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ARAMINTA had been raised in violence. She had been moulded into a living weapon, raised with knives as fingers and livewires in her legs, with a will of steel and honour in what she did. The mass of scar tissue on her shoulder was a symbol of that– it branded her as someone strong enough to be accepted by Octavian. It was an honour.
She had bore it since she was sixteen, the only graduation she had ever passed, being formally allowed on missions alongside seven other hand picked assassins. She bore the mark of Octavian, and so came the freedom with that, the respect amongst the worst kind of people in the darkest corners of the galaxy.
Formally, she had served Octavian for three years, representing him and completing his dirty work, working alongside the seven assassins chosen to be her squad, her home. She had had a home, amongst the blood and violence and the unforgivable acts, amongst the shared loss of innocence and pain.
She had had a home. Maybe not a good one, maybe not a normal one, but she had belonged somewhere. She had clawed her way to the top, and earned herself a home, as was taught.
Vestor Octavian was an elusive man with an iron fist, and a way with a blade that none of his assassins could match. He was inhumanly calm, cold as fire, and the maker of the finest killers in the galaxy. He was rightfully feared, but faceless, slipping through the fingers of any who attempted to pursue him, killing without mercy or emotion.
And Araminta had been his favourite.
"They are nothing compared to you," he had told her.
She had felt like she wore a crown. She felt like she had won something, that all the pain had been worth it because she was the best. He told her that and she believed it, and everyone else knew it too. She had become the assassin king's first choice.
Until she knew too much.
The scream of a child, tearing its way from her throat, the burning of tears behind young and innocent eyes. She remembered clearly the day her parents had been taken from her, the day her entire family had. She remembered the smell of iron, the warmth in the barn, the way her stomach had dropped.
It was something she could never forget, an image burned to the back of her eyelids and into the crevices of her chest. Over a decade later, through all the missions and the assassinations and the atrocities committed in the name of survival, Araminta was yet to find something as damaging as that fateful day. Maybe that made her selfish, only able to grieve her own pain and experiences, but she didn't care.
She remembered Octavian, there in her time of need, filling a void and offering the utmost kindness to her and Leia. She remembered believing him, thinking he would help them, give them a home, as she gripped her twin's arm and followed her lead. Leia had been the rebellious one, the brave one.
