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Éamonn was not in the mood to answer any more of her delicate questions, they scraped too much on things that should never be touched if you want to remain sane. He couldn’t start questioning his life now, no, and why should he? They all made him out to be the culprit, the murderer, but wasn’t he nothing more than a tool in their hands? THEY were the ones with murderous intentions, they wanted the people he killed gone. Could you blame a sword for not refusing to strike the deadly blow? Could you blame the arrow for not missing its target? No, you couldn’t, simple as that! It was ridiculous to even debate the subject, and apparently Kazira was either more naïve than he first had thought or she was simply too stubborn to let the subject go now she had warmed up to it.
Her next statement though made him raise his eyebrows in an almost incredulous expression. She – killing an assassin! What a bad one would that have been? Real assassins were not killed by girls, however ferocious their nature! He could only just refrain from from chuckling, as that would have made her angry, he was sure of it. And right now he wasn’t in the mood for any other needless argument about women and their capabilities. Tht was the last he needed, really.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘scared’ that they don’t ask these questions”, he stated, hoping to end this unsettling thread of conversation with it. “I’d call it reasonable. Some things are just not open to discussion!”

Kazira calmed him and Éamonn felt oddly reassured by her hand on his heart. Normally he hated being touched, especially when he was all in a rage, he normally lashed out to the people who were dumb enough to try. But not so with her. It felt even nice, in a way…
His composure though was wiped away by the words she spoke. Gaelic! His mother tongue! He hadn’t thought it possible, but hearing it after such a long time shook him to the bone. This language held too many memories, none of them very pleasant… and still… it made him feel.. longing?
"Cén chaoi fhios agat as Gaeilge? How do you know Gaelic?” He exclaimed, in a hushed tone but every word revealing his shock and eagerness to know. “Cé as tú? Freagra mé! Where are you from, answer me!” He took Kazira’s hand that rested on his heart and almost squeezed it too tight, his eyes holding hers in a hard lock, his look feverish.

Éamonn was reassured when Kazira showed almost no sign of panic. He would have hated to slap her or anything to get her to reason, and he also could not deal with a millstone around his neck – which gladly enough she wasn’t! She even had enough consideration to remove her boots and hide them where they, with luck, would not be detected anytime soon. It was better at least than giving their presence away with thumping heels on the wooden floor.
Then again, why was she walking over to the window, the foolish woman?! “Come away there!” he hissed, but couldn’t surpress a loutish grin as she commented on the man’s style. Brash and witty in the face of danger – he liked that! “Your wish shall be my command, but please come now!” he urged her. “The backdoor leads to a courtyard with a wall that faces the street, easy to climb!” He paused, then grinned. “I’ll help you!”

When she muttered the words and he saw her eyes flash, he stood there for a second, dazed. So she had magic, too? She was from Ireland, she had magic and she had come across assassins before? How more similar could two people get?! It was too good to be true… almost scary, as if he was dreaming!
But that couldn’t get in the way of his professionality now, he had a skin to save… two skins to be precise! So he darted after her, opening the backdoor as quietly as he could, rolling his eyes back at her, when she turned his own statement on him. What a cheeky one she was… and yet everything in him yearned to hold her close again…
Then, just as he was about to leave, his eyes fell on the two throwing stars still stuck in the wall were Kazira’s head had been. Cursing underneath his breath, he extended his hand, the time was too short to run back. “Úpflíehaþ!” The stars flew towards him, and he held his breath. Would they make it in his hand in time?

She didn’t seem to understand, questioning even the most basic of his actions. Why would he climb walls, why would he sneak around a home? Because that was what an assassin did for crying out loud! Was she really out to ask why he had become what he was now, his motives of being a hired killer? Since when had that become any of her concern? He had taken up the role of assassin because there simply seemed nothing else for him to do. Éamonn could be swift, he could be strong, and above all, a human life didn’t mean as much to him than it meant to others – what other profession was there more suited to this character than that of an assasin? And why did he suddenly feel the need he had to prove this to this strange girl, justify his actions even? It was more than confusing, it was infuriating!

“It might have slipped your awareness, but this is simply what an assassin does. He climbs walls, he sneaks around rooms and he kills people. That is the end of it! Sometimes a dead body can be of great value to someone else, you know?”
He perhaps sounded more defensive than he had intended to. This girl really could get under his skin with all her nosy questions. Éamonn was not sure what he should make of that particular fact. She surely would not change him into a better man or some similar rubbish, the sheer thought was ridiculous. He would not begin to question himself just because she had a mind of her own, apparently unwilling to accept the most simple facts of life. People lived, people died and sometimes there were other people lending a hand in their death to assure another person’s better life.

To say he was surprised at her outburst would be an understatement, Éamonn was shocked. She said it with fervor, alright, but almost in a detached manner, as if she was not talking about herself, and that was what shocked him most. To think… her family wiped out, that was a tragedy that occurred to many, but herself… tortured? It wasn’t far-fetched, seeing as deeply as she had enraged him already, he could imagine some less lenient soul than himself jumping at the opportunity to teach her a lesson that way. Still, the sheer thought was so revolting to him he hardly could believe it, and he was by no means ready to respond to this in any way.
As he also couldn’t look her straight into the face after what she just had spilled, his eyes settled on an oddity he couldn’t quite figure out. Her fingertips… were they dripping? With what?! There was no reasonable explanation he could think of!
“I am listening…” he objected absentmindly, as his eyes still were glued on the little wet spot now forming on the floor.

Her next statement only added to his puzzlement, and his free hand actually gripped her shoulder impulsively, to support the gravity of his words.
“Kazira, what ARE you talking about?! You sound like a walking corpse and yet I find you the fullest of life I ever came across! What made you like this?”
This only supported his determination of not killing her. If only to prove her wrong. He had not been lying when he said that to him she was the epitome of life. And wasn’t that the only thing by which a deathly creature like himself could be defeated: sheer, utter life? Yes, there was that word, if not spoken out then at least in his mind: defeat. He had to admit it now. Kazira had gotten the better of him!

Kissing her was like nothing he would have expected. He had kissed many a girl in his life as a daring travelor – he assumed the aura of mystery around him he never could quite leave even when not posing as The Shadow drew them in – and so this should not be any differen for him. And yet it was.
All the more surprised Éamonn was when Kazira did not object to his daring approach, but in fact kissed him back. It filled him with an odd mixture of feelings: relief, surprise, passion, daring; he hardly could restrain himself, and for one rare moment in his life he didn’t even want to. He deepened the kiss, moving his hand slowly behind her head to steady it, so she won’t get hurt by the hard stone wall she was still pressed to. It was a dangerous game they were both playing, very dangerous indeed, but Éamonn had no mind of ending it just now.

So she called him proud? Well, that didn’t faze him. He didn’t mind being proud, you could almost say he was proud to be proud. It was who he was and hadn’t he got any reason to be? It took skill to become as renowned as he was, even if it might not be the most respectable reputation. It had not kept him awake at night until yet, so why should he feel bad about it? Conscience was something for people who could afford it. Killing was a craft like hunting was, and no one ever scolded a huntsman for killing his game.
“You call it proud, I call it living up to a reputation”, Éamonn said, cocking his head to the side, then leaning closer to her, whispering as if he was about to give away a dark secret – which it might as well be. “They call me ‘The Shadow’ you know. That might ring a bell.”
Well, he couldn’t be sure, but with her seemingly bearing such confidence around his like, she might have already stumbled over some dark folk and lived to tell. And around these people his name surely DID bear a reputation!

Whatever he had expected to happen, surely not… this. He was glad the mask obscured his face for at the sudden moving on her part and the rather… unusual outcome he blushed bright like a schoolboy. What was this minx doing to him? Surely that had been planned! Was she trying to soften him up, or catch him off guard, so he would suddenly find out he had a conscience and let her go? Well, she could wait long for that!
And still… of course he had hinted at something like that, but he had imagined her to breathe fire and throwing another tantrum like she had done before, not that she would actually… kiss him… albeit on the cheek, but still… who would kiss the man that was about to kill you? And why did it make him feel so… queasy?
He was in loss of words, he could only look at those icy blue eyes, wondering what on earth had come over her.

When she blurted all this out and shoved him back Éamonn was almost willing to let her go. That would surely spare him the choice. It would hurt to be overpowered by a mere girl, however spiteful she could be, and it might be the most foolish thing he had done in all his life as it could surely but an end to it soon enough if she talked, but then again… wouldn’t it just be for the best? Even when she bent down for the knife, he didn’t understand her purpose, reckoned she wanted to fight – that was more like the girl he had come to know anyway – and it took a while to dawn on him fully what she was doing. Only when he felt the familiarity of a knife in his hand he understood, and it filled him with dread and calmness alike – a very unsettling feeling. She was right, it was what he did. Killing was his job, and she was an obstacle in his way. The son of his victim might be able to keep the present residents of this household occupied, but how long until someone else on the street was alarmed by their heated arguments? He had no intention of leaving a bloody trail here.

“Seriously, do you have a death wish?” he asked, staring at her. He had never met anyone quite as courageous in the very face of death. She was a mystery to him – how sad it would soon come to an end.
“That’s only fair”, he obliged to her wish and while his right hand still held the knife to the side of her neck without his fingers trembling (imagine if!) his left slowly reached up and pulled the mask from his face, revealing his true self to her. What would she think of him? He half hoped to see some reaction in her bewitching eyes.
“And now that you know my face, I would wish for your name”, he added before he even knew what he was saying. What had come over him?! Asking the name was a no-go! It was the last piece of the puzzle that made her human, a being, not just a victim! Still, the words were out, he could not take them back. Gods help him!

Éamonn shook his head slightly as he looked down on her. She really had no sense of self-preservation, that girl. Who could be so bold and insolent in the face of possible death? Or was this whole spiteful demeanour just hiding her fear?
He was not one to take jabs and insults lightly, how many times had she called him idiot or something similar already? He had lost count and that in such a short amount of time!
“Well, ARE you satisfied with the outcome? Being in that position I can hardly see it…” he scoffed. Yeah, the centuries old quote and answer, and he had just opened it up for her! Though, what was he thinking, he had no intention of prolonging this conversation, now had he? “Leaving?” he asked in an almost husky voice, his green eyes showing a wolfish gleaming the mask over his mouth did hide. “If you think I will let you go just like that, spreading your gossip about me all over the town, think again!”

She carried on with her insults, securing his thoughts that she was quite a wildcat to deal with, and when it only had amused him before, he had to admit now that it got to him in another way as well. He felt repulsed, irritated, and in a very confusing way also appealed. More than anything he yearned to teach her a lesson, making her realise that for all her talking he still was the superior one on this conversation. But sometimes, the calmer part of an argument, was also the superior one. “Are you finished?” he asked a little aloof as if talking to a tantrum throwing child. Well she was, throwing a tantrum that is, though she was far from being a child… very far indeed, and the ire gleaming in her eyes almost made her look pretty… Focus, Éamonn! “Now that you’re done we maybe can start to talk like adults. It might have slipped your mind who’s on top of the situation right now, just to assure you: I am. So no stocks anywhere near and you’d better stop digging your own grave.”

Her assault was a little unexpected, though he should have known. It made him stagger, but he quickly recovered his footing, anger flaming up in his own eyes as she – again! – was able to catch him off guard. He couldn’t allow his thoughts to wander around her! Not caring anymore if he would hurt her, he finally slammed her wrist down on his knee to make her fingers loose hold of the knife. “That’ll teach you!” he growled.
When she pushed against him, he used his considerably increased strength compared to hers to push her back, pressing her against the wall now. Her suggestion of showing his face, made him hiss with annoyance. “I really can’t decide if you’re only doing this to spite me or if you really are that stupid. Goodness, girl, do you realize I would have to kill you the instant you saw my face? Do you want that?!” He glowered down on her, not entirely sure why the thought of killing her revolted him so much.

To anyone not into the matter of assassination, the deal of killing would appear simple: Find your victim, choose a time and then – bam! Yes, like that it would seem to everyone. But Éamonn knew better. He knew that the work of an assassin was more of an art than just a job. It needed careful preparation to kill a man. He could not risk stepping into an entirely unknown place, most likely in pitch black darkness and not know for example where his victim slept, how the furniture was arranged lest he tripped or even if there only was one creaking floorboard that could give him away. To get to know all this, Éamonn had to look at the place prematurely, best a few days before he decided to act. He called it ‘site survey’- and tonight was another preparation night.

His victim was a wealthy merchant a little past prime age, the man wanting him dead his own son, actually not willing to wait for his father to die of natural cause. ‘Make it look like he died on his own accord’, the young man had said, and Éamonn had simply nodded. That was not his favourite style of killing someone, as he wanted his work at least a little appreciated. What’s the use in hiring an assassin if you didn’t want to shift the blame anyway? But his customers wishes were his command as long as they were reasonable, and so here he was, inspecting the merchant’s home, who he knew to be out on a feast with his wife. They would not return until late or even dawn, so there was much time to get everything in order.

He was just about to memorize a few tight spots between the door and the double sized bed where his victim would lay down at night, when he heard a voice calling out to him, casual as if she was talking about the weather. She… yes, a woman!
Not turning around yet Éamonn’s thoughts began to race. Who could this possibly be? One of the serving maids? But the son had agreed on occupying one for this evening and the other didn’t live near the house… nor did the merchant have a daughter… furthermore, he realised with a pang of surprise as he finally turned around, she was armed! There was no use, he had to find out who was disturbing him, and silence her!

With two lissom darts in her direction, inaudible and swift as a cat of prey, he was by her side, snatching the arm that didn’t hold a dagger to pull her inside and close the door in one motion. No need to attract any more attention.
“I probably should ask you the same”, he murmured in his best dark-and-scary-stranger tone. “Little nosy girl all wandering alone? That can’t end well!”

Swiftness and stealth… those were two of Éamonn’s many positive and borderline excellent character traits in his own eyes. Who could say from himself that he had just climbed a 65 feet wall up a few stories under the eyes of several guards without a rope? Only neophytes needed ropes or even rope ladders! In every stone wall there were so many slots and scrapes apt feet and hands could work their way up just fine. That it had taken him several years of training and many failures to be where he was now, Éamonn often liked to overlook. This was in the past, now was now, and fact was that he was about to complete another mission succesfully.

This noble, Sir Edmund Touper was his name if Éamonn remembered correctly, lying there snoring on his four poster bed apparently was a thorn in another’s side and needed to breathe his last breath tonight. Éamonn was not interested in details, he found the neverending turf wars between nobles or nobles and kings so very boring. As long as it provided him with enough jobs to live on however he would not complain. And he was too much of a professional to do this openly anyway, even when drunk. Badmouthing was bad for business, but no one could shun or kill him for his very own thoughts.
Now, this would be easy. He wouldn’t even need his special abilities. Though of course.. he could use them to make the matter slightly more interesting… a flying dagger, hovering in the air above his fleshy throat… a nice vision for sure, but the impact caused by a hand leading the dagger was still better than magic. Or at least Éamonn told himself so. The truth maybe was he liked to actually be the acting force, not only the one just directing. Using his object moving spells was good when casting the throwing stars at a man outside, but not when it came to throat cutting.

Without making a sound on the floor that was thick with carpets against the cold, Éamonn tread closer to the bed, now hovering over the sleeping noble, drawing his dagger. His face was still half hidden by a black velvet mask and the hood of of his black cloak, and he was even wearing gloves of the same color. Anything could happen and no one mustn’t see his true face!
Slowly, deliberately he raised the knife, when suddenly a nearly inaudible noise in his back let him spin on his heels, glaring intently into the semi-darkness.