Who: Damia (& NPC'd Castor) What: No matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close. Where: Her humble abode, flashback in the Docks district. When: Last night, but flashback is set 7 years ago. Rating: R for NPC death, language Status: Complete
"Why did you do it?"
Her voice is calm. Composed. There's a waver threatening to break through, to penetrate the ice of her words, and Castor probably catches it (no, he definitely catches it; he knows her too well), but doesn't say. He stops. He waits. And he doesn't turn before speaking.
"I did it for me." It's the truth; she can tell. "I did it because I'm an opportunist, Damia. I see something, I take it. You know how it is, right?"
She does. By Faram, she does. But the frostiness in her tone says otherwise. "You did do it for you. And by doing it for you, you've compromised the entire Guild." Footsteps bring her closer, but he refuses to move, back to her still. "You've compromised your safety, their safety--"
"And yours?" he supplies, finally facing her. Her breath catches, like it always does, and then that space between them is obliterated, his hands are cupping her face-- and she gives in to the touch, composure crumbling beneath her feet. "Mia." His words are soft. This man who used to call her names and cut her hair when she wasn't looking, he now speaks so gently. "Mia, I'm so sorry."
Her resolve is broken. She fists the front of his tunic, as if intending to rough him up, maybe smash her skull into his nose, but instead, their foreheads come together. "You're a fucking idiot. You were so fucking stupid." Now, that waver comes.
Under the cover of night, they're only shadows in a dark alley, silhouettes against the brick. He thumbs her cheekbone, tangling fingers in her hair. Her intention is clear; they both know what it is. But the question hovers in the air, until at last, he asks, already knowing:
"You're here to carry out the hit, aren't you?" The Did you offer hangs to the left, unsaid. A chilled wind that whistles past is his answer. He brushes his lips over hers, feathersoft. "You can do it, Mia. You have it in you. You won't miss, either. Get me right in the heart."
The first tears skid over his hand; he kisses her harder. "Mia, please."
"Fuck you," she whispers, unconvincing in her vehemence. Those hands fall away. "Turn around." Because she won't kiss him again. She won't give herself a reason not to do it, to fuck up everything she's worked for. No hesitation. No retreat. Get me right in the heart. He pauses, and she shoves him back. "I said, turn around."
So he turns.
She hesitates, anyway.
"Mia."
The dagger is unsheathed.
"I love you, kiddo."
And she plunges it deep, through leather and skin and flesh, twisting it into his heart. He makes little sound, knees already weakening, and the I love you, too she sobs out goes unheard when those knees hit the ground. Every fiber of her body screams out to touch him, to sink down with him and hold him one last time, but she can't. She won't.
As he slips away, never once uttering a word, she loses the strength to keep herself up and falls. Not three feet from his body, she shakily tugs her knees close, lips to the curve of one so as not to make too much noise. "I love you, too, Cas," she whispers to no one.
And when she's exhausted all the tears and the pool of blood is threatening to reach her boot, her dagger tucked away, she abandons the alleyway. Half a block down, she pats a man on the chest. "It's done. Get rid of the body."
She walks home with nothing left in her life to lose.
Seven years later, she finds herself perched on the edge of her bed, a bottle of hard liquor in hand half finished, and with a buzz coursing through her veins. Soon it's flying, smashing into the wall and spilling wetness across the floor.