Perfectly Executed

By Katrina Michelle

I stared at the ax on the table in front of me. Its clean blade gleamed like onyx, the jewel-like embellishments on its worn handle as twisted as my thoughts. Using it made me sick.

The only thing keeping my sanity intact was knowing that the queen’s power, not mine, was what drove it down every day.

I was about to flip the hood of my cloak over my head when a knock came at the door.

“Rorian?”

I released the hood, its heavy material falling back against my shoulders. What was Dafni doing here? Mornings were too busy for visiting.

After returning the ax to its secret compartment behind my clothes dresser, I ran a hand through my hair and opened the door of my peasant home.

There she stood, wrapped in her own cloak. The murmuring crowd flowing in the direction of the castle behind her provided a dreary but familiar backdrop to her soft smile, her bright blue eyes.

Those eyes were the only light in my life.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Well, hello to you too.” She crossed her arms loosely and sighed. “I wanted to catch you before you left for work.”

I leaned against the doorframe and didn’t even try to smile. “I wish I could talk. I even wish I could go to the execution with you. But… I can’t afford to be late.”

Dafni pursed her lips. “It’s such an odd work schedule. Doesn’t your exemption from the mandatory executions defeat the whole purpose of mandatory?”

I shrugged. “The queen’s architect is eccentric and gets what he wants.” My heart twisted, and I reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I really wish you didn’t have to watch that ax fall every day.”

“I feel slightly less sick about it just seeing your face,” she whispered, then leaned forward and pressed a cool hand against my cheek. “You look terrified.”

I closed my eyes, both to shutter the emotion in them and to drink in her touch. How could I give her up?

She doesn’t love you, I told myself. Only the person you pretend to be.

“I’m terrified for you,” I said. “And for whoever is going to die today.” That, at least, was true.

The sudden touch of her lips against mine turned my thoughts to mush, and when she pulled away all she said was, “I’m scared too. But we’re careful. We will survive.”

Minutes after she slipped into the crowd, I fled from the back of the house with the ax hidden under my cloak and the hood pulled low over my eyes.

The queen met me in her courtyard. “You’re late.”

I mumbled an apology and fastened the black cloth that acted as a mask to my face, eliminating any possibility of recognition.

When we reached the double doors, Her Majesty turned to me. “A washerwoman who cleaned within these very walls,” she hissed while the jewels on her gown tinkled like small bells. “Accidentally tripped over my puppy, she claims. But bruises indicate she kicked it.”

My face contorted against the cloth as I removed the ax from under my cloak. Such an inflated punishment for such a minor offense, but not surprising. The victims never deserved death.

You’re insane, I wanted to say. Instead, I cleared my throat and nodded, my grip curled around the handle of the heavy ax.

She flexed her hand to remind me of her power, then glided up the staircase.

As soon I opened the doors, the whispers of the crowd below faded to silence. Goosebumps trailed up my arms as I stepped onto the platform and faced the sea of scared, hateful expressions.

Whose neck in this crowd would be next?

The washerwoman’s bound hands trembled as she knelt at the chopping block, her fingers still red and pruny from a final load of laundry. Sweat-damp strands of hair stuck to her exposed neck.

I couldn’t bear to look at her, so I faced the crowd from under my hood.

A pair of blue eyes shone near the front of the sea. My gloved hand tightened around the ax handle as my gaze skipped away from her tears, but her eyes attracted mine like beacons—if I wasn’t careful, she would recognize me.

In her high, luxurious booth, the queen lifted one hand to initiate the proceedings. A messenger proclaimed the ridiculous charges.

Other than to delay the termination of our relationship, which would be as swift as this blade through flesh and bone, why not let Dafni see my face now?

The queen would curse her executioner for the inconvenience; everyone else would curse the Rorian they thought they knew. But those bright blue eyes deserved the world, and I was sick of hiding my bloodied hands in my pockets. Sick of steeping myself in lies just so the poison of my existence would taste better to everyone else.

Gripped by an urge as irresistible as the queen’s magic, I pulled my hood off and ripped away my mask. As gasps rang through the crowd, I found Dafni’s face again. Her mouth fell open, and her countenance paled.

The truth cut far deeper than the dull weight of the lie—a pain I deserved.

I’m sorry, I mouthed to her, hoping she would understand this was an attempt to turn her future toward real happiness. But she covered her mouth and stumbled back, sinking into the crowd.

In that moment, the queen’s power numbed my arms. I whirled to face the chopping block and, against my will, lifted the ax.

Perhaps tomorrow I could defy Her Majesty and finally die an honest man.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katrina Michelle is a university student doing her best to balance classes with her passion for storytelling. She spends her days studying in pursuit of a Spanish degree, inching through her most recent short story or novel WIP, and devouring books (such a sweet break from academic reading). Her Myers-Briggs type is INFP, and she can’t look at any BBC Merlin pins on Pinterest without feeling suddenly and extremely emotional.

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