Wednesday, November 24, 2010


Assassin. That's what they call my kind. Assamites. Dealers of death. Warrior judge of the night.

Some assassin I turned out to be.

I had intended to make my mark that night, the night Claudius and his sire Augustus revealed their hand. I wanted to make them pay for what they did to us, to me. I wanted to feast on Claudius blood and watch as he turned into ash. But that was not meant to be.

Instead, I was thrown about like a weak little kitten. I was an insignificant wasp to them, my sting barely felt. Again, I felt useless and weak, unable to defend myself from their predations. Like the night after the dinner, I came away with nothing except another mark of my shame.

I look at my withered forearm and wonder why I still live. Is God cruel to allow me to continue this way? I should be dead and buried. I sometimes wish I could be. She says it would be possible. They call it torpor.

But then I remember Claudius and his sanctimonius grin, his arrogant threats. I will not die! Not until he and his family are sent to hell by my hands.

Perhaps this stranger will help me. She reminds me of Japeth but without the passivity that doomed him.

Perhaps the others of my coterie will help me.

Perhaps I that is the reason why I am still here.

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