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Joss never liked preparing for an execution, but that morning was different. There was lightheartedness in her actions, and as she laced up her vest, she found herself humming. There was nothing to be particularly excited about, but the previous evening had been a good distraction.
With Aric’s help, the laundry was hung high in front of the hearth by way of a rope they secured. The evening passed by quietly with small talk and general conversations until Aric took an interest in her father’s old chess set. They spent the better part of the night playing at the table while listening to the slow rhythm of rain as Henrik fiddled on his lute in one of the plush chairs. He had taken his gloves off to play like he normally did, which surprised Joss since he never took his gloves off around strangers. She smiled at the thought again, happy that Henrik felt so content around someone besides her.
As Joss pulled on her boots, she realized it had been nice having Aric around. Even when the messenger knocked on the door, disturbing their solitude to tell her the time of the execution, she found that Aric treated the situation as if it were Hodgson coming back to ask for more help.
“You have an execution tomorrow?” was the only question he asked on the subject. When she said she did, he simply nodded before falling back to the game, his entire demeanor unfazed by the fact she would be killing someone tomorrow at 10 o’clock.
She liked that, being able to go back to being a normal person.
Doing one last mental check that she was ready—dressed, cloaked, small pistol snug in her boot—she tied her hair back and then made her way downstairs to find Aric fully dressed and eating another bowl of porridge as Henrik tidied up a bit, his way of settling his nerves before seeing someone die. Aric was wearing different clothes since the creek incident, and instead of the shirt and pants that were Flynn’s, he had opted to wear a worn black shirt that had been her father’s, the last of his shirts she could donate. The fact Aric had his old pants on made her hesitant, another sign that their days together were numbered. The stitches could be taken out by anyone, even himself, so his reliance on them was growing thin, if it hadn’t evaporated completely.
“Will you be all right for a while?” Joss asked him as she took her ax out of the armoire, the blade sealed in its leather holding.
Aric looked at the ax and then back at her, something curious in his eyes that he smiled off. “Oh, I’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “I might borrow some of these books to read, if that’s okay?”
“Of course.” Joss grinned as Henrik flitted around before coming to stand next to her, giving up on his stalling techniques.
“I better go hitch Bluebelle now,” he commented, and as he stared out the window he snapped awake, moving out the door and towards the barn.
“Is he okay?” Aric asked, pointing his spoon in the lad’s direction.
“Oddly, yes,” Joss replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“Are you two usually this early for these types of things?” Aric asked, getting up gingerly before taking his bowl to the kitchen.
“We have to prepare the area,” Joss explained, seeing his movements were much more fluid.
Aric turned back around, seeing how quiet the place was without them. Drawing to the table, he leaned against it with his arms folded, looking at Joss who stared back.
“So...” she said, unable to find anything important to say.
Aric grinned. “So. Be ready for another round of chess when you get back. I won’t let you win so easily this time.”
The words somehow lifted a weight from her, and she nodded in agreement as she pulled the hood on, happy she’d be able to have at least one more night with him. Just one more; she didn’t need to be greedy.
Turning away, she stepped out into the damp morning, a light rain misting the air. Henrik had the mare hitched to the wagon and had just saddled Drakon. “You didn’t have to,” Joss reminded him.
“I needed something to do,” Henrik mumbled, turning to climb into the wagon and then tightening his cloak around him.
Joss shook her head at him but was too busy stealing a glance at the window, seeing Aric’s silhouette watching them. Containing her enthusiasm, she mounted Drakon, urging him forward to follow the wagon that Henrik directed out of the yard. As they passed the cottage, Joss looked back at the window, holding her hand up and waving to Aric who mimicked her gesture.
Once she was gone, Aric slowly lowered his hand, feeling remorseful. He waited a few minutes to make sure no one was making a sudden return, and then went to retrieve a spare cloak from the armoire and then his crossbow from under the bed. For the first time in his career, he really hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
Town Hall was a deceiving place. While it looked like a long rectangular building, there was a courtyard built right in the middle of the structure for such occasions as this one. In the old days, private executions were merely taken out into the woods or by the edge of the river. Of course they were never quite private since word would often slip out and a small crowd would find its way to spy. Ever since the idea of having a building for Town Hall to roost had sprung up, there was always going to be a courtyard for these types of matters.
Joss surveyed that very area much like how she assumed her ancestors did: with a bit of silent distaste. Nothing grew there, and all that covered the ground was gravel that made a few walkers sound like a stampede by how the tiny rocks would crunch under their boots. Upon the second floor was a shallow balcony that circled all the way around, shielded by the tile roof to box them in. There were only two ways of getting in and out: the double doors directly in front and a grated gate off to the right side, where the prisoners would be escorted from the jailhouse. Looking at it, she swore she smelled the foul stench of the prisoners below.
The center of the courtyard was where she stood, on the deck of the gallows that stood as the only ornament in the bare space. This one was miniature compared to the town square gallows, the large beam overhead only long enough to hold one person. While the one in town square could hang up to three people at a time, the gallows Joss stood on had only the one hatch, which she came early to inspect.
She and Henrik had tested four bags of sand, making sure everything would run smoothly, before Lord Vaspin trudged towards them, the crunching of the gravel giving him away. “It’s about time,” he announced. “Are we ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Joss confirmed over the railing as Henrik was untying the sandbag now suspended underneath the platform.
“Good, good,” Lord Vaspin nodded. “I’ll have him sent for.”
As he walked away, Joss went back to the hatch and glanced down, finding that Henrik finally undid the bag. “Ready?” she asked him, causing him to look up.
“As always.” He tried to smile, out of breath as he hoisted the sandbag onto his shoulder and disappeared underneath the platform. Joss caught sight of the straw he had placed in the area to soak up any blood or fluids. Not wanting to dwell on something that would be coming soon enough, she bent down and pulled the door of the hatch up, securing it on the latch that the lever would unlock.
Getting back to her feet, she began retying the rope, remembering how tall the prisoner was. She sensed the drop would be short due to his height. If she kept the rope the way it was, he’d have a chance for his feet to touch the ground and there’d be no point to it all. No, she had to shorten it, knowing full well it meant the drop wouldn’t be able to snap his neck. His death would be by suffocation, if left that way. It was in situations like this that Henrik would step in, slipping the end of the knife he carried up into the prisoner’s side, stabbing them in the lung. Death would quickly follow.
That’s why he had been so preoccupied, knowing too that the prisoner’s height would cause him to have to participate.
Satisfied with the length, she began making the hangman’s knot her father taught her. She kept her eyes on her work, making sure it was done right so it would catch and not unravel. Once done to her liking, she positioned herself on the other side of the railing where she had left her ax, unsheathed and waiting as a backup. By that point Henrik had returned, jogging up the steps so he wouldn’t be late.
The two waited side by side, listening for any sounds that would foretell the men’s arrival. So far all they were met with were a couple birds chirping as they flew by overhead, and the distant sound of the town around them that was muffled but not snuffed out.
“You have your knife?” Joss asked, going over the checklist in her mind.
Henrik nodded, feeling the blade snug in his boot, much like Joss felt her pistol. Both had long since discarded their cloaks, rolling them up and storing them in the back of the wagon for safekeeping. Given the manual labor they endured to prepare for the execution, they knew the cloaks would only get in the way, despite the light chill in the air.
Joss didn’t say any more, knowing he was already dreading the coming situation.
“What if it is him?” murmured Henrik, his eyes still staring at the gate.
Joss side-eyed him before following his gaze, waiting as hesitantly as him for the prisoner who was convinced he was a prince.
“What would the king do to us?”
Joss thought about the question. “Depends on how merciful he wants to be that day,” she guessed, knowing that, when it came to kings, the law could sometimes swing depending on their moods. The king of Aselian wasn’t exactly known for always being cool-headed.
She heard Henrik swallow hard, his gaze falling to the ground as he shifted in place. He was more nervous than usual, and she knew it was his assumptions getting in the way. There was nothing she could do to comfort him, knowing only that they had a job to do. So instead, she closed her eyes and tried to settle her mind like she did before a difficult beheading.
Out of nowhere, the loud screeching hinges of the gates being opened rattled into Joss’s mind. Her eyes opened to find the prisoner, still gagged, being escorted from the gateway. He remained in normal clothes, no white garments like usual. No chaplains accompanied him; only the same two guards as before. Despite his fate, the prisoner moved with a confident stride, as if there was no other way for him to walk. Joss had to admire it; even the nobles in Galmoor didn’t have that type of air about them.
As he trudged up the steps, Joss met him at the top, the two guards eyeing them before accepting that he wasn’t going anywhere. While he walked with confidence, she witnessed the defeat in his brow, furrowed and strained. He didn’t look at her, though; his gaze stayed down almost defiantly.
Used to the reaction, Joss extended a hand, showing him where he needed to stand. Blowing hard through his nose, he conceded, following her instructions until he was standing in front of the hanging noose.
Following tradition, Joss reached to take the gag off when suddenly Lord Wolburn’s voice lashed out, jolting her from the cloth.
“Leave it be.”
Joss immediately saw him on the balcony, his hands against the railing. She noticed that the two guards had parted, each standing closer to the two entranceways. Lowering her hands, she couldn’t help but squeeze the prisoner’s shoulder, her way of saying sorry.
The act caught him off guard, which she noticed by how he looked at her, clearly distraught.
“Proceed, Master Brevyn,” Lord Wolburn called out.
“Should we not wait for the others, my lord?” she called back, never proceeding with an execution without the council’s or Quinn’s presence. Even Lord Vaspin had somehow disappeared.
There was a moment of eerie silence, and for some reason Joss felt she had said something wrong.
“Proceed,” he said deliberately, a hint of a growl in his tone.
Knowing better than to question him again, she went to work, moving the noose so the prisoner could stand in the center of the hatch. He did so obediently, though his movements were now stiff. He closed his beautiful dark eyes as she draped the noose around his neck; his breaths became heavier as she tightened it, fitting it snuggly against his skin.
That’s when the screaming started.
It was in the distance, somewhere in the corridors of the building, filtering through open windows and doors. Someone was running, the footsteps now apparent as they became an echoing mismatched against the screams.
“Pardon!”
The voice became clearer, and Joss and Henrik both looked in the direction it came from. The prisoner began to mumble against the gag, something in him igniting as he shifted in place, ready to be released.
“The pardon came—”
The words were abruptly cut off, no other sound following it.
The three on the gallows stared, waiting for more. As she searched silently around, Joss realized that Lord Wolburn hadn’t moved. Neither did the guards, acting like nothing had happened.
“Master Brevyn,” Lord Wolburn said again, his voice neutral. “Proceed.”
Joss opened her mouth to object but found her voice was gone, much like the messenger. Hearing her heart in her chest, she turned to find Henrik looking back at her, wide-eyed and shaking his head. She then glanced at the prisoner, seeing him much differently now. He squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth clenched against the gag, and when he opened his eyes and looked back at her, she realized the look he held was of both anger and hopelessness.
“Master Brevyn!”
Joss shuddered from the sudden outburst, and pivoting enough to see Lord Wolburn, she cleared her throat. “Proceeding, my lord,” she confirmed, sounding as convincing as she could. But when she turned her back to their audience and pretended to nod to Henrik so he’d take his position, she mouthed, “Wait.”
Realizing what she was saying, Henrik bowed before proceeding down to stand underneath the platform, playing along to the charade.
When she looked back at the prisoner, she found that he caught their exchange. His eyebrow raised slightly, skeptical of the interaction. He wanted to believe something, but she found that betrayal had made him deeply pessimistic.
Her feet moved her to the lever, her hand gripping the handle as she faced forward again, the prisoner now in front of her.
His neck won’t break, his neck won’t break, she was telling herself, knowing the ax was right behind her now.
There was a moment of terror as she took a sharp breath in. “Your Highness?” she breathed out, torn between a hiss and a whisper.
Hearing the words made his head instantly perk up, as if hearing an old nickname that he missed.
“Don’t panic,” she instructed, and then pulled the lever.
