2. Episode The Peacock and the Crow
The dagger had been washed from his forehead before he had pulled down the hood and had sheltered his face from the snow. His cloak heavy by the snow crystals that had occupied it while he walked in the darkness that he often called his friend. His steps through the snow seemed to be slow, calculated and with determination, while nothing in him really gave thought to the direction he was heading. This last kill had broken something within him, something he needed to find back for if not his own demise would be certain. No Assassin would be able to do what they did if they couldn’t shut down their own emotions. The thought of leaving a woman he had held dear, pregnant by the corpse of her companion, weighted heavy on his shoulders while he ploughed through the snow.
His eyes just above the scarf he had drawn up his nose were keen on his surroundings as if it had become a second nature to be alert and on the ready. Those green eyes that once had sparkled of joy were lifeless and yet behind them there was this grief of an old man that feared he had lost his most loyal and beloved friend. His heart that once had beaten for his companion, his children and a slave felt empty and cold. The sound of his footsteps in the snow made him aware that one might hear him coming and with it his one hand gripped the hilt of his blade, so he could draw if some thief would dare to venture in his direction. His expression tensed at the thought of all the gold he made in his profession, most of it he wouldn’t ever spend. He figured it was something in his genes, from his father, to hold on to fortune while he doubted them both to be of greed.
He held pause by this large tree that had dropped all of his leafs, since season had changed. The branches the sharp outlines against the light of the moons. He pulled down the scarf and inhaled the cold night air and sighed deeply. How had he become the man he was now ? The man that indeed could say without blinking that nothing else mattered. The man that could kill in cold blood because a simple exchange of coin had been made. The answer had been clear when he was many years younger and now in this cold he wasn’t certain. He had justified himself that he held honour. That he prevented the wars that would rage between cities if it weren’t for that single kill. He, not only an Assassin but a mentor for others had often told the reason and purpose for their caste and professions and yet now felt himself in doubt.
A nightly cry seemed to call him from the distance and yet he was certain that no noise was made. He squinted his eyes to see if something on the horizon could tell him what might lay ahead. The cry had taken him from his negative thoughts and he couldn’t help to think of T. and their long hour discussions about the spirits and the wheel of life that kept turning. Crow was more of a rationalist. Calculated and organized in his thoughts and yet he had seen too much which he couldn’t explain to dismiss the spirits or influence of a hidden force. He waited to listen if there was truly something calling him and yet he knew deep down it was in vain. He pulled up the scarf again and headed in the direction in which he felt himself directed. An old killer that had nothing better to do than to find himself walking in a direction that held perhaps only a dream.
Along the line he felt the call stronger, making himself restless and weary. Was it the call of his own death ? Was it the call that the wheel would turn without him ? He remembered the story of the urt, T. once told him. The older urt telling the younger one to watch out for the wheels of a cart and with it finding his own death. A small grin formed behind the scarf at the recollection of the story, which no other could tell so beautiful as his comrade Taog. He chuckled softly to himself, visioning the faces of the slaves that had often been forced to listen to the two men sharing tales about life, death and the meaning of life. How amazing that even now such could bring comfort while something seemed out there, which didn’t make any sense. The weariness seemed to be replaced with the hunger of knowing, the desire to face the demon or to learn from his mistakes. The killer : The Crow seemed to have ruffled his feathers and was ready to face that which had called him from afar.
Something told him in the darkness that someone was there and yet he couldn’t see anyone there. The crying seemed to have stopped and he was sure that this spot, was one that he needed to find. He stood there, completely in that power of his. That strength that indeed would tell about the purpose, the meaning of what he was. It felt that with every step he had made his doubt about himself had become less. He was slightly annoyed that his own puzzle didn’t seem to be unravelled by the spot he was drawn too. Yet now he had found it he wouldn’t leave it without the answer he felt was there. In no state to just find a spot to get some sleep, he gathered some branches when suddenly his look met the sleeping girl near something he could use to start a fire. The girl unrecognizable in the dark was sound asleep. A glance about the place to see that she at least had sheltered herself against the cold wind.
While he silently build that pile he could light for a fire, he wondered if this woman was perhaps there for his answer. It wouldn’t be a first that a slave girl, without knowing, had given him answers to puzzles he didn’t seem been able to resolve. With the first light of the fire he watched the light dance over her small frame. Her pale skin seemed fragile while her hair was like this frame around it. The woman curled up as if it had tried to find shelter by nature itself became more visual and suddenly he knew who this woman was.
“The Peacock has lost her feathers.” He whispered while he placed the heavy cloak over her body and warmed himself by the fire until she would awake.
Crows Murder 
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