EXECUTION
There was an execution.
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What is an execution? It is the act of carrying out a sentence of death on a person. It may happen in the midst of war, or during the ceremony of a successful conquest. It may be the death of a single person, or a row of heads. Maybe jeers could be heard as the metal blade passes through skin, flesh, bone, then flesh and skin again. Perhaps cries of relief would sound as a sinner is delivered, or the cold satisfaction of revenge would arise at the sight of a still-warm enemy’s head rolling off the platform without grace. Snickers of politicians as they find their place secure once more, or the swells of justice at the sight of the punished.
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Then comes the possibilities of silent tears wept as a loved one’s life is stolen before one’s eyes. A lover, friend, mentor, child, rival, neighbour, relative, or confidant. The dull mourning of comrades at their member’s sacrifice. The raw, unyielding screams that tear through the air as the sentenced say final words.
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An execution. A method to enforce law. An act and display to strike fear to both the lawful citizens and the gravest criminals. An illusion that safety would surely envelop the streets once again as heads decorate the gates, which would then rot and return to the ground or into the bellies of pests. A way to declare the end, or the start of something.
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Execution. The last scenery of prisoners on the death row. The sight they are welcomed with as they awake from their slumber one day. They uncurl from their foetal position, and rise from the bed called a patch of hay. With their rags of clothing stabbed with straws, they allow their blackened soles to meet with the cold stone floor. There might be a cold, damp, and mouldy smell, or a suffocating, humid fog that would waft through the bars.
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The cold, rusty bars. Metal rods that had withstood the test of time, ones that would bite any that dare to bend them with a sharp glare. And if the hands that tried to make them kneel are to suffer from any infections or blisters, its gleeful ringing when tapped by trays of food would tell its feelings.
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The food served to the damned is, as expected, horrid. The bread shares the same smell of the cells, and its colour blends in with the equally hard and dusty floors. The soup, however, is at least tolerable.
The interpreter sits blatantly on the floor, sipping the cold and thin substance from a cracked bowl.
Unlike the others, she had the liberty of keeping her armour. Although her belt was without weapons, the heavy weight of her chest plate served as enough comfort. Courtesy of the general, the guards had told her as she was roughly shoved behind bars. She took another sip of the sad liquid while holding her breath as long as possible.
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A month.
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It had been thirty days since the war room’s door was thrown open. Seven hundred and twenty hours since the royal guards had secured her hands with chains, papers flying everywhere. Forty-three thousand and two hundred minutes since they covered her mouth with cloth. ‘A witch’s tongue,’, they had called it. ‘One that speaks the language of locals and monsters. One who speaks all.’
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A woman that merely took the time to learn the languages of the continents, that is all.
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She chuckled dryly. It was a distorted noise that echoed through the almost desolate place. It started from her chest, went through her throat, then past her deformed tongue. Still hydrated from the cold soup, the tongue was red. If it had been a few weeks prior, one would find her writhing on the ground, twisting in agony as her mouth functioned as a makeshift fountain. Red would’ve been spurting onto the hay and dust, tainting her already-stained armour.
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Her body itched under the armour. It was obviously annoyed by her refusal to remove the heavy iron dyed in brown. Yet if she were to do so, she was certain that she would find countless cuts and scratches surrounded by a sickly-yellow pus. Skin that was once like a noble lady’s would now be rough and peeling. A sense of denial and stubbornness would then shroud her mind and mutter sweet-nothings to keep her armour on.
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The woman inclined her back and let the remaining soup scatter downwards. If her neighbours were still alive, they would’ve spat disgustingly through the bars. Her outfit creaked from the slight movement, and founds of footsteps marching could be heard coming from the distant spiral staircase. Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp. She briefly wondered which of those brash noises came from one’s left feet, and which are from the right.
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But that isn’t anything of importance, is it? Curious how a cell can make one focus on the tiniest of details, yet feel wrapped in cotton at the same time. Similarly, she too, fell victim to a prison’s enticement. Her ears, stuffed with fluffy white knots, are immune to the whispers of her impending death. Her eyes, unfocused like a blind person’s, moves from the window that’s one brick wide to her cell’s lock. And her mouth, robbed of part of its flesh, produced broken vowels and unintelligible syllables.
After her bleeding stopped and when the thinnest of skin grew over her wound, she chanted words, as if taken over by the God of Language. All that she experienced, she spat out of her throbbing mouth, fearing that everything would dissipate the moment silence appears.
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Cells, door, bars, metal, rust, ground, tile, rocks, pebbles, cracks, dust, bricks, window, wall, mould, bed, hay, prisoners, conversations, whispers, teeth, eyes, stares, footsteps, questions, trays, bowl, wood, bread, wheat, grains, spit, vomit, blood, chains, links, cloth, cotton, strings, soup, liquid, moisture, cold. Cold. Cold. Ceiling, cobwebs, screams, orders, violence, status, birth, title, family, sacrifice, envy, pride, values, skills, knowledge, position, earnings, safety, translation, war, maps, letters, fight, contest, meetings, consults, promise, connections, general, help, aid, save, saviour, saviour, betrayal. Quiet. Silence. Scared. So scared--
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Click.
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The key had turned in the lock after four tries. Flinging open the door, the guard that stepped inside was clearly irritated as he threw the keys to his companion without care. His helmet was missing. The interpreter forced her unfocused eyes to his mouth. It was moving.