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Quin

Ruan relaxed a little when Quin denied his identity as an assassin. Wouldn’t be much use anymore, even if I was. His glance strayed over to Locran, Klein, and Basil. They were all tall, fit, and capable. Niarok was, too, but he had vanished into some dark corner to check on Yila.

Quin looked over at Aydin, hardly visible among the shadows by the wall. Him, too. But his right hand jammed into his pocket and covered with his coat, as though he wanted to hide it. He hasn’t taken it out since he got here, has he? Absently, Quin wondered why. A brand, maybe, when they kicked him out of whatever league he was in? The hand he had killed with? Or… Quin shuddered at the thought. An injury? He looked down at his loose pantleg.

Ruan was saying something, but the Castle interrupted him with a  dry, mirthless chuckle.

Not again!

“that was extremely disappointing,” The metallic voice boomed. “You are all so kind; so trusting. So…forgiving! this next one should cure you of that.”

Everyone looked around uneasily.

How many ways are there to try and kill us? Quin looked around for Niarok. The Castle had threatened him. What if it was time for the threat to come true?

There was a loud sound, as if the Castle were shaking out a piece of paper. It continued as if it were reading from a list.

“Assassins, three–or should I say five? Klein and Basil surprised me by classing themselves with the other assassins. I would have classed them as weapons…biologically enhanced, and all. Anyway, moving on.

Assassins, three.

Weapons, two.

Murderers, two.”

The whole room was so silent you could hear people breathing. Quin’s heart beat faster. Now who? A deep, nameless dread started as a knot in his stomach.

“Yila–the Shadow.”

Quin breathed. Okay… He glanced anxiously at Leytera. Please, tell me it’s not her! She looked back at him with steady, worried eyes.

“Quin Lieland Miller!”

Ruan, Leytera, the whole castle seemed to reel. Quin braced his hands on the ground behind him, trying to steady himself, and fought against the memories.

Mama’s pale face, smeared with blood.

He couldn’t keep them back.

The wagon, smashed into matchsticks, the tall, greasy flames licking at the shed. 

He was breathing, hard. His left foot started to ache again.

Thunder, as the roof fell in; the screams of the horse; Mama’s low moan. Through it all the smell of smoke, and blood and sweat. The heat of the fire and the searing pain.

The doctor had said he would have flashbacks. “They’re normal; they should wear off in time.”

He panted, trying to suck air into his lungs, trying not to concentrate on the ghost pain, but all he could smell was the blood and sweat and smoke. Flashback was a nice name for the nightmares that stabbed his brain every day.

Mama’s pale face, smeared with blood.

The cycle was starting over. He clenched his fists, and tried not to yell.

The wagon, smashed into matchsticks, the tall, greasy flames licking at the shed…

Someone touched his shoulder. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

 

@everyone,

IDK who touched him. If nobody wants to claim that part, just skip it. The flashback will wear off after a while. 🙂