Shadowstrider

Chapter 1

That incident happened ten years ago and Aktheme hadn't turned back since. He was 20 now, and what he always wanted to be. When he left his home, he apprenticed under an assassin and was now the best in the city. He figured he might as well do the only thing he knew how and that was kill.

People called him Shadowstrider because he was never caught and no one knew who pulled off his kills. He had lost his name to others long ago, back in his days of training. He lived in the shadows, enjoying the feeling of taking a life, almost everyday. He almost didn't even feel remorse anymore. He would drink the feelings away, never felt love and never would.

The thing with him was that he wasn't like present day assassins. He didn't believe guns were the best way to kill. He used blades of all sorts. He didn't like killing from a distant, but liked close up combat. Even using just knives, he had taken out five different assassins who had contracts on him, and they used guns. And that was just last night.

Right now he was going to kill one of his own contractors. He found out in less than a day who had put a hit on him and knew exactly how to pull off the kill. He would do it in the limo when Mr. Brown was heading to the party for the night. There was enough room in the limo that shadows covered almost all of it with just the two back lights lit. That was enough for the Shawdowstider. He dropped off the low roof and dispatched the two guards with ease. Two slices and both were on the ground, bleeding from wounds in their throats.

He snuck to the limo and climbed in through the open sunroof. He was disappointed at the lack of security, but quickly got over it. He sat it the shadows, and a feeling of peace washed over him. It was the same feeling he got before every kill. He didn't feel nervous for that would compromise the mission, so he was trained to feel peace and calm. He sat in silent for an hour, ready for anything he could encounter.

The limo door opened and it was showtime. Mr. Brown climbed in the back, unaware that anyone else was in and the door shut. "Driver," he yelled. "To my second wife's house, pronto."

"So where we headed?" the Shadowstrider asked calmly.

"So you came. I was wondering when you would. You're a tad bit slower than most people think. But are you really going to kill the man that's almost been like a friend to you?" Mr. Brown said to him, still not seeing where he was.

"Mr. Brown, you've never been even close to a friend to me. I'm an assassin. I don't have friends. I have contracts, and contacts. Now before I kill you, I would like to know why you would pay five men to die for you. If you wanted to die you could have just asked me and paid me. So Mr. Brown, why?"

"I needed to talk to you, Aktheme, about your past," Mr. Brown started.

Shadowstrider interrupted, "How do you know that name?"

"I know all, Shadowstrider. I know you killed your own dad at ten years old and your mom has hated you ever since. I also know your training ended two years ago when your own master put a hit on your head. I also know that your more important than you can ever imagine."

"I don't believe it. I've given my identity up long ago. I have no name. You're lying," Shadowstrider was dumb stricken. No one knew all that. And what did he mean about him being important.

Mr. Brown kept talking, ignoring the interruption. "I will warn you to be careful who you kill, Shadowstrider, for you have the chance to change history. Now you may kill me if you wish." He didn't believe what this mad old man was saying. He pulled out a blade and cut his throat, wanting to make his death as painless as possible. Once sure Mr. Brown was dead he jumped out of the roof and watched the limo drive away from a street light. Once it was out of sight he headed to his nearest safe house to think.

Shadowstrider checked his safe house for intruders and traps and, upon finding nothing, walked over to his fridge and grabbed a bottle of Irish Whiskey. He was going to get drunk and he didn't care how drunk. He just had to get these memories out of his head.

He was back with his mom. He was five years old and was watching his parents fight. Anger welled up inside of him. He wasn't sure what to do. He has watched them fight before but nothing compared to this. They were swearing to each other, yelling, throwing things. His dad slapped his mom and he shrieked. Both parents stopped fighting immediately and his mom rushed over to him. Both him and his mom were crying when she reached him.

He drank half the bottle and the thoughts ended quickly. He was finished. He wanted to end his life right now. If people knew his name his life was finished. He couldn't be an assassin anymore. He walked over to the drawers and picked up his favorite knife. This would be his tool. He knew what to do, and knew he could do it. Just a line along the arteries in the wrist and he'd be done in less than five minutes. That was the only choice he had. "Follow the river, don't cross it," he said aloud, repeating the same thing he told others to do when they were struggling for life and had accepted death.

He ran the knife along his thumb, watching a thin red line appear anywhere the blade touched. He dragged it down his hand and to the top of his wrist, blood following the blade, but never did a drop appear on it. He looked at the blade. It was the same one he used on the night he murdered his dad. Even though he hadn't used it then it still tasted his own blood. When he left his house he picked the knife up by the blade and it had cut deep into his left hand., but every time he looked at the blade, not matter what he cut, it was clean. The whole knife was black, and the blade was sharper than any he's ever felt. The blade was only five inches long and was still the shortest he has but no matter what it was his favorite.

He slid the knife down his wrist. A thin trail of his blood followed the blade, almost as if drawing a picture. He followed the veins, feeling his flesh part, but no pain came. He had given up on pain, on life, on love. Now it was all at an end. He was becoming light-headed. He fell on the floor and didn't get back up.