Mourn Me (for Thomas)
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Thomas’s skin is cool as he closes the man’s staring eyes. In death, he looks younger, frailer. Daud wonders if his lieutenant looked like this all along, and he was simply too blind to see it until death yanked the veil from his vision.
He puts his hand to the wound on Thomas’s shoulder, bleeding through his shirt and smearing across his coat of dark blue leather. He never wore red, no, not even when Daud told him that he would be the new second-in-command. The master assassin isn’t sure if it would be a mercy, to have all of this blood covered up by a scarlet jacket. This juxtaposition forces him to look down at the boy he practically raised, bowing his head over him as if in prayer.
He’s heard it said that a parent should never have to bury their child. From the white-hot pain searing his heart and closing up his throat, Daud assumes that the same applies to a master and his protégé. It’s only salt in the wound that he was protecting Daud’s own life.
The ambush was sudden and unexpected, taking the small scouting party at their flank as they were on patrol. The Bottle Street Boys, normally so easy to deal with, had used the element of surprise for once to their advantage. There was fire in the air, and Daud had to choose between rallying his men and looking out for his own life. He’d chosen the latter, and Thomas had looked out for him.
The bullet caught him in the shoulder – just a flesh wound, Thomas insisted, clapping a hand to the skin as if hiding it away. Go on without me.
Now, Daud saw that it was anything but. It had caught him right in the major artery beneath his arm. Even if he’d known, even if they could have done something, he would have been dead in minutes.
There is absolute silence. The motley crew of novices and masters is standing in a circle around them. Many came when news reached the Flooded District that they needed help. There are many injuries, yes, but cruelly, Thomas is the only casualty.
“Leave us,” he barely manages to say, and looks up to address any protests.
But there are none. The dead glass eyes of their masks are intent upon Daud and Thomas, glancing slowly from one to the other. It is Ryan, first – he can tell by the build of his shoulders and the careful deliberateness of his movements – who raises a fist to his heart. Then the others assume the gesture, until he is being encircled by this queer form of worship. Daud bows his head and, inexorably, brings his own hand to his chest. His is open, his fingers splayed over the center of his chest. He can feel his own heartbeat, and it disgusts him.
Then he stands, and the others, one by one, disappear, until he and his confidante are alone in the room together. Seconds turn into minutes, and he can almost feel the sting in his eyes as he stares down at Thomas’s limp, still form. At last, he pulls his lieutenant’s body into his arms and begins the long, painful trek home.
