Execution

The cell was largely agreeable, the solidity of the stone walls lessened by the expensive wood furniture and plush curtains. It was nothing like the cells in the dungeon: freezing and damp, rot festering in the doorways and metal bars bleeding rust. On the table in front of him was a roll of parchment, on which he had written, and now his hands were clasped in his lap. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, and his gaze was drawn to the window. Out there, they were waiting for him - he was sure of it. But his apprehension had faded, and now he was at peace. Everything had its end. He would accept his fate.

He breathed in sharply as someone rapped on the door. But it was an empty gesture; the guards came in regardless, sombre and respectful. They announced that it was time, and he knew what they referred to. Getting to his feet, he glanced at the parchment, and wondered whether his words would be burnt or left to decay within a chest or vault. Whatever the case, he could not help it; the guards would decide what to do with it. He smoothed his robes, and then frowned as a man proffered his armour. Their pointed stares told him that protest would be a waste of time. The armour was placed on the desk, and he was given the privilege of donning it himself; unlike other armoured individuals, he preferred putting it on without the help of valets, and it seemed that these guards remembered that. Of course, he would live on in their memories. If only he could live longer, and not die on this fine day.

Once his armour was secured - no helmet, though - he was led out of his cell and down the corridor, the guards walking in a stiff, uniform fashion with spears in hand. He was taken up the stairs, where the thick wooden doors were unbarred and thrown open, allowing the light from outside to fall upon the steps. He squinted as his eyes adjusted from the shadowed corridor to the streets, and there, as predicted, a thousand people waited for him, dressed from drabs to velvet, beggars to lords. Some were silent; others murmured softly under their breaths. Not a child bawled or whined. He thought he saw acquaintances, but if they recognised him, their eyes - hard and emotionless - did not show it. He felt the cool metal of his armour press against his clothes, and stepped forward with the guards. They escorted him through the crowds, boots clunking on the cobblestone, visors glinting as sunlight poured into the streets and caught the steel.

It was a long trek from the cell to the palace courtyard, and all the while, he bore the stares of the citizens, walking determinedly uphill, catching the eyes of a few who looked away as if in disgust or shame. He thought about the parchment on his desk, and again wondered what treatment it would receive. He had left much unfinished; alas, it could not be helped now. He could only hope that someone would read what he had written and see to it that his will was undertaken.

When he reached the palace courtyard, the people had parted on either side, and he paused to survey them. There were more here whom he had known, but their faces showed no familiarity nor compassion. He steadied his equanimity, and was ushered towards the far end, to the raised ground where a solitary block was overseen by a man hooded in black. As he walked, birds sang such sweet, melodious songs, and he listened to them instead of the clattering footsteps of the guards. The birds were unperturbed by the gathering of people that stood beneath the trees on which they perched, and their voices were pleasant to his ears. It was a sound that comforted him, soothed his restless thoughts.

He came to the mouth of the path, and began to climb the steps. His skin prickled, and he caught a glimpse of his wife, resplendent as always, her brunneous hair catching the light and glowing russet. She gazed at him with an unfathomable expression; in her arms was their child, a babe with tufts of dark hair and wide eyes. Stood next to her was man clad in black, light distorted and shimmering around it. But the man's eyes were light and regarded him in amusement, as he wore the ghost of a smile. Almost mocking. Almost sympathetic.

He was told to halt, and he did, standing before the people on the raised platform and looking out over the kingdom. He could see the horizon, broken by hills and forests, and nearer to him the city itself, sandy tiles and bricks. He saw people he knew and people he did not. He saw the fantastic colour of the trees as the green caught the light, and the scarred bark that hid beneath. A soldier was reading a scroll, accompanied by a priest to say his rites.

He did not remember any words, only when the hooded man took out his axe. Then he knelt, swallowing his pride, heart hammering, angling his head so that half of his neck rested on the wooden block and the other was exposed. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with precious air, blinking to sweep away the tears. Yet there was another sound now - not the birds, not the priest.

A figure came hurtling down the path, and he peered at them as they swiftly advanced. It was a woman, and she was yelling. Only when she came to the base of the steps and was caught in the arms of the guards did he discern her.

"I'm sorry!"

He frowned.

"I'm so, so sorry!" she shouted, and flecks of white trickled from her eyes. "I tried - I'm sorry - please, forgive me - I tried!"

He exhaled, trying to nod, to tell her she was forgiven.

"Please!" she screamed.

There was the roar of wind, and it drowned her voice, washing over the birds' songs and his drumming pulse. He closed his eyes.