner said in a low voice, which Zohra smiles at.
“Why not? Is anything I said wrong? Biore died a pointless death and you know it.”
Ryner frowns, but he doesn’t protest. He and Zohra stare at each other like that for a while, as if challenging one another, before Ryner breaks eye contact and sighs.
“… So? What are you gonna do from here?”
Zohra shrugs. “Well, the plan was to die by your hands, but you kinda ruined all that. So I don’t really know anymore.”
Ryner’s eyes narrow. “You came here to die?”
“Got a problem with that?”
It’s Ryner’s turn to shrug now. “It’s not really my problem what happens to you, but people dying is a really troublesome thing, you know? I’d never get any good sleep if I had your death on my conscience, and that just sucks most of all. So don’t die, okay? Do it for my sleep.”
“What the hell are you even talking about now?”
Ryner looks at him in the eye again. “It’s like I told you. You remind me of Biore. You’ve got… how do I explain it… the same air as her? Well, she was a lot less annoying than you, so I guess you’re not really the same… Anyway, it’s the same as it was back then: if you were a lowlife like most of the Hidden Elites who took pleasure in killing, I would’ve ended your life right there and then. But you’re not like that. You might be seriously annoying, but if you came here to die… then like I said, killing you would just be way too bothersome.”
“Let me get this straight: you’re not gonna kill me because it’d be too much work? You were one freaking inch away from cutting my neck! How much effort could that take!?”
Ryner waves a hand at him, yawning. “It’s not just about the physical stuff. It’s way too tiring emotionally too, you know? Killing does that to people. If you keep doing it again and again, it wears down on you, and sooner or later, you don’t even wanna get out of bed in the morning… You know, I had a lot of friends who went on and became assassins. Eventually, they all became like walking corpses. They were dead inside. Killing did that to them.”
“Is this supposed to be some kinda commentary on me? Do I look like I’m dead inside to you?” Zohra says, crossing his arms.
Ryner shakes his head. “… Nah, you’re not really like them.”
“Then that means I’m one of those people who takes pleasure in killing people, doesn’t it? Aren’t you gonna kill me then?”
It occurs to Zohra that though he’d initially thought this was going to be simple—attack Ryner Lute, be killed by him—it seems that he’s going through an awful lot of trouble for this. He doesn’t even know if he wants to Ryner to kill him anymore, but he can’t help but feel that somehow, Ryner is making this far more complicated than it needs to be.
Killing is killing. Zohra has never felt that it was particularly hard on him, or that it wore him down over the years, and though he’s seen some of the sort of people that Ryner’s talking about, he knows that he’s not one of them.
But then again—
“Then, are you saying that you enjoy killing people?” Ryner asks, and Zohra can’t answer.
He looks up at the ceiling, thinking it over. Does he enjoy killing? He can’t say no with absolute resolve, but ‘yes’ doesn’t feel right either. In the end, he supposes, he never thought much about it. He did as the country told him to (he did everything they told him to, and look where that got him—) and killed as they’d ordered, out of fear for his own life. One could argue it as a twisted means of self-defence, but Zohra has never been interested in making excuses for himself.
He killed because if he didn’t, then it’d be his life that ended. If that made him scum, then so be it. It’s as he thought—a heart isn’t worth anything in this world.
But it seems that, ultimately, the same goes for being heartless. He did whatever was necessary to survive until it felt like he was the only person in the world who mattered, because he was, to himself.
Whether he ‘enjoyed’ any of it had no meaning. But he was happy, he thinks, so does that mean he took pleasure from what he did? He liked living, at least. At the same time, he knows he never did what so many of the other Hidden Elites did, the kind of deeds that made them so hated by those who knew they existed.
In the end, Zohra still can’t figure out an answer to Ryner’s question, and so responds with a shrug. That seems to be good enough for Ryner, though, as he continues.
“In any case, you’re not like the other Hidden Elites. So get out of here and live a better life. Why are you giving up so easily?”
At that, Zohra almost wants to laugh, not for the first time in the past few days. He’s already been thinking that Ryner’s an idiot—a soft-hearted fool who can’t kill when he should—but this drives the nail into the coffin. It’s bad enough that Ryner apparently has such a problem with killing, but this is…
“Live a better life? Are you kidding me? Even if I do run, the only thing that’ll change is who my employer is,” Zohra tells Ryner, who doesn’t seem especially impressed with his answer.
“Then why continue being an assassin? If you get out of Roland and manage to shake off all pursuers—if you run far enough, you can live a normal life. You can live without having to kill anyone anymore.”
—And there it is, the option that Zohra couldn’t even bring himself to imagine.
A normal life, where he no longer has to fight or kill anyone.
A peaceful, civilian life.
The kind of life he’s never had, born as a slave and growing up as an assassin.
To someone else, it really would sound nice. But to Zohra—
“No.”
He shakes his head.
“I kinda thought about it, you know…? But I’m a Hidden Elite, right? You know what they say about us. We’re people with mental problems who can’t even function in normal society. Do you really think I can live a ‘normal life?’ ”
“You never know unless you try,” Ryner replies.
“Yeah? What do ‘normal’ people even do with their lives?” As someone who’s spent most of his life either training or carrying out missions, he can barely picture it. It’s why he couldn’t seriously consider the option, as it painted a picture that he couldn’t envision.
“Let’s see…” Ryner begins, appearing deep in thought. “Well, kids our age probably go to school or something. And… hang out with friends, I guess? Sneak into bars and indulge in underage drinking? Take afternoon naps?”
“Sounds pretty boring, if you ask me. Especially that last one.”
Still, Zohra tries to imagine it. Leaning back, his arms supporting his weight, he tries to see himself as a civilian, doing the mundane, silly things Ryner spoke of. He closes his eyes, and does his best to bring forth the image.
As expected, though, there’s only blackness, before he opens his eyes again.
“Like I thought, that kind of life just isn’t for me.”
But even though he couldn’t succeed in picturing it, he can’t say it was worthless. Trying to imagine his future—a future where he was no longer an assassin of Roland—has invoked feelings that Zohra’s forgotten these past few days, resigned to his death.
Though he doesn’t think that he’d ever be able to adapt to a peaceful life (and he knows that peace, no matter how pretty it sounds, is nothing but another illusion), he knows one thing. He doesn’t know where his future lies, if at all, but he knows this:
I want to live.
It’s all ever he’s wished for.
The simple ability to live. A right that Roland would never give him; a luxury that’s now taken away from him, a tool that’s served its purpose.
(Those who are no longer needed are simply disposed of and disappear. He’s always known this.)
He’s not sure of what he’s asking for beyond that, when he wishes for neither a normal life nor one as a mindless assassin, but the desire to survive is unmistakable.
I want to live.
And he’s terrified, because he doesn’t know if he can.
He’s a child all over again, watching his parents die. He’s a child, watching his friends die. He’s a child who learned what it means to die at far too early an age and how fleeting life is. He’s a child who’s been fighting his entire life to delay his own death, even if only for a moment.
And now that death might’ve finally caught up with him (because there’s a death sentence on his head, a noose around his neck), he knows it more than ever.
I want to live.
It’s just a matter of how.
♦
“If you want to die,” Ryner tells him, “then you can walk out that door and wait for this country to kill you.
“But if you want to live… Well, you may be annoying, but I’ll lend a hand.”
Zohra’s mouth twitches upward into a smile. “The last time you tried to help someone escape from the country, the army killed her. You sure you want my death on your conscience?”
Ryner’s quiet for a few moments, before speaking. “You’re stronger than Biore was. And I’m stronger too. Things won’t go the same way they did before.”
They both know that they can’t be sure of that, but either way, it doesn’t especially matter to Zohra, who shrugs.
“Well, you may be annoying, but I’m gonna need all the help I can get if I wanna escape from here, so I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“Then that’s your answer?”
This time, Zohra doesn’t even need to think about it, nodding. “Yeah. That’s my answer.”
His heart is beating faster to the point where he thinks he might be ill, despite his attempts to calm it down. His hands are sweaty. He’s afraid, he knows.
At the same time, he’s excited.
He looks outside the window, where little can be seen in the blackness. He doesn’t sense anyone out there—if anyone’s going to be stopping him and Ryner, they’ll be further out. For now, all that surrounds him is the darkness of the night.
And past that—perhaps freedom.
He’ll reach it or die trying.
Turning to Ryner, he smiles. It’s the sort of innocent smile that belongs on children and isn't at all suited for the occasion, but Zohra has never been one to care about that kind of thing.
“Who knows? Between the Greatest Magician in Roland and the Greatest Assassin in Roland, they won’t stand a chance.”
♦
All things considered, the escape goes well.
Zohra has a gaping stab wound in his back that hurts like hell whenever he moves, but he ignores it with enough ease that would likely make a normal person wonder if maybe he was just immune to pain. Ryner starts complaining about how troublesome this is and that he just wants to sleep once it becomes clear that they’re not in mortal peril, resulting in Zohra wishing he could punch his face in, but he holds back.
They’re in Estabul now—Zohra elected to head there rather than Nelpha or Runa for the sake of dissuading any pursuers from following them into a country they’d been at war with recently. Of course, security had been tight, but for Zohra and Ryner, it was nothing they couldn’t ultimately deal with.
Zohra begins taking care of his wounds as Ryner sets up a makeshift camp. They brought few supplies with them, particularly as Ryner intends to return to Roland in any case (Zohra had called him an idiot for it, which Ryner hadn’t denied), and they hadn’t exactly had the time.
“This is probably as far as I’ll go,” Ryner says, staring into the small fire he’s built. “You’ll be fine on your own from here, right?”
“Yeah,” Zohra says, nodding as he finishes with his injuries. “Even if we’re not at war with Estabul right now, that doesn’t exactly make the two countries best buddies.”
Ryner smiles dryly. “You sure it’s still a ‘we’? You’re a traitor to Roland now, y’know?”
Zohra laughs, looking up at the moonless sky. It’s an interesting thought, that he’s a traitor now. It’s not a status he would’ve expected years ago. Back then, he thought that he’d keep doing what he was doing forever: following orders, doing his best to stay strong and defend his title, and survive like that.
“Guess so.”
He then looks down at his hands, or rather, the gloves covering them. The uniform of the Hidden Elites—he remembers how proud he’d been at that time, when he was accepted into them. It all seems so far away now, but more than that, the reminder of his own foolishness leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
He lets out a soft sigh, before staring into the fire like Ryner, who speaks.
“So what are you gonna do now?” He asks. “You’re not joining the Estabul army, right? You said that you didn’t want to just be an assassin for someone else again…”
Zohra makes a non-committal hum. “Yeah… Well, I don’t plan on staying in Estabul. I guess I’ll go to the central continent and… I dunno, travel the world until I get sick of that? Maybe I’ll regret all this one day, but for now, I’ll just have to think of something.”
For a while, Ryner doesn’t say anything. Zohra isn’t sure whether he even heard what he said or if he’s simply thinking it over now, but he then gets his answer when Ryner finally responds.
“You know…” He begins. “I had two friends before. They fled Roland ten years ago.”
“Yeah?” Zohra says, not entirely sure where he’s going with this or if he should care.
“Well, they were really troublesome people, like you,” Ryner says, shrugging. “They were pretty strong too, so they’re probably still alive out there. They gave up on sending me letters, though, since I never replied… Anyway, putting that aside, what I’m trying to say is that if you don’t have anywhere to go, then maybe seek them out? Figure out whatever it is they’re doing. Knowing her, she wouldn’t be content with a peaceful life either…”
That catches Zohra’s interest. He blinks.
“Well, it’s worth a shot. What are their names?”
“Pia Varliere and Peria Peruula,” Ryner replies. “Pia’s a Congenital Magic Abnormality bearer, so she should be pretty easy to recognize if you see her. Peria’s a survivor of the All Enchantment experiment.”
Zohra raises his eyebrows at that, as those aren’t exactly the most ordinary of attributes. Still, he nods.
“Pia Varliere and Peria Peruula. Got it.”
And maybe, if they’ve been in a similar situation, they can give him the answer—what he’s supposed to do with his life (now that he doesn’t have to kill anymore, even though he can’t imagine that he’ll live the peaceful life that Ryner undoubtedly wants for himself). Maybe, just maybe, they can help him find what he’s seeking now: a reason to live.
(What Roland took away from him—)
It occurs to him that Ryner is, for all intents and purposes, telling him to go and make friends with those two, which is yet another strange thought to Zohra. He gave up on making friends year ago, neither actively denying it nor wishing for it. The price of being strong, he realized, was that either you make friends with people even stronger than you (something he could never seem to do) or resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life. He’s never really been lonely, he thinks, but it might not be so bad, finding people like him. If they were friends with Ryner, at least, as the soft-hearted idiot the boy is, then they can’t be like the Hidden Elites.
Maybe through them, he can finally see what the big deal is. He’ll learn about all the things he never quite got while growing up and didn’t bother to learn—like compassion, which had always seemed so useless up until now. Zohra doesn’t know if he necessarily wants to know, but he no longer feels the need to outright reject such sentiments.
It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling, he thinks.
“Well, I’m going to sleep,” Ryner announces, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You mind standing guard for the night? No? Okay, thanks. Good night.”
Using a rock for a pillow, he lies down on the ground, turning away from Zohra as he presumably tries to shift into a comfortable position. Zohra lets out a snort at that, but doesn’t argue.
Stretching his arms (and wincing slightly at the pressure it puts on his back), Zohra looks up at the sky again. It’s almost entirely black, but if he squints, he can see a few stars shining down on them. Far from enough to provide any light, the area lit only by the campfire, but it’s still better than darkness.
“Pia and Peria, huh…?” He mutters. Like Ryner, he tries to shift into a comfortable position, albeit while sitting rather than lying down, as he prepares to keep watch.
Well, here’s hoping I’ll get along with them.
He doesn’t know what the future holds, and it’s both terrifying and exhilarating all at once. It strikes him that he’s not at the top anymore, and from here, he’ll have to work his way from the bottom once again, but he’s not as annoyed at the thought as he thought he’d be. If nothing else, the impact wasn't as bad as expected, and climbing up from there will be a good challenge.
He’s three years old again, just learning the ways of the world. Back then, though, he was grasping how cruel the world could be.
Now, perhaps, it might be the opposite.
Like this, he’s become a Taboo Breaker. A fugitive. He’ll be chased down and hunted for the rest of his life by a country that he once served. He has nowhere to go (nowhere but the two names that Ryner’s given him), with no family or friends to rely on.
Still, though he’s never considered himself to be dead inside the way Ryner had described, for as callous as it may be, he was happy, in his own way—
Taking out the assassination order for Ryner that he’s been keeping in his pocket, he holds it to the wind before letting it go. It flies away, briefly illuminated by the campfire, before it disappears into the darkness.
—Tonight feels like the first night of his life. And when the sun rises, he thinks, that’ll be the first morning he’s alive again.
He smiles.
Series: The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Character(s): Zohra, Ryner, with mentions of Biore.
Warnings: Mentions of rape, violence, and death, and implications of pedophilia and sexual assault.
Summary: He was going to die, and he didn't know what to do about it.
Notes: An AU of sorts based on, "What if Zohra hadn't met Pia?" The short version is that his life would be a bit of a trainwreck, but I opted to diverge from what I think would actually happen (i.e. he'd probably die).
It’s exhilarating, being at the top.
It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, arms spread out, feeling the wind against your face. For a moment, all your worries are gone, as you instead bask in this atmosphere that you can’t find anywhere else—the atmosphere a place where few can reach, but you have. You climbed and struggled, risking everything, but you survived. You made it this far; you’ve won.
In that moment, you feel invincible.
—But one you’ve reached the top, the only way to go from there is down.
In that moment, he forgot that.
Zohra is sixteen when the war with Estabul ends. He first hears the news out on the streets, when buying groceries (the other Hidden Elites scoff, asking why he doesn’t just have his servants do that, to which Zohra shrugs). It’s the usual routine: buy what he needs to, and then something nice to treat himself, before the shopkeeper asks how he is. He tells her that she’s fine, and she fusses over him to make sure that he’s eating enough. He smiles—a perfect construction—brushing off her concerns.
“I’m an adult, okay? I can manage my own diet!” He huffs, at which the shopkeeper puts her hands on her hips.
“You’re nothing but a child! Honestly, you don’t want to worry your parents from the grave, do you?”
She has never met his parents and knows nothing of them. Not there’s anything to know, but, well.
Amusedly, he wonders how she’d react if she knew that he’s done far worse things to make his late parents worry—if they wouldn’t have outright disowned him for what he’s done, at least. Whatever they were expecting from him, it likely wasn’t this. He’s the opposite of everything that they were: nobodies so easily discarded by this country, forgotten by everyone and known to no one.
And Zohra is far, far from being a nobody.
Still, the shopkeeper knows no more about him than she does his parents. She knows no more than anyone around here, who looks at him and sees a sixteen-year-old child. At worst, a pitiful orphan. Zohra almost wants to laugh at their naivety.
Amusedly, he wonders how they’d react if they knew that they were right next to one of the most dangerous people in this country.
(There is nothing pitiful about him.)
Today, though, their conversation goes a bit differently.
“Ah, Zohra, did you hear, did you hear? Apparently, the war has ended. Good grief, it’s about time…”
For a split-second, Zohra freezes, before relaxing, as a surprised expression spreads across his face. He has always suspected, of course. Short of a sudden miracle, it’s simple enough to realize when a war is reaching its end.
But perhaps a part of him wished—
“Whoa, really!? That’s awesome! Seriously, it took long enough for those damn kings to realize how stupid this war was… It’s pretty troubling, isn’t it? Having stupid royalty and nobility around like this… Ah, well.”
The shopkeeper smiles wryly. “I agree, but you should be careful about saying that too loudly… If the nobles heard, then—”
By that point, Zohra is halfway out the door, his only response a light wave of his hand not carrying his purchases. He walks at a normal pace down the street, but upon turning into an alleyway, his speed picks up—faster, until he’s practically racing to his house in the Hidden Elites’ area, a grim look on his face.
He slams the door to his room shut as he enters, slumping against it as he looks around. There are slips of paper pinned to the walls: assassinations that he’s particularly proud of. Most of his orders otherwise are kept elsewhere, for reference, and the more secretive ones he burned out of professionalism. The amount of missions he’s accomplished over the years surpass a couple thousand, what with receiving orders day in and day out and having little time for much else.
He’s lost track of how many people he’s murdered in cold blood, even long before he became a Hidden Elite. Not that there was much point in keeping track, anyway.
(Every person in the world is the same to him, really.)
Thirteen years of being a soldier, six of which he’s spent with the title he strove for: the Greatest Assassin in Roland.
The best.
The top.
He’d reached it, just as he’d climbed and struggled for. It was shortly after Biore Mente’s death that he received the title, with his predecessor now gone. It’d been the best day of his life, because he’d thought that finally, his survival might be at least somewhat ensured. As long as he kept striving for strength, as long as he kept following his orders and killing whomever he was told to—then he’d survive. This country wouldn’t throw him away.
He’d be given the right to live in this world (in this world where only the strong could live, and the weak died)—
In the end, however, it was a dream he could only half-live in.
And the thing about dreams is that sooner or later, they all have to end.
He remembers how Biore Mente died. As the one he aspired to surpass, it was only natural that he would investigate her death, revealing the truth that now, he’s not certain he’s glad to know. He’s glad, because every piece of information is worth it, especially if it pertains to his own fate one day. He isn’t glad, because he doesn’t want to acknowledge what his life is worth.
Biore Mente, the Greatest Assassin in Roland, who never faltered in her duties, who never questioned her allegiance to Roland—she’d been a valuable resource during the previous war with Estabul. She’d killed, and killed, and killed, and in the end…
She’d killed too many.
She was too active during the war. She knows the inner workings of Roland too well.
So…
Ultimately, there’s only one ending for those who are too informed, isn’t there?
Letting out a shaky breath, Zohra lowers himself into a crouching position and begins to think.
That night, he dreams.
As an assassin, most of his missions are solo, but on occasion, he’s been given tasks with other Hidden Elites. Zohra doesn’t especially enjoy those, as there’s a reason nobody likes them very much, and even as a Hidden Elite himself, Zohra can attest that none of them make for very good conversational partners. At worst, some of them have made less than welcome gestures towards him (though he’s long since past the point of batting an eye at any of them), and it’s enough to say that one of them ended up with a broken arm when he couldn’t keep it to himself.
At best, they fear and respect his title, which he’s been defending for six years. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the glory, but as far as he’s concerned, that’s about all the other Hidden Elites are good for.
Still, he can’t exactly say he hates those missions either. Rather, he deals with them with the same sort of indifference he does everything else with. It’s a tad annoying how some of the Hidden Elites feel the need to dally around, but Zohra knows that even fear towards him, apparently, can’t distract them from their lust.
“You sure you don’t want in, Zohra?” One of them asks, bent over a crying woman, her clothes torn off. Zohra nods and flatly replies,
“Positive. One of us needs to stand guard, y’know?”
The man shrugs, before going back to his conquest, as he and the others cheer amidst the women’s sobs. Zohra tries to tune it out—not because it bothers him (he can’t remember a time when it ever did, to be honest), but because it’s distracting him from listening out for anyone who could disrupt their mission. He spares a glance to the other party, grimacing as he thinks over all the things that could go wrong during sex, from the way it leaves you with focus for little else to the various openings in the man’s position. Not for the first time, he’s thankful that he seems to be as asexual as a rock, despite his so-called comrades’ encouragement for otherwise.
It occurs to him that there are a lot of things that he doesn’t seem to understand (why it’s worth risking your well-being for). Lust is just one of them.
As he keeps an eye and ear out for the mansion’s security, one cry does break through his concentration. It’s different from the typical sobs and pleas, namely because it’s addressed to him.
“Please—you there—please, help us…!”
Zohra stares at her impassively. It’s the sort of uncaring look that comes from someone who thinks no more of why humans hurt one another in this way than of why humans eat and breathe. Perhaps more importantly, it’s the sort of uncaring look that comes from someone who has no intention of being a saviour.
“Sorry, lady,” Zohra says easily, shrugging. “It’s not part of my job description to help you.”
There’s another sob, before the woman manages a feeble—
“How can—how can you be…”
She’s interrupted as the man moves, more cries and cheers erupting as Zohra returns to standing guard. Still, he knows what the remainder of her words would be, as it’s simple enough to figure out.
How can you be so heartless?
Zohra nearly laughs, because truth be told, that’s a compliment.
(After all, no matter how you look at it, having a heart just doesn’t seem to be worth it.)
Unsurprisingly, the order comes a few days afterwards.
Zohra stares at the slip of paper for a while, the details of his next target repeating themselves in his head like a mantra.
Male.
Black hair, black eyes.
Belonging to the 42nd squadron of the Hidden Elites.
The Alpha Stigma monster.
The Greatest Magician in Roland.
Ryner Lute.
And with that, Zohra breaks down laughing. Why exactly, he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s laughing at the country’s lack of originality. Maybe he’s laughing at the idea of the greatest assassin being pit against the greatest magician. Maybe he’s laughing because he’s been waiting these past few days for this, because he knew this was coming.
“Knew it, knew it, knew it…” He mutters, clutching the paper as if it were a lifeline. Which, he thinks, is an ironic thought, because if this document is anything, it’s one thing: his death sentence. Those simple words, demanding that he kill another, and yet all Zohra can see is what’s said between the lines, demanding for his own death.
Zohra Rom was too active in the previous war. He knows the inner workings of Roland too well.
So… shall we have him disappear?
It’s the exact same order that was given to Biore Mente, down to the target. The same death sentence, the same noose around his neck—and he can only laugh, because really, he walked right into it.
“I’m an idiot…” He murmurs, and in that moment, he wonders why he ever let his guard down. He of all people should’ve known, after a life of striving to survive and avoiding what would bring him down (lust, compassion, anything and everything that wasn’t worth dying for—) and even knowing how Biore died, and yet he might as well have tied the noose himself.
For a few seconds, it’s hard to breathe, as if the rope were tightening around his neck, before he slams a fist down on his chest, telling himself to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. He’s an assassin. Even with death a step away, he won’t panic. Panic is yet another thing he doesn’t need. It’s another step towards making a mistake, and he didn’t get this far by faltering so amateurishly.
All he needs is to be a blade—sharp nothingness within him. He doesn’t feel anything. He only does exactly what he needs to. Anything less makes him a failure as an assassin.
He feels nothing.
He cares about nothing.
He only strives for survival.
Everything else is meaningless.
That’s how he’s always lived.
He tells himself that, and—
Screw it all.
In this moment, he allows himself to be the sixteen-year-old boy he is (not an adult, after all, and like this, he knows he won’t even live to see his next birthday) and collapses onto his bed. Though part of him is berating himself for his foolishness, as what’s within him right now certainly isn’t nothingness, and dimly, he thinks, not being able to restrain yourself is how everyone died, isn’t it?
His parents. His friends. People he knew, and people he didn’t. It was all the same.
And now him, if he can’t keep himself under check—but then he reminds himself that it doesn’t matter either way. How professional he is an assassin, how well he can kill his heart and do what needs to be done—none of it stopped things from turning out this way. Briefly, he wonders if there was anything he could’ve done to prevent this, if maybe he messed up somewhere along the way, if he did something to be deemed unworthy, before he laughs again at his own idiocy.
He realizes now where that kind of thinking came from. Thinking of what he could’ve done to earn the right to live. Thinking of what would’ve given his life worth.
And the answer to all that is simple: there isn’t anything. There never was. There was only the foolish him, clinging to that illusion because he didn’t want to accept it.
“… It seriously is troubling, having such shitty nobles…”
He sits up, going over his options. He’s suddenly exhausted, the weight of his impending death hanging over him, and it’s tempting to sleep the rest of his (however short) life away, but he figures that he’ll end up regretting it.
The first branch begins with him trying to carry out his mission. From there, he either succeeds in killing Ryner Lute—which would hardly be a great loss, in this country’s eyes—after which they’d likely keep sending him on suicidal missions until he was finally killed. That, or should they lack the patience, they’d simply come up with some sort of excuse (excuses are the nobles’ specialties, after all) and have him executed. And on the other hand, if he fails—well, that outcome is obvious. Ryner Lute kills him, and the country gets exactly what it wants.
Otherwise, he can try and flee Roland. Perhaps that’s the option anyone else in his situation would’ve chosen, for if he’s to die on this mission regardless, then logically, there’s no reason to stick around. However, Zohra can only inwardly scoff at the option. As idiotic as the nobles are, they wouldn’t be so careless to let him escape that easily. And even should he escape, then what? He can deal with any pursuers that would come after him, and he’s fairly certain he could even find employment in another country.
And then, he thinks, the cycle would begin all over again.
If he’s going to be a tool for the rest of his life, then perhaps he’s better off dying right here and now.
(There’s one more option, should he choose to run, but he can barely even fathom it.)
He thinks for a few more minutes, between listening to the sound of his breathing in the otherwise silent room. Then, with a quiet sigh, he gets off the bed and begins preparing his armour. For a moment, he slips back into his usual persona as he checks his equipment, summoning the oblivion he had before.
“Clasping OK, weapons OK!”
Everything’s in place. For a second, he can almost pretend that he’s just leaving for one of his usual missions, before he shakes his head, because delusions won’t get him anywhere now. Perhaps this is the time where he can finally succumb to hopes and wishes, but despite that, Zohra can only muster a grim resignation to the reality of things.
If this were some kind of fairy tale, this would be where his friends come to help him. In his hour of need, his allies would rush to his aid, and everything would be would be okay. The power of friendship would save the day and overcome everything, including corrupt nobles.
“It’s not part of my job description to help you.”
But that’s nothing but a bad joke to Zohra. He never did like fairy tales for a reason.
And he knows—no one is coming to help him. If he’s going to do anything, he’s on his own. It’s like this that he starts to understand why people cling to other beings the way they do, because he can’t help but feel that if nothing else, an attachment would give him a reason to live. A reason to live for more than killing people, and though that lifestyle brought him happiness, he has nothing left now that he’s not needed.
If he had any friends, then maybe he’d have somewhere to go in this world, but he doesn’t, so it’s a moot point.
“Ah, well.”
Taking in a deep breath, Zohra manages a grin as he looks at his reflection in the mirror, and—
“Well then… it’s time to wrap things up, isn’t it?”
He waves goodbye at his reflection in the mirror, ignoring the tightness in his chest, before turning on his heel.
Ryner Lute is just about what Zohra expects him to be. Though there’s a distinct air of lethargy surrounding him that Zohra’s not sure he likes, his reflexes are sharp and his movements quick. He’s deserving of his title as the “Greatest”, and perhaps more importantly, Zohra thinks it won’t be too bad to die by his hand.
And he knows he will, for it doesn’t take too long to realize that Ryner is stronger than him. And though another day, Zohra might’ve decided to cut his losses and run, he knows there’s no point this time. If all that awaits him is death, no matter where he escapes to, he’d rather be killed by someone strong like this. If he’s allowed to be even somewhat choosy about his death, then this is what he decides.
After a few exchanges, Ryner manages to wrestle the dagger out of Zohra’s hand, and with a kick to the assassin’s chest, knocks him onto the ground. Before Zohra can react, Ryner has him pinned to the floor, the knife high in the air, before he swings it down.
Looks like this is it, Zohra thinks, and manages a bitter smile. In this last moment, he tries to think of happier times—isn’t that what people are supposed to do on their deathbed, or something like that? It then occurs to him that he can’t really think of anything, as right now, he can only remember how his parents and friends died, and how his happiness as an assassin was brought by his ignorance.
Everything in his life has been a lesson, and this is the final one.
I really did screw up.
“Guess I win, huh?”
The knife stops just above his neck.
At first, Zohra can only blink, looking up at the listless eyes of Ryner Lute, before he scowls when it becomes clear the other boy isn’t making a move to slit his throat.
“Seriously? Seriously? You’re not gonna kill me? For crying out loud, do you spare the life of every assassin that comes after you!?”
Ryner shrugs, before moving off of Zohra. He’s half-tempted to try and attack him like this, but instead settles for sitting up, glaring at the boy who won the title of the Greatest Magician in Roland. He’s dressed in the same uniform as Zohra, marking him as one of the monsters that are the Hidden Elites. He should be the same as him.
(The same as Zohra, who killed again and again and has never thought—and still doesn’t think—much of it.)
For a moment, there’s a faraway look in Ryner’s eyes, before he looks at Zohra with an indifferent expression.
“Just ones like you.”
“Huuuuh? What does that even mean?”
Taking out a familiar slip of paper from his pocket, Ryner throws it at Zohra. Zohra doesn’t even need to open it to know what it must say.
“Male. Brown hair, blue eyes. Belonging to the 66th squadron of the Hidden Elites. The Greatest Assassin in Roland. And the target’s name is… Zohra Rom. Unless you wanna tell me that you aren’t him?”
Zohra scoffs. “Don’t you know? I’m so great, they made a bunch of clones of me.”
Ryner stares for a moment, before shaking his head. “They should’ve written ’And he’s a serious idiot’ down too.”
“Jerk,” Zohra retorts on principle, before smiling wryly. “… But they probably should’ve, yeah.”
Because, he thinks, he’s the idiot who walked right into Roland’s hands without realizing it was too late, assured of his own worth all the while. If nothing else, that’s the mark of an amateur.
Ryner watches him for a couple of seconds, his expression unreadable, before he idly twirls the knife in his fingers.
“And… that’s why I won’t kill you.”
“Because I’m an idiot? You don’t kill idiots? Seriously?”
Zohra stares at him like the other boy’s the real idiot here, as Ryner shrugs, apparently unconcerned with Zohra’s bafflement.
“... You have the eyes of someone I once knew,” he says, his tone mostly dull, but Zohra can detect a hint of remorse in there.
Nevertheless, he grimaces and replies, “Gross. Are you trying to flirt with me?”
“With an idiot like you? No way in hell. I’d sooner die.”
“Good, ‘cause I think I’d be sick otherwise.”
They’re both quiet for a while, with Zohra going over his options (should he try and fight? Is it worth it?), before he finally breaks the silence.
He remembers a girl with red hair, red eyes, a smile on her face, and a poisoned dagger.
“… It was Biore Mente, wasn’t it?” He asks, at which Ryner’s eyes snap to his. “The one I reminded you of. It was her, right?”
“… So you know about her,” Ryner replies quietly, which is all the answer Zohra needs as he nods.
“Of course. I’m the Greatest Assassin in Roland, remember? I’d obviously want to know everything about my predecessor—ending with exactly how she died.”
There’s a pained look on Ryner’s face now, different from his usual lethargic expression, but Zohra ignores it and continues, as if reciting from a textbook.
“She was ordered to kill you and told that it would be her final mission. She was told that afterwards, she would be relieved from her duties and given the chance to live a normal life. Seriously, what an idiot. She should’ve known that for an assassin, the only kind of retirement we get is death. Despite that, she never suspected a thing and went after you.”
Ryner doesn’t say anything, and so Zohra goes on.
“She had no idea that you’d been ordered to kill her too. Well, it’s not like the country really cared who died, since their plans went further than that. They predicted that the two of you would try and escape together, and so they had her killed to see if it could drive you berserk. Too bad for them—you didn’t, so their little experiment failed. Biore died in vain.”
“… Don’t talk about her like that,” Ryner said in a low voice, which Zohra smiles at.
“Why not? Is anything I said wrong? Biore died a pointless death and you know it.”
Ryner frowns, but he doesn’t protest. He and Zohra stare at each other like that for a while, as if challenging one another, before Ryner breaks eye contact and sighs.
“… So? What are you gonna do from here?”
Zohra shrugs. “Well, the plan was to die by your hands, but you kinda ruined all that. So I don’t really know anymore.”
Ryner’s eyes narrow. “You came here to die?”
“Got a problem with that?”
It’s Ryner’s turn to shrug now. “It’s not really my problem what happens to you, but people dying is a really troublesome thing, you know? I’d never get any good sleep if I had your death on my conscience, and that just sucks most of all. So don’t die, okay? Do it for my sleep.”
“What the hell are you even talking about now?”
Ryner looks at him in the eye again. “It’s like I told you. You remind me of Biore. You’ve got… how do I explain it… the same air as her? Well, she was a lot less annoying than you, so I guess you’re not really the same… Anyway, it’s the same as it was back then: if you were a lowlife like most of the Hidden Elites who took pleasure in killing, I would’ve ended your life right there and then. But you’re not like that. You might be seriously annoying, but if you came here to die… then like I said, killing you would just be way too bothersome.”
“Let me get this straight: you’re not gonna kill me because it’d be too much work? You were one freaking inch away from cutting my neck! How much effort could that take!?”
Ryner waves a hand at him, yawning. “It’s not just about the physical stuff. It’s way too tiring emotionally too, you know? Killing does that to people. If you keep doing it again and again, it wears down on you, and sooner or later, you don’t even wanna get out of bed in the morning… You know, I had a lot of friends who went on and became assassins. Eventually, they all became like walking corpses. They were dead inside. Killing did that to them.”
“Is this supposed to be some kinda commentary on me? Do I look like I’m dead inside to you?” Zohra says, crossing his arms.
Ryner shakes his head. “… Nah, you’re not really like them.”
“Then that means I’m one of those people who takes pleasure in killing people, doesn’t it? Aren’t you gonna kill me then?”
It occurs to Zohra that though he’d initially thought this was going to be simple—attack Ryner Lute, be killed by him—it seems that he’s going through an awful lot of trouble for this. He doesn’t even know if he wants to Ryner to kill him anymore, but he can’t help but feel that somehow, Ryner is making this far more complicated than it needs to be.
Killing is killing. Zohra has never felt that it was particularly hard on him, or that it wore him down over the years, and though he’s seen some of the sort of people that Ryner’s talking about, he knows that he’s not one of them.
But then again—
“Then, are you saying that you enjoy killing people?” Ryner asks, and Zohra can’t answer.
He looks up at the ceiling, thinking it over. Does he enjoy killing? He can’t say no with absolute resolve, but ‘yes’ doesn’t feel right either. In the end, he supposes, he never thought much about it. He did as the country told him to (he did everything they told him to, and look where that got him—) and killed as they’d ordered, out of fear for his own life. One could argue it as a twisted means of self-defence, but Zohra has never been interested in making excuses for himself.
He killed because if he didn’t, then it’d be his life that ended. If that made him scum, then so be it. It’s as he thought—a heart isn’t worth anything in this world.
But it seems that, ultimately, the same goes for being heartless. He did whatever was necessary to survive until it felt like he was the only person in the world who mattered, because he was, to himself.
Whether he ‘enjoyed’ any of it had no meaning. But he was happy, he thinks, so does that mean he took pleasure from what he did? He liked living, at least. At the same time, he knows he never did what so many of the other Hidden Elites did, the kind of deeds that made them so hated by those who knew they existed.
In the end, Zohra still can’t figure out an answer to Ryner’s question, and so responds with a shrug. That seems to be good enough for Ryner, though, as he continues.
“In any case, you’re not like the other Hidden Elites. So get out of here and live a better life. Why are you giving up so easily?”
At that, Zohra almost wants to laugh, not for the first time in the past few days. He’s already been thinking that Ryner’s an idiot—a soft-hearted fool who can’t kill when he should—but this drives the nail into the coffin. It’s bad enough that Ryner apparently has such a problem with killing, but this is…
“Live a better life? Are you kidding me? Even if I do run, the only thing that’ll change is who my employer is,” Zohra tells Ryner, who doesn’t seem especially impressed with his answer.
“Then why continue being an assassin? If you get out of Roland and manage to shake off all pursuers—if you run far enough, you can live a normal life. You can live without having to kill anyone anymore.”
—And there it is, the option that Zohra couldn’t even bring himself to imagine.
A normal life, where he no longer has to fight or kill anyone.
A peaceful, civilian life.
The kind of life he’s never had, born as a slave and growing up as an assassin.
To someone else, it really would sound nice. But to Zohra—
“No.”
He shakes his head.
“I kinda thought about it, you know…? But I’m a Hidden Elite, right? You know what they say about us. We’re people with mental problems who can’t even function in normal society. Do you really think I can live a ‘normal life?’ ”
“You never know unless you try,” Ryner replies.
“Yeah? What do ‘normal’ people even do with their lives?” As someone who’s spent most of his life either training or carrying out missions, he can barely picture it. It’s why he couldn’t seriously consider the option, as it painted a picture that he couldn’t envision.
“Let’s see…” Ryner begins, appearing deep in thought. “Well, kids our age probably go to school or something. And… hang out with friends, I guess? Sneak into bars and indulge in underage drinking? Take afternoon naps?”
“Sounds pretty boring, if you ask me. Especially that last one.”
Still, Zohra tries to imagine it. Leaning back, his arms supporting his weight, he tries to see himself as a civilian, doing the mundane, silly things Ryner spoke of. He closes his eyes, and does his best to bring forth the image.
As expected, though, there’s only blackness, before he opens his eyes again.
“Like I thought, that kind of life just isn’t for me.”
But even though he couldn’t succeed in picturing it, he can’t say it was worthless. Trying to imagine his future—a future where he was no longer an assassin of Roland—has invoked feelings that Zohra’s forgotten these past few days, resigned to his death.
Though he doesn’t think that he’d ever be able to adapt to a peaceful life (and he knows that peace, no matter how pretty it sounds, is nothing but another illusion), he knows one thing. He doesn’t know where his future lies, if at all, but he knows this:
I want to live.
It’s all ever he’s wished for.
The simple ability to live. A right that Roland would never give him; a luxury that’s now taken away from him, a tool that’s served its purpose.
(Those who are no longer needed are simply disposed of and disappear. He’s always known this.)
He’s not sure of what he’s asking for beyond that, when he wishes for neither a normal life nor one as a mindless assassin, but the desire to survive is unmistakable.
I want to live.
And he’s terrified, because he doesn’t know if he can.
He’s a child all over again, watching his parents die. He’s a child, watching his friends die. He’s a child who learned what it means to die at far too early an age and how fleeting life is. He’s a child who’s been fighting his entire life to delay his own death, even if only for a moment.
And now that death might’ve finally caught up with him (because there’s a death sentence on his head, a noose around his neck), he knows it more than ever.
I want to live.
It’s just a matter of how.
“If you want to die,” Ryner tells him, “then you can walk out that door and wait for this country to kill you.
“But if you want to live… Well, you may be annoying, but I’ll lend a hand.”
Zohra’s mouth twitches upward into a smile. “The last time you tried to help someone escape from the country, the army killed her. You sure you want my death on your conscience?”
Ryner’s quiet for a few moments, before speaking. “You’re stronger than Biore was. And I’m stronger too. Things won’t go the same way they did before.”
They both know that they can’t be sure of that, but either way, it doesn’t especially matter to Zohra, who shrugs.
“Well, you may be annoying, but I’m gonna need all the help I can get if I wanna escape from here, so I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“Then that’s your answer?”
This time, Zohra doesn’t even need to think about it, nodding. “Yeah. That’s my answer.”
His heart is beating faster to the point where he thinks he might be ill, despite his attempts to calm it down. His hands are sweaty. He’s afraid, he knows.
At the same time, he’s excited.
He looks outside the window, where little can be seen in the blackness. He doesn’t sense anyone out there—if anyone’s going to be stopping him and Ryner, they’ll be further out. For now, all that surrounds him is the darkness of the night.
And past that—perhaps freedom.
He’ll reach it or die trying.
Turning to Ryner, he smiles. It’s the sort of innocent smile that belongs on children and isn't at all suited for the occasion, but Zohra has never been one to care about that kind of thing.
“Who knows? Between the Greatest Magician in Roland and the Greatest Assassin in Roland, they won’t stand a chance.”
All things considered, the escape goes well.
Zohra has a gaping stab wound in his back that hurts like hell whenever he moves, but he ignores it with enough ease that would likely make a normal person wonder if maybe he was just immune to pain. Ryner starts complaining about how troublesome this is and that he just wants to sleep once it becomes clear that they’re not in mortal peril, resulting in Zohra wishing he could punch his face in, but he holds back.
They’re in Estabul now—Zohra elected to head there rather than Nelpha or Runa for the sake of dissuading any pursuers from following them into a country they’d been at war with recently. Of course, security had been tight, but for Zohra and Ryner, it was nothing they couldn’t ultimately deal with.
Zohra begins taking care of his wounds as Ryner sets up a makeshift camp. They brought few supplies with them, particularly as Ryner intends to return to Roland in any case (Zohra had called him an idiot for it, which Ryner hadn’t denied), and they hadn’t exactly had the time.
“This is probably as far as I’ll go,” Ryner says, staring into the small fire he’s built. “You’ll be fine on your own from here, right?”
“Yeah,” Zohra says, nodding as he finishes with his injuries. “Even if we’re not at war with Estabul right now, that doesn’t exactly make the two countries best buddies.”
Ryner smiles dryly. “You sure it’s still a ‘we’? You’re a traitor to Roland now, y’know?”
Zohra laughs, looking up at the moonless sky. It’s an interesting thought, that he’s a traitor now. It’s not a status he would’ve expected years ago. Back then, he thought that he’d keep doing what he was doing forever: following orders, doing his best to stay strong and defend his title, and survive like that.
“Guess so.”
He then looks down at his hands, or rather, the gloves covering them. The uniform of the Hidden Elites—he remembers how proud he’d been at that time, when he was accepted into them. It all seems so far away now, but more than that, the reminder of his own foolishness leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
He lets out a soft sigh, before staring into the fire like Ryner, who speaks.
“So what are you gonna do now?” He asks. “You’re not joining the Estabul army, right? You said that you didn’t want to just be an assassin for someone else again…”
Zohra makes a non-committal hum. “Yeah… Well, I don’t plan on staying in Estabul. I guess I’ll go to the central continent and… I dunno, travel the world until I get sick of that? Maybe I’ll regret all this one day, but for now, I’ll just have to think of something.”
For a while, Ryner doesn’t say anything. Zohra isn’t sure whether he even heard what he said or if he’s simply thinking it over now, but he then gets his answer when Ryner finally responds.
“You know…” He begins. “I had two friends before. They fled Roland ten years ago.”
“Yeah?” Zohra says, not entirely sure where he’s going with this or if he should care.
“Well, they were really troublesome people, like you,” Ryner says, shrugging. “They were pretty strong too, so they’re probably still alive out there. They gave up on sending me letters, though, since I never replied… Anyway, putting that aside, what I’m trying to say is that if you don’t have anywhere to go, then maybe seek them out? Figure out whatever it is they’re doing. Knowing her, she wouldn’t be content with a peaceful life either…”
That catches Zohra’s interest. He blinks.
“Well, it’s worth a shot. What are their names?”
“Pia Varliere and Peria Peruula,” Ryner replies. “Pia’s a Congenital Magic Abnormality bearer, so she should be pretty easy to recognize if you see her. Peria’s a survivor of the All Enchantment experiment.”
Zohra raises his eyebrows at that, as those aren’t exactly the most ordinary of attributes. Still, he nods.
“Pia Varliere and Peria Peruula. Got it.”
And maybe, if they’ve been in a similar situation, they can give him the answer—what he’s supposed to do with his life (now that he doesn’t have to kill anymore, even though he can’t imagine that he’ll live the peaceful life that Ryner undoubtedly wants for himself). Maybe, just maybe, they can help him find what he’s seeking now: a reason to live.
(What Roland took away from him—)
It occurs to him that Ryner is, for all intents and purposes, telling him to go and make friends with those two, which is yet another strange thought to Zohra. He gave up on making friends year ago, neither actively denying it nor wishing for it. The price of being strong, he realized, was that either you make friends with people even stronger than you (something he could never seem to do) or resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life. He’s never really been lonely, he thinks, but it might not be so bad, finding people like him. If they were friends with Ryner, at least, as the soft-hearted idiot the boy is, then they can’t be like the Hidden Elites.
Maybe through them, he can finally see what the big deal is. He’ll learn about all the things he never quite got while growing up and didn’t bother to learn—like compassion, which had always seemed so useless up until now. Zohra doesn’t know if he necessarily wants to know, but he no longer feels the need to outright reject such sentiments.
It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling, he thinks.
“Well, I’m going to sleep,” Ryner announces, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You mind standing guard for the night? No? Okay, thanks. Good night.”
Using a rock for a pillow, he lies down on the ground, turning away from Zohra as he presumably tries to shift into a comfortable position. Zohra lets out a snort at that, but doesn’t argue.
Stretching his arms (and wincing slightly at the pressure it puts on his back), Zohra looks up at the sky again. It’s almost entirely black, but if he squints, he can see a few stars shining down on them. Far from enough to provide any light, the area lit only by the campfire, but it’s still better than darkness.
“Pia and Peria, huh…?” He mutters. Like Ryner, he tries to shift into a comfortable position, albeit while sitting rather than lying down, as he prepares to keep watch.
Well, here’s hoping I’ll get along with them.
He doesn’t know what the future holds, and it’s both terrifying and exhilarating all at once. It strikes him that he’s not at the top anymore, and from here, he’ll have to work his way from the bottom once again, but he’s not as annoyed at the thought as he thought he’d be. If nothing else, the impact wasn't as bad as expected, and climbing up from there will be a good challenge.
He’s three years old again, just learning the ways of the world. Back then, though, he was grasping how cruel the world could be.
Now, perhaps, it might be the opposite.
Like this, he’s become a Taboo Breaker. A fugitive. He’ll be chased down and hunted for the rest of his life by a country that he once served. He has nowhere to go (nowhere but the two names that Ryner’s given him), with no family or friends to rely on.
Still, though he’s never considered himself to be dead inside the way Ryner had described, for as callous as it may be, he was happy, in his own way—
Taking out the assassination order for Ryner that he’s been keeping in his pocket, he holds it to the wind before letting it go. It flies away, briefly illuminated by the campfire, before it disappears into the darkness.
—Tonight feels like the first night of his life. And when the sun rises, he thinks, that’ll be the first morning he’s alive again.
He smiles.
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HORRIBLE
HORRIBLEEEEEEeeeeeeee