A whistle cuts through the breeze. The dull thwack announces the arrival of the arrow in its target. The shooter stands across a clearing of tall grass with golden stalks and red florets. His stance is held until the moment he hears his shot meet its mark, then he lowers the bow and sighs.
Not far behind, his ship sits brooding by the treeline, the hum of the engine barely detectable to all but the smallest creatures in the surrounding wildlands.
The snap of the bowstring and another arrow sticks in the padded target.
Between assignments, this is his place of solace. He has many places of contemplation and much of his time is spent alone, but that is in preparation of his work; cleaning his weapons, planning his routes, researching his targets, fixing his equipment, covering his tracks. And though much of his time during his assignments is spent across colonised rural landscapes or in sprawling metropolises, it's rare that he interacts with anyone beyond finding some use for them in his mission. Yet he is compelled to seek out a different kind of silence from the one that surrounds his work.
A third arrow joins its cousins.
He is an Executor of the King's Justice. The Left Hand of the Throne. To some, a grim necessity. To others, a key tool in their plans. An assassin. Peacekeeper. Murderer. Slave. Butcher. So many titles might tear apart another person, their conflicting gravities pulling away at the seams of their identity. But he knows what he is; a knife. And a knife does not care about who uses it or why. It only has to stay sharp and do its job, unless it wishes to be replaced.
The target shudders with the impact of the fourth arrow.
Still, he is not mindless. He knows his targets more intimately than the people closest to them and the ones who have ordered their deaths, which, on occasion, are the same people. He has seen the recent trend in targets. He knows that the power is shifting inside the Court. The question is why? Who threatens the balance? He cannot sabotage his own assignments. His reputation must be perfect, or he would no longer occupy this hallowed position. However, he is not without options. The schemers, in the fervour, forget the original purpose of his title.
He twirls the fifth arrow between his fingers.
The laws of his people are severe and many. Even the monarch's head is not protected by their station, should they infringe upon their ancient orders. Regicide is amongst these commandments and carries a heavy penalty and a very specific stipulation. For the origins of the Left Hand do not begin in mere assasination, but the protection of the nation itself. An assault on the throne would unshakle him from all laws in its defense.
One of the quick, ariel reptilians swoops down across the clearing, seeking the insects that hover above the grasses. It does not hear the fifth arrow sing through the air and pass through its tiny body. The creature drops soundlessly to the earth, unaware of its own death until it is beyond the capability to do so. The arrow drops into the woods somewhere.
Gabriel takes in the moment of silence that follows.
So when they finally unveil their hand and come for the throne, only the stars themselves can keep him from their throats.
Paddy Dobson
19th August 2020