Chapter Text
Soap often wonders how much simpler his life could have been had he not chosen to make a livelihood out of serving men determined to make every last task as difficult as humanly possible.
Here he is, with naught but pure white as far as the eye can see, fighting through a bloody blizzard on what is unequivocally the most treacherous and remote stretch of his journey, and all Soap can think about is the fact that he has no one to even complain to. He has nothing to focus on at all, actually, except for his own misery as he trudges through thick, cumbersome snow.
Sometimes it feels as though he hasn’t had a moment to sit down and unwind since becoming captain of the King’s Guard. He’s convinced the only thing that’s allowed him to juggle his numerous duties without keeling over and collapsing is maintaining his strict and efficient routine. Daylight hours are spent leading the knights under his command, nights are filled with mountains of paperwork. Any sliver of ‘free’ time in between is occupied with chasing after royals who have zero sense of self-preservation. The recurring pattern of his schedule is so deeply woven into his being that if he died in his sleep his body would probably keep going through the motions for at least a few more days from sheer routine and momentum alone.
He thought he’d already been stretched to his limit, but if his position as captain has any lesson to teach him, it’s that he can always be busier. Ever since talks of this new international alliance began, his packed schedule has only grown worse. He’s being pulled in so many directions these days it’s an honest shock his limbs haven’t been ripped from their sockets. Every spare moment he once used to unwind has faded to dust; replaced by days filled with preparing for the upcoming knight’s Trials. It’s non-fucking-stop. Every time he thinks he’s finally going to get a break, he’s yanked into dealing with another problem.
The latest headache being the safety and protection of the King of Suflit once he arrives. It causes Soap’s temples to pang with the telltale sign of an oncoming migraine to so much as think about. Yet Price still dropped the meat of the work on good ol’ reliable Captain MacTavish. Apparently he’s so bloody good at his job it’s simply assumed he’ll be able to balance his endless responsibilities whilst also pretending a neighbouring King is coming all this way for no other reason than to spectate the Capitol Games.
When they have a bloody war looming on the horizon.
Christ.
Of all the misjustices Soap has suffered throughout these past few months; all the needless, useless bullshit he’s had to navigate, this moment might take the prize. This one might be the worst. Because for some reason, despite not being able to remember a single moment he had time to himself in the past month, Price thought the best way to reward Soap for all his tireless hard work was to send him off on a fool’s errand.
It is absolutely absurd. True, he may know how to navigate the treacherous terrain of the Highlands better than any other knight in the Capitol, but he still thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to be resistant to the idea of leaving his king unattended and his city a mess while he’s off playing glorified messenger. Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus — why, of all people, did he choose Soap to do this? Surely there had to have been at least one other poor sod available for such a task.
This is an unprecedented amount of fuckery, and what’s worse is the letter — the godforsaken reason why he’s currently fighting tooth and nail to wade through thigh-deep snow — is complete and utterly useless. He knows this because Price wrote the damned thing right in front of him. Not one word of it suggested the need nor urgency for it to be delivered at such a critical point in time. And yet Price had been adamant he do so.
In no position to refuse a direct order from his King, Soap had grit his teeth and resolved to get the letter delivered as fast as possible. But even that plan had been ruined by Price thinking it perfectly reasonable for Soap to travel northwest in the middle of late winter, without his horse. Meaning on foot, through snow that reaches up past his bloody knees.
The pointless and nonsensical nature to it all has a black mood settling over Soap, one that is making every small hindrance to his task snowball into a vehement and irrational anger towards the world at large. Snow has snuck between his woollen trousers and the lip of his leather boots, his extremities are numb, he’s been sweating under the weight of several layers of armour and weapons and cloth for the last twelve hours, and now he’s cold and wet from both the inside and out. His only source of comfort are wistful thoughts of the various forms of regicide he’ll commit the moment he returns home.
Home. Gods. He wishes for nothing more right now than to sprawl by the hearth in his quarters back at the castle. He’d wrap himself up with the well-loved blanket his ma knit for him three years ago and possibly even crack open that cask of mead he’s been saving for a special occasion. He’d do anything at this point to warm his belly. Hell, he’d even settle with Roach and Gaz chatting his ear off if it meant no longer having to withstand the howl of the wind.
This is the first half-decent concept to pierce through the hard ball of stress Soap’s mind has pressurised into over the past two and a half days. Looking back, he’ll assume this is the reason he’d been scattered and inattentive enough to fail to register another presence until he heard the loud, sharp sshnk behind him; a rasp of steel against leather he’s intimately familiar with.
Three incongruent facts hit him at once: One, Soap is in the middle of fuck-all nowhere; Two, a sword has been removed from a leather scabbard; Three, Soap’s blade is still fastened securely within its sheath.
He whips around, turning toward the source of the noise.
Soap freezes.
There, several paces away, is the other person. The newcomer’s hulking figure is an imposing charcoal smear on an otherwise pale scene. Soap stares for a moment, not quite believing his eyes, blinking furiously like the apparition before him will disappear. The man’s features are obscured. A deep hood is pulled over his head, a mask shields his jaw, and any observable skin between is painted black. His torso and legs are almost completely obstructed by leather faulds and a brigandine, but good Gods, his ironclad biceps must be the size of Soap’s skull.
Soap counts three separate swords on the newcomer, one drawn, the other two strapped behind his back. He is, without a doubt, an assassin, and he knows to an even greater certainty that he must be here to kill Soap specifically, because he hasn’t passed another living soul in the last several hours.
Fantastic.
Every inch of the man radiates hostility, the promise of violence wielded tightly between his fingers. He paints an intimidating picture, and yet Soap takes one look at his massive stature and finds he’s more infuriated by the fact he hadn’t spotted the inky black splotch lumbering through his own tracks in the pristine white snow for however long this arshole’s been tailing Soap for.
“For fuck’s sake.” He grumbles under his breath. “Gimme a bloody break.”
He knows the protocol. Of course he does; he’s done this a million times before. He should demand the man drop his weapons and submit himself for trial back at the Capitol for daring to draw his sword on one of the King’s Guard. He should subdue him if he refuses to obey either order, which, by the looks of this one, seems very likely. Soap should run him through when the assassin does what he came here to do and attacks him.
He should do all these things like a good soldier; professionally, efficiently, in sequential order. But Mary wept, he is well and truly at his wit’s end— considerably lacking in any of the time, energy and patience required to deal with this shite.
The assassin takes a step closer, and Soap's frustrations finally culminate to a foregone conclusion: to hell with the protocol. To hell with orders, to hell with this letter, to hell with this blasted fucking snow.
To hell with it all.
Sir John MacTavish.
Accepted into the King’s Guard at the bright age of twenty-one. Appointed by royal decree at age twenty-five to captain, granting him command over the largest specialised military force in Anfēowern and personal responsibility for the protection and safety of King Price himself. The youngest by far to ever hold such a prestigious position.
Ghost accepted this contract with the highest of expectations. The rookie captain has yet to prove his mettle in war, but even still, a soldier of his reputation promised a fight to exceed any he’d experienced prior. Bloodshed that actually required the work to earn it; a test of his skill, something fun. Anything worth the three days it had taken for Ghost to track him through this gods forsaken frozen wasteland.
MacTavish is alone with nowhere to run and no way to call for help. There will be no better time to strike him down.
This is what he’s been waiting for. Ghost stands before him, his sword in hand, a thrill of excitement sparking down his spine when the other man turns to finally lay eyes upon what will be his end.
“If you’re here to kill me,” MacTavish calls, the incensed baritone of his voice cutting through the howl of the wind as he jabs a finger towards Ghost, “Your method of execution better be entertaining!”
Ghost’s brain function stutters to a halt, the sudden confoundment that floods through him potent enough to stay his blade for a moment. He gapes at his target, who stares back impassively. The frigid wind whips between the two of them.
This has never happened to Ghost before. He is the phantom in the shadows, the monster lurking just out of sight, a creature born of nightmares. His targets freeze, reach for their weapons, attempt to flee, beg, scream.
They do not complain at him.
His eyes narrow. The captain doesn’t seem afraid. Ghost cannot sense even a semblance of trepidation from him. He stares down the sword that is posed with the intent to run him through, and rather than draw his own blade, he runs his mouth. MacTavish wields only the long-suffering demeanour of a condemned man telling his executioner to hurry up.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong.” MacTavish continues, indifferent to Ghost’s rising bewilderment. “The first couple assassination attempts were a bonnie time. Got the blood pumpin’ for sure! It’s all thrills and surprise knife fights the first nine or ten times, but then it just keeps going! Have you any idea how many ominous cloaked bampots have jumped out of the bloody shadows at me with a blade between their teeth and murder in their eyes?” He asks, pointing wildly at his own face, “Trust me, it gets old very fucking quickly. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. People are so unimaginative. I mean, really, if you’re going to waste my time, at least make it interesting. I don’t have time to entertain every bastard that wants to off me! Do you have even the slightest idea how packed my schedule is? It’s ridiculous!”
Ghost’s hand tightens reflexively around the grip of his sword as the captain aggressively flings his arms out in a fit of unbridled fervour. MacTavish is seemingly unbothered by his silence, perfectly content to continue his rant without any contribution from his would-be assassin.
“I haven’t had more than two consecutive hours t’myself for weeks! I get that the war is practically knocking on our front door, but that doesn’t mean Price bloody well gets to send me into the middle of nowhere every other week! Seriously! I don’t care if he’s the King, I’m going to wring the feckin’ weegie’s neck!”
Ghost blinks, hand relaxing slightly around his weapon when the other man continues to make no move towards his own. He must have heard that wrong. Surely the king’s most glorified bodyguard didn’t just threaten treason?
“—why is he sending his head knight out of the castle at a time like this? It’s not even like the message I have is that important. It’s definitely not important enough to make all this freezing snow and cold toes and hard bread worth it. I haven’t been able to feel my fucking feet since yesterday morning! Price didn’t even let me bring my bonnie lass Brèagha because she’s getting fitted with new armour later this week. I dinnae ken why it’s okay for my horse to get fitted for armour while her strong and handsome owner is out in the moors getting his toes freeze blasted—”
He continues like this, his gravelly accent thickening the more he works himself up — his speech becoming more and more incomprehensible to Ghost with each passing second. After a certain point he’s convinced that in his anger MacTavish has started speaking in tongues.
“—ah dinnae ken, ye glaikit radge! Aw they noble diddies a tae Capitol ur sleekit basturts hen, if any ae them shook my hand ah’d count ma fingers eftir it! Brèagha ah dinnae havtae deal wie ta weegie fandan dobbers—”
Whatever this is, it is not Anglais.
Ghost cuts him off with a low, aggravated rumble. “Have you any idea who I am?” He asks, taking a menacing step forward.
MacTavish looks him up and down, analysing, eyes roaming across the vast array of weapons strapped to his person, cataloguing them, his mind ticking over.
“No.” He replies bluntly, pulling right back on his accent to closer match Ghost’s. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
That doesn’t strike Ghost as a surprise.. He’s gone to great lengths to maintain his anonymity. He wouldn’t be much of an assassin if every person recognised him the moment he walked through a tavern’s front doors.
That, however, is not what he had meant. Perhaps he should rephrase. Ask if MacTavish realises what he is.
Meeting new targets usually goes one of two ways. The less situationally-aware think him a woodsman, hunter, sometimes even a military man — the last of which always gets a good chuckle out of him. And it’s not until Ghost is leaning over them, patiently observing the life drain from their eyes, that they get the bigger picture. The rest of the population (those with more than half a brain) recognise the danger he imposes immediately.
At the end of the day, the distinction matters little. Whether they recognise his intentions or not, by the time they’re brought to his attention they’ve all become the same. Reduced to nothing more than prey to be hunted.
“And you?” MacTavish asks, his mouth faster than Ghost’s ability to string together a coherent query, “Do you have any clue who you’re trying to kill?”
Ghost bristles at the question. Fucking knights. He despises the pompous, arrogant, insufferable pricks.
“Price’s upstart highland terrier,” He drawls, “Born from the desolate bowels of Anfēowern’s frozen-over shithole, so easily deluded by the illusion of chivalrous heroes in shining armour, blundering his way into a world of royals and riches, playing at captain like a child in a pair of boots thrice his size.”
Ghost takes another half-step, half-fall forward through the snow. “I know exactly who you are, Johnny.”
They're only a few metres apart now, and Ghost smirks beneath his mask, waiting for indignation to twist across the knight's pompous face.
The indignation never comes.
Instead, MacTavish's brow furrows in bewilderment. For a moment, nostalgia flits across his face, before he seems to settle on confused amusement. "Could you repeat that?" He asks.
Ghost scowls, faltering at the request. He has met a great deal of interesting people in his life, but this, by far, is the strangest man he has ever been asked to kill. Quiet curiosity prickles at the back of his head, a rising intrigue which Ghost immediately stamps back down.
He lifts his blade towards the knight and lowers into as good of a battle-ready stance as he can in knee-deep snow. “I did not come to trade words with you.”
MacTavish’s hand doesn’t so much as twitch in the direction of his sword. Instead, he examines Ghost for a long moment before lifting his head towards the afternoon sun and releasing a great, heaving sigh that trails off into a frustrated groan. Like he’s a parent dealing with a particularly disobedient child rather than some pompous idiot knight about to be stabbed to death in a field.
After a moment, his eyes settle back on Ghost, his jaw tight. “By my estimate I’d say I have about a fifteen-second head start on you.” He declares.
Ghost hesitates. “What?”
With that, the knight turns tail and surges into a slow half-run, half-trudge through the snow.
What.
Ghost gawks, his blade frozen in the air, brain requiring a moment to catch up with what he’s truly witnessing. There is no fucking way the captain of King Price’s Royal Guard is fleeing from him like a coward.
But no. That’s exactly what he’s doing.
Ghost spits a vehement curse and lurches after him.
In an open field, Ghost’s height and mobility would easily outmatch MacTavish’s speed. However, the knight is forcing him to suffer the indignity of shuffling through snow with his sword drawn and a heavy set of weaponry strapped to his back.
Ghost doesn’t usually feel emotion towards his targets, but for the first time in years, as his boot catches on a chunk of ice and his leather faulds trail awkwardly behind him, he feels something.
Bloodlust curls low in his gut. His fingers tighten around the grip of his sword, the thought of cold steel slicing through flesh filtering into his mind, the scent of copper, red spilling across a backwash of crystal white. His heart thunders in his chest, pants coming out heavier as he surges after the captain.
“Face me!” He bellows.
“Catch me!” MacTavish replies over his shoulder.
Ghost growls. He should have brought his fucking longbow. But no, he had wanted to do this up close and personal; naively sought to assess the rookie captain’s capabilities for himself, see if he really was as good as he was rumoured to be. Ghost is going to spend the rest of his wretched life playing out the mind-numbing tedium of murdering cutpurses and lily-livered nobles. MacTavish was supposed to be a break from that. He’s supposed to be a challenge.
The knight makes a beeline across the snowy moors, his faulds and belts carving a sluglike trench through the undisturbed snow. Ghost follows him as best he can, hoping to shave off some time by following in the same footpath, but the snow is of the thick, wet variety. It clings to his trousers — waterproofing oils be damned — and slows him down considerably. The captain, meanwhile, is weaving in and out of the seemingly flat terrain in a way that only intensifies Ghost’s urge to violently maim the little shit.
The knight screeches to a stop, nearly toppling over in his haste to turn around and face Ghost. He too slows to a halt, the both of them gasping for air. Ghost regards him with a boiling fury, but for some reason, when MacTavish meets his gaze, pale blue squinting in the sunlight reflecting off the snow, it’s with a barely-restrained grin tugging at his lips and mirth dancing behind his eyes. He appears triumphant. Happy, even.
He’s enjoying this.
The man is insane. Unhinged. It makes Ghost seethe. “There's nowhere to run.” He spits.
“Aye.” Sweat drips into MacTavish’s brow as he nods, “You, my dearest assassin, are absolutely correct.” He agrees, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Just one problem.”
Ghost, having heard quite enough of the knight’s prattle, takes another step forward. Underfoot, the snow squeaks and cracks— wait. Cracks?
MacTavish’s triumphant smile splits into a feral grin. “You're a wee bit heavier than me.”
Ghost has a split second to process the other man’s words before there’s a sharp snap, then the world is giving out from under him.
He falls through the snow, through the ground, vision blurring past frozen dead grass and clumps of peat. The last thing he recalls before his head slams into something solid and unforgiving is the dim sliver of light filtering in from the grey sky above.