It was inevitable that he'd end up in a cell.
The Great Finnick North, the infamous sellsword, bought from the fighting pits of Ober to serve as bodyguard to the head of the prestigious Jusantó family, one of the ruling houses of Constane. Small wonder the rebles wanted to kill him.
Of course he'd slain quite a few of them before his untimely incarceration. They had the audacity swarm the Jusantó family manse in the dead of night, at the goddamned Witching Hour no less. How they even got past the inner gates was lost to him. So he woke to the sounds of dying men and clashing steel. Not the worst way he'd ever started a day but still quite bothersome. He was outnumbered... obviously, that's the only reason he wasn't a free man currently... and so they put him in chains and dragged him to the dungeons beneath.
And that's where he remained for four fucking days.
There were others too, in separate cells, yelling obscenities at their captors. He didn't bother. He'd once been taught that men accept their fate with at least a modicum of dignity. So he remained silent, counting down the days till he was tried and executed for doing his bloody job.
It eventually grew quiet. As the others gave in to despair one by one, the only sounds that could be heard were the occasional whimpers of the more emotional inmates.
Once the heavy wooden door had closed behind him he'd been plunged into complete and total darkness. He couldn't even see his own hand in front of him, which was profoundly unnerving. To quell the feeling, he'd taken to pacing and trailing his hands across the walls of his cell so as to at least have a mental image of his place of confinement.
The cell was maybe six by six feet made of course brickwork. No wood save for the thick door that served as the only opening. A bundle of straw in one corner, possibly as a bed, and and old bucket for a chamber pot. At least he wouldn't have to shit on the floor.
By day three he was sure they were going to starve him to death when a guard opened his cell and tossed in an old wineskin...filled with water, disappointingly.
On the night of day four he was thinking of what he would say if he was offered any last words when he heard a soft CLICK and the door swung inward.
Standing at the doorway was a petite figure in a black cloak that stopped just at their feet, a heavy hood hiding their face beneath it's shadow.
Blinking his eyes back into focus from the sudden brightness of the outer torches, he asked, "Is it time for me to die already? "
"Even in this situation you still have something clever to say?" The figure replied, seemingly amused. The voice was definitely female but... strange. Smooth as velvet yet unaccented, as if it didn't belong anywhere.
Finnick frowned. "Do I know you?"
"Of course you do. Everyone knows me."
"Does everyone know about you and the Princess Lyanna?"
Fin blinked. NO ONE knew. He was sure of it. And she wouldn't have told anyone. "How did you-"
"I know a lot of things, Finnick North. I know that you won't die here today." She stepped away from the doorway. "Now, are you going to ask questions or are you going to escape?"
"I can do both thank you very much." He said scrambling up from where he sat. To his left and right, the hall stretched out into darkness punctuated occasionally by flickering torches mounted on brackets in the walls and doors leading to separate cells. Not bothering to see if he'd follow, the cloaked woman started right, for what he assumed would be the exit, at a leisurely walk.
"You don't seem to be in a hurry." Fin said.
"Well.. there are guards... "
"If simpletons with swords bothered me then I wouldn't be very good at my job."
"And what job would that be?"
She cast a glance at him, allowing a glimpse under her hood. She had dark hair shorn close to her jawline ... and brown eyes. "You talk a lot."
"I thought you knew that." That earned him a smirk.
They were ascending the steps leading to the upper level when they passed a guard sprawled on the steps, his throat a gory mess, his lifeblood coating the front of his chain mail armor. It was the same with the next guard they passed. And the next. And the next. They all had expressions of shock on their faces. It was as if they didn't even see her coming.
He decided to stop patronizing her.
Once they got to the inner keep he dared to ask another question. "Why did you just free me? What about the others?"
"The others? They're not you."
"And what's so special about me?"
"More than you know Finnick North."
Other rebels were sprawled along the hall here as well. None of their weapons drawn. All with ruined throats. One was lying flat on his belly, a jagged and bloody hole on the back of his neck. Apart from remnants of the carnage of the day before; unweathered patches on the wall there priceless tapestries once stood, no doubt looted, torn cushions, overturned couches and bloodstained carpets... Nothing seemed out of place. That got him thinking... Black cloaks... Precise killing...people who know things... It was all something he'd heard before... Something dismissed as non existent...
They passed through the Great Hall out into the open air, countless stars twinkling in a moonless sky, the smell of the nearby sea mingling with the smell of horses and shit from the city below the hill they were on. The rebels must have imposed a curfew. He'd never seen Pirateswarf look so abandoned.
The woman started downhill. "You can pick a horse from the stables, I'm sure you know your way around. It would be best if you left the country. Your charge is dead so you have nothing here. My advice, find a ship and head West. Noble houses over there are always fighting one another so I'm sure you'd find work. Try not to get caught would you?"
"Hold on now. You never answered my question. Why did you rescue me?"
She turned to look at him, the gentle breeze playing with the hem of her cloak. "Because you are a very important person Finnick. You have a role to play in the days to come." She raised her hands to her head, adjusting her hood. "This won't be the last we meet either," she said before walking away.
He would have asked her her name, how she one-way all she did, but he didn't bother. He already confirmed his suspicion...when she fixed her hood he caught a glimpse of her hands. Slim, feminine and pale. Except her right hand. That was their defining trait of course. Some say that they are perfect assassins, others that they don't exist... A sect that hides the world's secrets and shapes the very course of history. What many are sure of though is the mark that all their members bear. The same mark that she had.
(Hello there again. Just another scene I randomly thought of. I might use it in my book A Tale Of Monsters and Men when I finally get the plot sorted out. As always, feel free to give me feedback so I can improve my writing. Thanks :))
