The Assassin

THE ASSASSIN

Y arrow slipped silently into the small room that served as their quarters on the pirate sloop Valerian. The first rays of dawn shone through the small, circular window above the bed, illuminating the man who slept soundly amidst its blankets. Theo's left foot stuck out from beneath the covers, hanging off the side of the mattress. The corner of the blanket obscured most of his olive face. Brown, unruly tendrils peeked out like a lazy halo. Yarrow smiled fondly, their heart constricting.

It wasn't the first time the sight of him in their bed took Yarrow's breath away. It wouldn't be the last. But there was something about the quality of the light that morning that gave them pause. Something about the way the dust gently danced in the narrow spotlight of the morning sun. The sound of the ocean quieted to a whisper, the lull of the ship quelling so suddenly, it was like they'd stepped from the sea to dry land upon crossing the threshold.

A sudden snort emitted from the sleeping pirate, breaking the spell. The sound of the ocean rushed back into the room like a dam breaking. Yarrow's body welcomed the familiar sway of the water.

They sat in the chair by the door and removed their boots. They'd kept watch last night. Bagu, ever the early riser, relieved them of their duty at dawn's light. Soon, the rest of the crew would rush from below deck like swarming insects.

Yarrow sighed, thinking of the crew. Things were different now than just a few months ago. When they'd rescued those of their companions that hadn't been killed by Ignacio Sanz and his crew of privateers, they'd also picked up a fair number of new recruits. And they were giving Yarrow a fucking headache.

"Good morning, my treasure," came a sleep-sodden voice from the bed.

Yarrow grinned. "Good morning. I woke you. I was trying to be quiet."

"It wasn't you that woke me," Theo said, rolling onto his side and propping his head on a hand. "I was just having a dream. You and I fought."

"What did we fight about?"

"Something inexplicable," Theo said, rolling onto his back with a sigh. He draped his arm over his eyes like he was concentrating on the imprint of the dream behind his lids. "It was baffling… and awful." He peeked out from beneath his arm to see Yarrow loosening their belt and smiled a predator's smile. "Come make me feel better?"

Yarrow's grin turned up on one side. They hung their belt on a hook and crossed the room to the bed, the movement effortless despite the ache in their muscles. Theo's magnetism had always had that effect on them—it drew them in like a magnet, and their body responded to his closeness with a fierce desire to protect him, to claim him. If they had claws, they'd sink them into his skin just to bring them closer together.

Theo shifted on the small bed, making room for their bodies to meld. Yarrow wrapped their arms eagerly around his lithe form as his fingers made gentle channels in their cropped blond hair. They groaned as he massaged their scalp, the tension of the watch and the worries of the coming day fleeing their body under the pleasant assault.

"Tell me your worries," Theo said against their neck.

"Mmm. I have no worries now, my love."

A kiss against their throat. "There is something bothering you. I feel it radiating from your skin like heat."

Yarrow's thoughts were focused on Theo's hand as it trailed down their back and untucked their shirt. But there was one tiny, niggling concern in the corner of their mind, like a tick burrowing into their brain.

"Henry."

The name rumbled from their throat like a growl. The new deckhand had been a thorn in Yarrow's side since the moment he stepped foot on deck, questioning every routine, every rule, every command they gave like a child who had just learned to form full sentences. Twice already, Yarrow had been forced to put him on orlop duty because of his obstinance. They longed to simply slap the sour, suspicious look from his face and be done with it.

Theo's answering rumble against their chest sent a gentle vibration through their torso.

"He's an idiot. Do you want me to shoot him?"

Yarrow chuckled, swatting at Theo's shoulder. He nipped at their fingers in response, angling his body so it loomed over theirs, his hands tracing the curves of Yarrow's body.

"Permission to thoroughly distract you?" he murmured against their ear, his hips rocking gently in emphasis.

"Yes," Yarrow breathed, already pulling off his nightshirt.

Their bodies met like old friends, each anticipating the other's desires without a thought, equal and opposite forces on either side of a fulcrum. Yarrow sighed at the pleasant fire that consumed them under Theo's slow, careful attention. The day they met him, they'd ignited, and they'd never truly stopped burning.

For this is what happens when Twin Flames meet. And there have been many, many first meetings between these two particular souls.

You may know them as Theo and Yarrow, or you may know them as Ty, two souls inhabiting one body in the tragic era you call the "modern" age.

I know them as the vibration of tectonic plates as they collide, determined to end their solitary existence and merge into something new.

Allow me, if you will, to whisk you away to another life. To a time and place when these lovers were not lovers at all—where allies were enemies, and soulmates were separated on either side of a deadly war between silent, cunning killers and monstrous, hungry beasts.

For Yarrow has not always been Yarrow.

Once, they were an assassin.

They were tasked with the mission of cutting the head from a snake—the snake being the army encroaching on their king's territory, and the head being its charismatic warlord.

They were born and bred for a mission like this one. Their body, agile and muscular, had been trained for war since childhood. Their footsteps were silent, their cunning unmatched, and their ability to do their job without asking questions had been proven over and over again—no matter how secretly it plagued them.

The retractable claws in their fingers, sharp and deadly as steel, were an additional boon, one they shared with most of their kind. Still, they would be evenly matched against the sharp, serrated teeth of their enemy in an all-out fight. Stealth was the preferable option.

Dispatching the guards was a simple matter, given their scarcity. The marshlands surrounding the warlord's temporary premises were unforgiving this time of year. It was the perfect place to lie low and celebrate his recent victories without fear of attack.

And celebrate he did. A raucous drunkard he was, despite his military prowess. This made finding him after his meager protection was deposed an even simpler matter. All they had to do was follow the sound of his snores.

His rooms were dark, save for a whisper of dawn's first light shining beneath the thick curtains above his bed. The target lay obscured beneath the velvet covers, an arm thrown above his head, a foot jutting off the mattress like he was preparing to dismount just before he fell asleep.

They crept silently toward their quarry. Their keen eyes were drawn to the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blood-red blankets as they approached, its rhythm like the swell of the sea.

Something stirred in their belly, like the rattle of a snake's tail. Their back straightened as a slow, subtle electric current ran from the base of their spine up to their shoulders. They halted as the liquid fire cascaded down their chest and into their fingertips, covering their body in a haze of crackling energy, the source of which they couldn't identify.

Two things happened in the span of the next breath. First, a feeling washed over them they were entirely unaccustomed to: fear. Second, the steady rise and fall of the man's chest stuttered—and paused.

The warlord erupted from his resting place in a blur of sound and color. A thunderous growl rumbled from his throat that vibrated the dusky air between them. Obscured by the shadows, he looked nearly like a man. But they knew, despite the thunderous pounding of their heart, that he was more monster than man.

And they could not hesitate to put him down.

With quick, calculated steps, they sprinted forward. The strange heat enveloping them grew stronger with every step, as if they drew close to a forest fire and not one of its beasts.

He crouched in the shadows, readying himself for their attack. They unsheathed a blade and hurled it at his left shoulder, throwing him off balance as he dodged. They went to their knees, sliding under his arm and producing a syringe in their other hand. They swung their arm upward, aiming the needle at the tender flesh between his ribs. It would all be over soon.

Shock pulsed through them—a second, equally unfamiliar emotion—as he twisted, faster than they knew his kind could move, and knocked the syringe forcefully from their hand. A moment later, his massive hand circled their throat, pushing them backward and pinning them to the wall.

His eyes darted to the door, confusion contorting his features as he looked for the guards that would never come. Those eyes—wide, and wild, and green as a forest canopy—landed on them next, and time froze.

The assassin watched as the warlord's confusion turned to bafflement and, inexplicably, something like recognition. But this was impossible. There was no way he, or anyone, could know who they were.

At least that's what they would have thought if they didn't feel it, too: a strange sense of knowing. A desperate longing. A deep, insatiable hunger for him .

A hunger they saw reflected in the emerald eyes of their prey. He wanted to devour them.

Turning briefly inside themself, they reached for a cold, hard part of their being—a sharp thing in their spirit that allowed them to do the things they needed to in order to survive. They formed it into a rope and used it to strangle the infuriating cry of their soul as it recognized its mate. Then they twisted from his grip, leveling a blow to his jaw that caused him to stumble, putting space between them once again.

They stared at each other for a breath. Two breaths. Then, as if by magnetic force, they drew violently toward each other again, like two stars colliding.

They swung. He parried. They jabbed. He dodged. He kicked. They twisted. A blow to his sternum pushed him backward. He spun, hurling a dish from a nearby table as he twisted around. They ducked, the hunk of metal narrowly missing their head.

An uncharacteristic scream ripped itself from their body. Their claws emerged. And through the haze of their rage, they beheld on their enemy's face a flash of stunned admiration—no, awe—before he dispelled the expression with a quick shake of his head and a frustrated growl.

They averted their eyes from the warlord's face, reminding themself this was a monster they were dealing with, and lunged. Sweat coated the assassin's back as they attacked, narrow and precise to his sweeping, brute strength. A frenzied desire to sink their claws into his flesh propelled them forward. But then what? Would they shred him to pieces? Or pull his body against theirs and taste the salt coating his skin? An increasingly loud voice in their head was opting for the latter, and they desperately tried to bury it in violence.

The two soulmates fought—danced, conversed—amidst a cyclone of dust, torn paper, and shredded curtains. They fought desperately, mistaking the primal desire to bind themselves together for a terrible bloodlust. Yet it seemed as if some invisible force blocked their blows, never allowing them to end their target's life. Their own bodies betrayed them, swinging too wide, aiming just shy of their goal.

It was a futile dance, a flurry of near misses and frustratingly close calls, and it ended just as it began: with a raw, desperate roar. It poured from between his deadly teeth, halting him in place mid-swing like it had escaped his body against his will.

The warlord dropped to his knees, breathing heavily. Behind him, light streamed through jagged tears in the curtains, casting him in strange shadows. He lifted his chin and looked at his assassin, baring his neck to them, and to their surprise, they did not step forward to claim their victory. They looked back. Vivid green met blood red eyes in a silent exchange of defeat… and abandon. Not the eyes of an enemy, but those of a weapon forged in the same fires that shaped them.

A man. Not a monster.

And it was then they discovered they were not, after all, a killer.

The story ends not with the bite of a needle or the slumber of death. It ends with the kind of pain that wakes one up. The pain of realizing your true self was made to love, and you've wasted so much time reflecting hatred.

I once likened love to a tapestry. Its threads are stories like these. Stories about reaching through the muck of our histories and choosing love. Such an act, a fierce rebellion against our supposed nature, is what binds the universe, and all of us, together. Each strand may disappear and reemerge amidst the weave, but they can never be broken.

There are many stories I can tell you about these soulmates, and I will. But for now, a happy ending—something we all deserve.

Yarrow lounged in the arms of their lover, their hand gently combing through his tousled hair. He peppered their forehead with light kisses, intertwining his legs with theirs.

"You know," Theo said finally. "I heard a rumor that Henry is terrified of lizards."

"Is that so?"

"I wonder how many lizards it would take to get him to piss himself."

Yarrow dissolved into a fit of laughter at the mental image. They met Theo's eyes, which held a familiar spark of mischief.

"We're making berth today," they said.

Theo raised an eyebrow conspiratorially. "Surely there are lizards on these islands."

Hours later, the Valerian's captain stood at the forecastle watching her quartermaster and her boatswain sprint across the shore, two lizards each clutched in their hands as they ran back to the pirate sloop.

"What am I looking at?" Zander asked from beside her.

Ace shook her head. "You're looking at Theo and Yarrow. Bringing lizards onto my vessel."

The two exchanged a look, then hunkered in to watch the ensuing chaos. Said chaos involved strategically releasing lizards as the crew gathered for dinner. The gang of fearsome pirates transformed into a pan of popping corn as its members hopped to and fro on their tiptoes, avoiding the reptiles that darted back and forth on deck with nowhere to go. Henry's scream was almost loud enough to rival the terrified cries of Jules Moreau himself.

Ace buried her face in Zander's shoulder to stifle her laughter. His own laughter vibrated through his chest as he wrapped an arm around her.

"I knew something like this was going to happen," Ace said as she pulled away. "Henry has been antagonizing Yarrow. I bet Theo's had this planned for days. He was probably just waiting for Yarrow to admit it bothered them."

"Well, it looks like it's cheering them up," Zander said, gesturing to Yarrow. They stood at the edge of the spectacle, nearly doubled over in laughter as Theo attempted to "herd" the reptiles, always accidentally steering them toward Henry, who looked like he might jump off the ship any second.

Ace chuckled, shaking her head. "Those two sure can make a mess when they put their mind to it."

"Aye," Zander agreed. "I think the only people who would stand a chance against either of those two is each other."

Ace scoffed. "There's no realm of possibilities where Theo and Yarrow aren't on the same side."

"You're right," Zander said, drawing closer to Ace and wrapping a tendril of her hair around his finger. "And there is no universe where I am not in love with you."

Ace wrapped her arms around her soulmate, drawing him closer.

"I love you, pirate."

"And I, you," Zander said, leaning in for a kiss.

And they all lived happily ever after—again, and again, and again.