TW - references to death and execution
It was hard for Shekan to be a part of a minority, always misunderstood and frowned upon, no matter what he did. As a child, he had frequently cried at the cruelty of it all. As a teenager, he had put his anger to what he saw as a righteous cause, vandalizing the city of Aieqa, painting death threats on its walls, or drawing unholy symbols to scare off the citizens who maligned him and his peers.
As an adult, he just didn't care anymore, smiling whenever a non-believer belittled him in public. Their eyes were forever closed to the joy he had been blessed with, so why would he even attempt at opening them when all he got in return was spit flying and smearing his polished black shoes?
Or, at least, he hadn't cared until the priests had drawn their golden staffs, their tips pressing against his neck. And now, of course, it was time for his execution.
Fine and dandy. If they wanted a show, then he would give them a show. Let them tremble when they heard his name, when his voice would crack and wheeze, when he will rise from the dead, his skeletal fingers clutching a priest and dragging him to his death. If they wanted a true Necromancer, he would show them one.
His rebellious nature had gotten the best of him again; his blood rose to his cheeks and his hair fizzed with the energy the pagans dubbed as life. The door screamed as someone rattled it and he turned around with the calmest demeanor he could muster. There was no room for screw-ups on this one.
The priest was garbed in the gilded pristine robes of the Order, reaching all the way to the floor, leaving just enough room for his sandaled feet to peak out and display the groom pedicured every member of the royal retinue received. Image was everything and he was not surprised when his eyes wandered to a trimmed golden beard upon which a frowning mouth rested.
"Jonathan," Shekan mumbled, letting death and menace dribble on his words, certain the soldier-priest could sense his unfriendliness a mile away.
"Witch," Jonathan snarled, his hand drifting to his staff, the only weapon the priests were allowed to use.
To them, life was sacred. Unless, of course, you broke their laws.
"Let's get done with it, shall we?" Shekan lifted his arms and allowed himself to be handcuffed through the grates.
"I will take great pleasure watching you burn."
"Yeah, of course, of course, I will scream, and I will cry for your entertainment. Handcuffs?"
He smiled as he watched himself being handcuffed, his magic ebbing away as the bindings did their work. If he bided his time and didn't get ahead of himself, it would work...wouldn't it?
Jonathan leered at him as he opened the door, tensing when Shekan moved forward.
"Relax, priest. I'm cuffed and dehydrated. What could I possibly do?" he rolled his eyes and clinked forward, cursing when the sharp edge of the staff prodded his back. "Would you mind? I'm trying to walk here."
"Walk faster, then."
Sometimes he forgot there was more than one reason he hated priesthood. They were all a bunch of well-dressed brutes, down to the High Priest himself. He shook his head, recalling the rumors of how Atharid beat his servants until they couldn't even walk or talk, disposing of them like Shekan disposed of a bag of rotten potatoes.
If he would ever get his hands on the High Priest, the rebel inside of him would overhaul all the teachings drilled in him, slaughtering Atharid in cold blood. Or possibly torture him. He had not made up his mind about it.
Death, after all, was not the end of the line. It was, merely, a crossroads.
When they finally exited the dim-lit dungeons he found he had to shield his eyes from the merciless light of the sun. Warmth clutched his cheeks – a strange feeling after embracing the cold of the stone walls, his nails turned blue after nights spent shivering on a hard mattress the priests called bed.
There were at least a hundred people gathered in the circular marketplace, all screaming their hatred and various other belittling messages in an attempt to drive the stake of fear deeper in his soul. As far as he was concerned, they were wasting their breath.
He had no intention to die. Or to stay dead. No for long anyway.
His gaze drifted upwards in search of his judge; Atharid was seated on a red chair, carved from the woods of the Blood Forest themselves, the golden chain of the Order adorned with the most precious jewels he could have gathered. The object could feed an entire family, comfortably, for half a year.
Shekan scowled and straightened his back. He would never allow his enemy to see any flicker of uncertainty or fear. The only ones who should be afraid were the priests lurking in his shadow, jabbing his back with their staffs as they led him to the guillotine. Shekan kept his gaze on the High Priest as he allowed himself to be led up the creaky scaffolding, his hands uncuffed and then tied with rope behind his back.
Atharid smiled and stood up, preparing to speak. Shekan smiled back and his eyes glinted when the High Priest shuddered.
He was afraid. Good. He should be.
A priest grabbed the scruff of his neck and placed his head beneath the blade of the guillotine. Despite himself and the self-control he had drilled into his body and mind, a cold sweat began to form on his brow as the question he dreaded his mind sneaked its way inside.
What if he didn't make it?
"Necromancer," Atharid's voice boomed, silencing any uncertainty Shekan had.
It was imperative for him to succeed.
"By the laws of Aieqa, the cradle of the Holy Order, I sentence you to death by guillotine. Any last words before your righteous death?"
Shekan struggled to lift his gaze from the basket awaiting the fall of his head so he could give the High Priest his most venomous leer. When that didn't work, he made do and spit inside the basket.
Someone in the crowd gasped. He smiled.
"Figures," he heard his executioner mutter, just before his voice was drowned out by that of the High Priest.
"You see what necromancers do?" Shekan could feel the finger pointed at him so he sneered loud enough for the people in the front row to hear. 'We give them kindness and they...spit at our feet. They tarnish everything we stand for; they corrupt life."
"The only one who has corrupted life is you," Shekan murmured, wishing Atharid would just shut up and be done with it before he lost his nerve to do what had to be done.
"That is why they deserve to die. Off with his head," the High Priest barked, and, in his support, the crowd began to chant the command as if it was a prayer and not a death sentence.
He inhaled and waited for what seemed an eternity, the buzzing of the crowd distant, the executioner's breath too loud, too abnormal. His pulse had slowed down, and his eyelids were closing.
It was best that, when his head fell, he wouldn't see the world rocking and jolting. He gathered all his strength and stored deep inside his mind until his brain pumped with the stench of death.
When the blade fell, he hardly felt it.
*
"So did Shekan escape?" a child asked the elderly minstrel and I hid my nose in my cup.
"No one really knows. We saw his body, and his head, towed away like a sack of potatoes, but Atharid didn't have the intelligence to burn it too," the old man sighed. "Alas, we assumed he didn't make it, since we have never heard from him since then."
"Maybe he's just hiding," the girl beamed, fighting off tears.
It's amazing how a child can grasp the importance of life; adults have forgotten how it is to have a whirlpool of blood roar through your veins, how your feet nigh on fly when you run on the grassy fields, how time stops when you watch the starry sky.
"I doubt it," Geoffrey smiled, too weary to cry.
I had no doubt that he had wept many tears for my death.
But if I was to kill Atharid, I had to be a shadow in the night, a nightmare snuffing out his dreams.
Only when he would see me resurrected, would he truly tremble.