An Old Mask

From the castle walls, a long winding path leads down to the city below. At this elevation, it is possible to see the entire perimeter of a city that cannot contain fewer than half a million residents. Giant stone walls wrap around countless buildings and reach two ends of a cliff, where they climb up to the walls I had just occupied. The castle itself sits at the very end of this cliff, commanding atop an insurmountable border with an ocean to the east.

It takes Duncan and me ten minutes to walk from the monarch's domain to the barracks stationed at the level of its residents.

"As I'm sure that you are aware, much of our standing army rests within this area. With the defensive position of the castle, it is possible to keep only a small number of soldiers at my father's side."

"I could not imagine how a strategist might even attempt to launch an attack. Given the geography, a frontal assault through the city gates may well be the most viable."

"Hahaha! During my grandfather's time, that was supposedly attempted by a nation that is presently no more!"

We pass through the highest security checkpoint at the base of the hill and move into a large open space. As to be expected by a barracks, young men are training in a dirt courtyard. Scattered all around are targets for archery or dummies for melee training. The shouting drill masters and panting trainees pay no mind to our crossing through the tall walls of this facility.

I struggle to understand the older form of fighting being practised, but the weapons being wielded are familiar.

"This kingdom truly has all sorts of weaponry at its disposal."

"You have a keen eye, Clement! We have obtained many great steelsmiths over the years. I can guarantee that their workmanship is second to none."

The scraping of metal plates across my body comes to a halt when a few armour stands come into view within the inner chamber.

"You even carry armour made of leather?"

Duncan follows my gaze and grunts with disinterest.

"That gear is for volunteers. It is occasionally necessary to allow normal citizens to form small militias. We would be neglectful to offer the brave nothing by which to protect themselves, but offering them a knight's gear would bring shame upon our trained order."

While not nearly as stunning as forged steel, the armour is not makeshift in any way. The layered black or brown strips appear sturdy with studded metal to reinforce its constitution. The reduction in defence is more than made up for the light and loose construction. For a marching force, it would be inefficient. However, a small and organised group of travellers would find this apparel to serve them perfectly.

Compared to the heavy plates constricting my body, something like this would be preferred. Would I be caught in a losing position in my current armour, I would be unable to escape. I need not concern myself with protecting from heavy blows when I always intend to never accept any.

"Would it be possible to undergo a quick change?"

Duncan tilts his head in confusion.

"Are you not already in satisfactory equipment?"

"This is purely ceremonial, something to wear before my king. This set is much more familiar to my blade."

I look at the prince with my hand on the leather shoulder. Even the other knights present in the armoury find my choice to be strange, but that does not alter my decision. Survival is my number one priority and that will not be possible with Clement's clothes.

Duncan obviously feels much the same as his men. However, he still relents to my request.

"You are a peculiar man. If that is your wish, I will not place onto you restrictions that will hinder your abilities."

"Your understanding is appreciated."

The prince orders one of the nearby soldiers to escort me and the armour stand to a vacant room.

* * * * *

Aged wood creaks as the door behind me is sealed shut. For the first time since my arrival in this new world, I'm alone. My mind briefly unwinds now that there are no formalities to maintain.

"Quite the strange world I've found myself in…"

This room on its own can summarise the current state of my place in time. The smell of dust permeates the air captured within my stone enclosure. Furnishings exist, but the tables and chairs are of primitive wood making and serve only function. There is no colour to be found as even the water basin in the corner can only reflect the scene around it.

"That smell…bread?"

With each breath, my tongue meets a pleasant flavour amongst the dust. Looking around, the room contains a quiet furnace along with several tied sacks of flour. What I can only assume to be counter space contains trays and boards for bread preparation.

"How long has it been since I last ate?"

There may be nothing to eat in this room, but the question still comes to mind. My final mission lasted three hours before I met my demise and the time within the dark space could have been anywhere from one minute to one hundred years. At the very least, I know that my throat is dry.

I move towards the basin and prepare to reach a hand into the clear liquid. Before I can, my hand freezes in place.

"This face…"

The closest word to describe this feeling would be 'nostalgic'. Like greeting an old friend or enemy, the two eyes belonging to me stare back.

"I haven't seen this in a long time…"

The reflection against a grey ceiling is my face, one that I almost failed to recognise. How many years has it been since I wore my natural mask? Missions took me to all sorts of places to fill all sorts of roles. One day would see me as a false ambassador in Europe masquerading through government offices. Others would drag me through a mafia in Latin America posing as a member of the leading cartel. Occasionally, I would be an engineer in Asia stealing trade secrets and smuggling intel across borders.

Each of these missions required me to take on a different face. Be it my eyes, my hair, or even the structure of my face, I underwent countless transformations. I was not required to have an identity on my own. All that mattered was that I became whoever I needed to be. This lack of self is fitting for the plain face I wore before becoming an agent. Ruffled black hair trailing down to my neck, those two dark eyes devoid of emotion, that indifferent frown. It is truly my face.

"I suppose this is who I must be for this mission."

My previous mission turned me into a European businessman with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was shrewd, he showed no mercy, he was who I was for two months. I matched the way he spoke with arrogance, the way he walked without a care for those he looked down upon, the little tick he had with his left hand. I no longer have this kind of template to follow.

"Clement Liutfrid…"

I turn away from the basin and begin removing the metal plates protecting this body. I'm not sure where 'Clement' is now or what became of him, but my duty does not change. It feels like my body, but I would shed not a single bit of sympathy if it were not. I need this form and his name to survive, and that alone is what I was given.

The ways he thought and acted are unknown to me, but I'm not him. I can only approach the world the way this face knows how.