The Story Behind the Scars (Taken)

The Story Behind the Scars

Shadow sheathed his dagger, breathing labored. As he pushed back his hair, wet with perspiration, he spat an insult at the three riders retreating down the trail. Kneeling beside his bay horse, whose sides shuddered as it rose and fell- he ran a hand over the gash in its chest. He growled something unsavory directed at the long-gone spear-wielder who'd targeted his innocent gelding, leaving him without a mount and damaging his four-legged friend irreparably. Sitting cross legged, he laid the horse's head in his lap and stroked his velvety nose until his eyes glazed over and the shuddering breaths ceased to come. Continuing this mission was not worth the risk or the reward. He hefted the heavy saddle onto his shoulders and gave one last, sad look at his trusted mount before trudging back the way he'd come. He had relatively little injury to his person, but the small cuts and lacerations he did have burned to no end as salty sweat ran into him.

As he walked back out of the woods, we wondered how to explain the situation to his employer. He had been hired to swiftly and quietly take out a certain man that had become a threat- why or how, Shadow wasn't privy to. This had been all well and good- one man would be no match for his honed skills. However, there had been three men- one armed with a spear, one with a bow, and then the target, a swordsman. Shadow should have turned back then and there, marked their place on the map and collected his heavier weapons, but he was pressed for time and was meant to keep the target from reaching town. It hadn't ended well, especially for his horse. He was confident none of the party recognized him or could properly describe him once they got to town- his hood had made sure of that. However, as per the policies of his employer, he wore the crest of the one who'd sent them. Surely they saw that.

He returned home exhausted. Returning the tack to the stable, Shadow put priority on cleaning his weapons before himself. His sword was tarnished and nicked and several arrow shafts had been broken. Shadow took about an hour to polish his sword and fletch his arrows and then decided to wash up before sharpening his blade and reporting to his authority. Unless the boss took pity on him and paid him for his efforts, there would be no hot meal tonight.

Once he was a bit cleaner, his wounds tended to and body freshened, he sat down in the front room with his whetstone and trusty sword. Zoning out, he spent a while thinning the edges to keep them sharp as he relived some past situation in his own mind. When he was finally satisfied that all dings had been smoothed out of the silver-flecked metal, he ran a thumb over his inner arm. He happened to choose his left arm, for no particular reason, and felt the two raised scars in the soft flesh above his elbow. Shadow unconsciously chose the top bump and dragged the freshly sharpened blade across, satisfied that the blade would suffice as warm blood traced down his arm. He hardly noticed the pain- that's not what he was after, for pain did not bring to him the sense of clarity or control that it did some. Rather, he was literally just testing the efficiency of his weapon on an accurate subject.

It was time to report the results of his mission. Shadow figured he ought to add damage compensation to his contracts, seeing as he'd lost an entire horse. After haphazardly wrapping his upper arm he sheathed his sword and was on his way. He decided against bringing his toxic arrows as they may be seen as more of an intentional threat than the swords that were customary to carry.

It wasn't long before he found himself at the entrance to Jax's place of work. As he cautiously slipped inside, he suppressed the feeling of dread that built up in him. Reporting a failure to an authority was never fun for anyone, reporting a failed kill to a reputable assassin? That never ended well. He padded silently down the hallway to his employer's office, knocking even though the door was open. Jax's white mask glowed in the low light as he glanced up at Shadow, permanent grin plastered onto the ceramic. Shadow had no idea why the people in this place wore masks rather than hoods, but that was a question for another time.

"So, James-"

"Don't call me James," Shadow interrupted immediately, "That name is only for my family."

Jax just stared at him in silence and Shadow was sufficiently cowed.

"I have a report from the mercenary mission sent two days ago," Shadow murmured, careful not to let his anxiousness show in his voice. Jax tilted his head in acknowledgement and Shadow continued. "The target escaped. He had more companions than was reported and thus I was unprepared for such opposition. After the loss of my steed I was unable to follow their retreat and had depleted my supply of arrows."

Jax stared at him for a moment, expression hidden in the depths of the ceramic mask. "So, what you seem to be telling me, is that you failed me?"

Shadow suppressed a shudder at the emotionless tone, far more fear-inducing than anger. "Yes, sir, but that was because-" He was cut short, eyes widening as a blade whistled by his face, creating a quiet thud as the tip collided with the bridge of his nose. Shadow stumbled backwards, hands flying to his face to contain the blood that immediately gushed.

"NO EXCUSES!" Jax roared, one foot on the table and one-handed blade poised to strike again should Shadow step out of line. "I hired you for a purpose and you have failed. If I find you in my sights again, you will not get off so easily," he growled coldly, spots of blood coloring the white of the dead mask. "Now take your sorry hide out of my establishment."

Shadow nodded shakily and backed out of the office, hands still plastered to his face. Not wishing to harm his dignity any more, he measured his stride, dropping one hand to the hilt of his sword and pacing out of the building. As he walked, anger bubbled up in his chest, clouding his reason and marring his judgment.

As he returned home and stood above the sink, gingerly working to fix his nose, he made a mental note. He knew the story of every single one of his scars. He kept tabs on those who left them. Sooner or later, each person would be punished for the pain they'd caused, mentally and physically. But he was patient and would bide his time before he destroyed every enemy in the cruelest way, even himself. Especially himself.