Emeral In Shadow

The Assassin of the Harvest.[#11]

Before the party, as Gustaaf boarded the carriage.

He was watching.

Running between the growing shadows of sunset, and melding into the last bright lights of the day, The Muted Blade studied Gustaaf.
He had a grudge against his pupil, he would pay for biting the hand that fed him for the most of his fifteen years of life in this kingdom.

A grudge that death would not end.

At first he thought that Evelien was the key into Gustaaf's heart, that by using her he could mame him suffer.

But as he watched them, as Gustaaf ignored her obvious advances and her shows of affection, he knew she was only a colleague to him. A fellow worker of the dark art.

The assassin fit right in as a party guest.
No one knew of the Muted Blade, he made sure of that through flawless kills with no living witnesses.
He was just one mask among many.

Following Gustaaf upstairs showed nothing, besides confirming that he was working with Marcellus, something the Muted Blade already had mostly figured out.

But then he found her.
Gustaaf had led him to the key to his heart;

For nothing else could make him smile like that, like just being near the girl soothed and covered each physical and mental scar he had accumulated over his reckless and, the Muted Blade considered, inexperienced and rubbish career.

He knew of the job Gustaaf had that night, and it was only sheer luck, or perhaps a sheer lack of skill and tact, that he didn't have to interfere for it to fail.

He stood in the shadow of the palace, out by the eastern orchards where a raised platform and set of five gallows stood tall, watching as the King himself dragged Evelien, who was sobbing weakly with wide, fearful eyes, to the gallows.

His face was solidified in a morbid fury. Even with their disagreements, he loved the Queen dearly. Blood for blood, the King thought.
His fury was so full, so set in, that he did not even try to interpret the innocent horror on Evelien's face, like a baby dear who'd just had an arrow buried into her side, cornered by a hunter.

Evelien's corpse sways under the stars.

Her ashy brown hair flowed down past her neck nearly covering up the rope.

Her purple dress was so, so beautiful in the night, as it reflected the moonlight.

Her big brown eyes were stuck in that same wide-eyed fear. Her hands were limp by her side, fingers unfurled as if reaching for something.

Her body would be gone in the morning and burned, or maybe buried, with no honor.
Like a pebble sunk to the bottom of a pond.

But the shockwave of the Queen's death would ripple into a tsunami.
The news would spread quickly, but the King would try his best to hush and gag it for as long as possible.

The Muted Blade reflected that if he had an ounce of empathy left, he'd feel bad for the girl. But he did not.
Gustaaf would surely be saddened by her death once the news reached him from his jail cell he now laid unconscious in.

He'd think it was his fault, and it was. Entirely.

In his opinion, he could have, should have, cut ties with her. She was an extra unnecessary factor to his art, like some ugly shade of brown you'd never plan on using in a painting but insisted on placing it on your pallete.

And today he tried to use it, and it ruined the picture.

But her death wouldn't be enough for him to break, utterly lose himself.
For that...