As the darkness lifts, I hear voices. Vague and misty, I cannot make out what they suggest; they are simply noises on the blurry sea of consciousness, tossed around inside my brain with nowhere to go and no place to develop. Although my mind is hardly in the state to make sense of anything other then the fading black screen that has been my silent companion for, I presume, several hours, I think a single thought.
My name is Kumari.
That sole piece of information has a thousand thoughts that branch out of it, and the fogginess of my head dulled all possibility of remembering anything additional. But once the spider has begun her web, she can build off it later, as long as the foundation remains in tact. Thus my name is the center of my life. It is my primary adjective, and everything that I experience builds off of it. When I put it that way, it is inevitable that I sound selfish and cold hearted. Maybe that is who I am. However, in my life, I haven't had much time for anyone else, and even though it may be that I am not the centre of the universe, I am still entitled to caring about myself and who I am.
You see, every thing that I have had a hand in is hooked to me somehow. It belongs to me, as well as anyone else who experienced it. It is my memory, and theirs.
It is a difficult thing to describe, and I am sure that I fail at it. Explaining isn't my strong point. If you can but grasp the concept, perhaps spend some special thought meditating on it, you may understand what I mean. Obviously, I haven't taken the time to do so. It is of no importance to me; a part of me that, perhaps, only I will ever somewhat understand.
Once the voice becomes distinguishable, I instantly assign qualities to it. This used to be one of my favourite pastimes - allotting characteristics to random objects until it became something that I subconsciously without spending much time to search for the right set of descriptions. My guesses weren't always right, but oftentimes I got close enough.
The voice was kind, but had a different air to it that told me that usually the woman, for it was definitely a female voice, was accustomed to a matter-of-fact manor, one that could be described as gruffness, but really was just forward. The way that she spoke now seemed new to her; I could only tell because of the the way that her voice varied with everything she spoke. Attempting to get the right pitch, I assumed. It was only a matter of time when the cooing would stop, and the questions began.
"What on earth were you doing when you climbed out roof, child! You could have gotten yourself killed. Please, dearie, lay still! Stop squirming and turing your head! It won't help the headache," said she. With surprise, I noted for the first time that she wasn't speaking the native tongue of the Arridi. She spoke the language of Araluen.
The memories that had been hidden in the ever present darkness began to reveal themselves. I remembered climbing onto the roof of the farmhouse, planning to set fire to the dry thatch and clamber down before anyone could note my presence. Generally, I was a decent climber, but I knew, from years spent in the heat of the desert, that once a flame starts on something dry, it spread rapidly, consuming every article it came in contact with and not pausing to spare flesh. Shaking, I had held the flame closer to the wind then I had planned, and when I leapt free of the flame, it had failed to catch fire. In my panic, I realized this as I was stepping back. Lurching forward to blend into the shadows again, the sudden movements and my shaky limbs had worked together to plot my downfall: falling off the roof. Motionless, I lay on the ground, or so I suppose, until the farmer or his wife or, goodness knows who found me. They thought that I was doing some noble act, surely nothing shady, if not heroic, and had brought me inside. Unaware of my name, background, or mission, I was an innocent child in their eyes.
Little did they know.
It wouldn't be long until they found out. Tonight I would make my getaway. They wouldn't know why, and I preferred that it stayed that way. For only I knew my secret.
I am a Arridi assassin. Young, self-employed, but for my country nonetheless. I carry daggers in my jacket and twin swords in my belt. I know over twenty different poisons brewed from simple forest herbs. Don't cross me if you care for Araluen.
I might have to slit your throat.