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The dream felt so real that, for a moment, Aric believed it was.
He stood in the doorway of the tavern, the sunshine against his back as he surveyed the place, finding no one there. Stepping cautiously forward, he rested his hand on the handle of his pistol on his hip. The bottom of his cloak scraped the floor behind him as he drew deeper into the room, hearing faint voices but never seeing anyone.
Approaching the bar, he admired the ales lined up against the wall, and as he looked around, he found the far wall covered in flyers, hand-drawn pictures depicting those wanted and others who had gone missing. He drew closer to it, something on the wall catching his attention. He didn’t notice it at first, but as he scanned over the flyers, he saw those eyes again, the face of the man he was assigned to kill but couldn’t. Pulling the parchment off the wall, he gazed over the contents, the pleas of the royal court to find the lost Prince Royal there in writing.
The drawing captured his target’s features, but something was missing: the expression, the way the prince could look regal and sincere at the same time, which was flattened by the ink.
Aric knew he had been paid for the wrong assignment when he had aimed his crossbow around the corner and found to his dismay that it was the lost prince who had been the target. Aric had hesitated too long, the opportunity missed, and for once in his life he felt okay with losing his mark. Despite his occupation, killing someone that high up in rank was something he wasn’t interested in. It was too public of a death, one that would spark too much attention, which would cause his anonymous persona to come into question. No, he liked being a secret. Secrets were more comfortable than the truth.
But then he heard voices again, and for some reason these voices crawled under his skin. Blinking, he found he was still staring at the parchment, and as if it were the prince himself, he buried it underneath the others on the wall, hoping no one would find him. If he was never found, then maybe this nightmare would go away.
The scene blurred for a moment before throwing him into a waking state. Batting his eye, Aric stared at the ceiling for a moment, realizing he was still in the cottage, bandaged and weak. He also realized to his happy dismay, that he could see out of his other eye, the swelling reduced just enough for him to open it. He took in a breath, finding he could breathe through his nose again. He chuckled, enjoying the bliss of small accomplishments and wanting nothing more than to see the woman who helped him achieve them.
However, when his eyes rolled downward, he saw a figure in the doorway. His smile fell and his pupils began to dilate, taking in the familiar gray mask and dark garments.
“You sleep like the dead,” a muffled voice projected out as the figure sauntered closer.
Aric’s nostrils flared as he breathed in, knowing there was nothing he could do to defend himself. He would fight if he needed to, but he knew it would only disrupt the wounds and stitches, causing more damage. Biding his time, he could only glare at the mask that laughed at him despite its expressionless face.
“You know, for a man who likes to stay hidden in the backdrop,” the voice continued, “you do have the most remarkable eyes. I’m surprised you chose this profession, given how noticeable they are.”
Aric glared, hating that the man noticed both his eye colors now. While one was bright green, the other one was a light shade of gray. Luckily, they were never noticeable enough for anyone to point out, and most often were forgotten entirely, thanks to the hood Aric always wore. But the Mask wasn’t giving him a compliment; he was pointing out his flaws, telling him subtly that he knew what his weakness was, what made him tick.
“How did you find me?” Aric asked, a knot forming in his stomach as he changed the subject.
“A little bird told me you were picked up,” the Mask continued, stopping at the foot of the bed. “I was going to send men to come fetch you, but alas, these people had beat me to it.”
Aric swallowed hard, his gaze wandering to the doorway, wondering if Jocelyn or Henrik would walk in on them, or if they had already been captured. Despite the presence of only one masked invader, he assumed the place was being watched by multiple eyes.
“Don’t worry. We haven’t been disturbed.”
Aric’s eyes moved back to the Mask.
“Now, on to business,” the Mask pressed on, tapping his fingers on the bedpost, feigning excitement. He moved his other arm then, and Aric’s mouth went dry. In the man’s clutches, previously obscured by his cloak, was a crossbow—Aric’s crossbow. The masked figure brought it up, an arrow locked in the chamber.
Killed by my own weapon, Aric thought in resentment. How poetic.
A deep, throaty laugh rumbled from the figure, and as quickly as he brought the crossbow up, he rested it on the bed, pressed against Aric’s leg.
“Since you’re on the mend,” the Mask continued, “I’m here to remind you of your duty. Your subject remains in Mortem Hall, and the trial is expected to begin tomorrow, in which the execution date will be scheduled—”
“You don’t need me,” Aric seethed. “There are others you can hire, others that are better!”
“We both know that’s not true,” the voice smirked. “You’re too good at what you do. Granted, I will have my men around in case things become too overwhelming for you, but this is your job. The less hands in the jar, the less likely for any blunders.”
Aric clenched his fist, intensifying the pain in his shoulder.
“Unless, of course, I need to have a chat with the tenants here—”
“Leave her out of this,” Aric growled, realizing too late what he had said. “Leave them both out of this.”
“Ah, there it is: leverage.” The Mask moved forward, and Aric glared into the eyes that stared at him unblinkingly.
Aric pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything.
“As long as the execution goes well and no one interferes, you’ll be in the clear. No hard feelings.” The masked figure turned to the doorway, but not before looking back one last time. “But fair warning, villain to villain: don’t make yourself too comfortable here. You may find yourself complicating things.”
Then he vanished, the door closing so quietly that Aric strained to hear it, making sure he was gone.
A hard breath escaped him, and he gasped as he tried to pick his head up off the pillow to see how many of them were outside. He listened for any noises, but all he heard were the branches of the trees dancing in the wind, their leaves rattling and hiding any hopes of hearing the beats of horses’ hooves.
Falling back against the pillow, Aric looked down at his crossbow. If only he had been quick enough to grab it, had been able to grab it at all...
He heard the distant sound of wagon wheels. Aric held his breath, listening past the rustling leaves and the wind howling in between the cracks of the window. At first, he thought he was imagining it, especially since he never heard the masked figure and his goons leave. But there it was, the familiar creaking, that obnoxious wheel giving away that Henrik was home.
Aric immediately looked at the weapon, panic rising as he lifted himself up. He realized how weak he was, cursing himself for being so placid and willing to rest when he should have focused on gaining his strength back and leaving. Everything seemed to burn as he shifted on the bed, leaning up and reaching out for the crossbow. But in doing so, a sharp pain spiked along his leg and side, hunching him over and causing the weapon to slip off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud. Unable to catch himself, Aric rolled after it, landing on the floor with a pained scream as he jarred his shoulder.
Seething against the floor, all he could hear was his heartbeats in his ears, the pain enveloping him and taking over his senses. As the seconds ticked by, he regained himself, batting his eyes open to find he was face-first on the floor, smelling the cool wood against his skin while his golden hair was flung around him, obstructing parts of his view. Rolling to his other side to avoid his wounds, he felt the crossbow underneath his legs as the voices grew louder outside.
His heart jumped, recognizing the voice that wasn’t Henrik’s.
Jocelyn.
Fumbling, Aric ground his teeth as he reached out and grabbed the cocking stirrup of the bow. With everything he had, he flung it underneath the bed just as the front door opened.
Falling back against the floor, Aric listened to the footsteps, hearing someone gasp before running to him. A hand touched his shoulder, and turning his head, he pushed his unruly hair away to look up into Jocelyn’s concerned face.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, only adding to how fragile he felt.
“I tried to get up...” he attempted to explain, using his pain to help him lie.
Jocelyn stared at him, and he saw her gaze shifting from one of his eyes to the other, seeing the colors were different. There was a sharp intake of breath and then she moved on, looking him over briefly and finding to her relief that there was no blood seeping through the bandages. “Come on, let’s get you off the floor,” she said.
Aric took one more glance at the crossbow before sitting up, Jocelyn helping to steady him.
“I think I need to start working on my stamina,” Aric commented, more exhausted than he wanted to admit.
“It seems we do,” she commented, double-checking his wrappings as he moved. Satisfied that everything was still in place, she sat back on her heels and looked right at him. This time her gaze was normal, though he caught her eyes shifting again. “Was there something important that caused you to get out of bed so fast?” she asked.
Aric mulled the words over, not wanting to lie more to her but certainly not wanting to tell the truth. “Does restlessness count?” he asked, smiling sheepishly.
Jocelyn stared at him, but gave in. “I guess for today it will,” she conceded, her own grin showing she wasn’t going to push the issue.
Aric forced himself up, huffing and grunting as he went. To his surprise, Jocelyn knew exactly when to intervene, and by the time he stood, bent over from the exertion, he found his arm draped over her shoulder as she helped him stay upright, her hand on his bare back, pressed so firmly yet gently that he felt his chest pull in wanting more.
“See, you’re not as bad off as you thought,” she said encouragingly, keeping her mind off the fact that the amount of rest he had did nothing to soften the tone in his muscles. He would make a fine knight, she thought; if he wasn’t one already.
A weak smile invaded his lips. “I have a strong crutch.”
“Well, then let’s see how you do getting to that chair over there.”
“Over there” was one of the two plush chairs sitting near the hearth. Though a bit disheartened by the distance, he couldn’t back away from the challenge. Clenching his jaw, he dragged himself forward, one painful footstep after the other while Jocelyn remained right by his side.
“Come on, old man, it’s not that far,” she teased, trying to make light of the situation.
“I’ll have you know,” Aric played along, feigning insult, “there is nothing wrong with taking one’s time.”
Jocelyn stifled a laugh, but the grin couldn’t be confined, which Aric caught to his delight before a shooting pain in his leg snuffed it out.
They both continued, and upon reaching the doorway the front door opened, Henrik entering with an armful of wood. “Oh,” he said, surprised to see the two.
“We’re changing the scenery,” Jocelyn explained, nodding to the chair she was aiming for. She huffed, the only hint that Aric was putting more weight on her than she had let on.
“Oh... good.” Henrik tried to smile, closing the door. “Let me get the chair—”
“Don’t you dare, Henrik,” Jocelyn warned. “He can make it.”
Henrik eyed them, but knowing better than to interfere, moved out of the way to put the wood up.
Aric continued slowly into the room, his pace lessening as the exhaustion fell against his shoulders. Feeling the extra weight, Jocelyn shifted his arm a bit to help her bear it.
“Sorry,” Aric whispered, the tension in her breath not escaping him.
“You’re fine,” Jocelyn assured him. “We’re almost there.”
Aric would have disagreed if he wasn’t trying so hard to stay upright. His leg and shoulder hurt, but his ribs felt so heavy with pain that he knew if Jocelyn wasn’t there he would have fallen on the floor a long time ago. But while engrossed in his own misery, he realized that they did, in fact, reach the chair. Henrik, who was preparing the hearth, had turned the chair to make it easier for them. While whispering encouragement, Jocelyn helped Aric sit down. His head fell back against the headrest automatically as he breathed hard, feeling spent.
“Easy.” Jocelyn smiled triumphantly at Henrik, who shook his head but grinned, refocusing on building a fire.
With Aric’s eyes closed, Jocelyn used the opportunity to fetch a pillow and blanket from the other room. Grabbing a stool, she placed it and the pillow in front of Aric, whose eyes opened, watching her.
Lifting his leg, she rested it on top of the pillow, Aric’s quiet grunt not going unnoticed. Placing the blanket over him to protect him from any drafts, Jocelyn bent down on one knee, looking up into his tired face. “You doing okay?” she asked.
Aric nodded, not wanting to admit how badly his head was swimming at that moment.
“It’ll pass,” Jocelyn pointed out, and in her face he found he hadn’t been able to hide much from her. “You just have to allow yourself to relax,” she continued. “You did quite a bit for today.”
Aric could only stare at her, his labored breaths the only sound between them. He had spent so much of his life staying hidden that having someone understand him felt uncomfortable. It reminded him of the Mask, the only person who remained one step ahead of him. But it wasn’t the sly man with the unoriginal name who was in front of him now; it was a woman, one who had been so kind that he didn’t know how he’d be able to pay her back for it.
Realizing he wasn’t going to respond, Jocelyn decided to leave him be. She glanced at Henrik, finding he had started the fire and that they needed to start preparing for dinner. Taking one last look at Aric to find that his silence remained, she gave him an encouraging smile before standing up and moving away, making small talk with Henrik as she lit a single candle and sat it in the windowsill above the desk, never forgetting her promise to the old man as the flame flickered against the glass in his memory.
What Jocelyn didn’t see, however, was how Aric reached out for her when she turned away to leave, drawing back his hand when he realized he missed his opportunity to keep her there. He didn’t know how to be sentimental, even with all the experience he had with women. Superficial he could work with; not genuine. Genuine was intimidating, so he recoiled into the chair, closing his eyes and pretending to rest as he listened to the two talk, their voices comforting in his darkness.
Then Aric remembered what the Mask had said: The trial is expected to begin tomorrow, in which the execution date will be scheduled...
He’d be back, Aric couldn’t deny that, but maybe he’d be more prepared next time.
Maybe he’d be able to put his skill to use and kill the real threat.
Maybe, when this was all over, staying in the country wouldn’t be so bad after all.
