Episode 28 -- The Face of Death

At least I will have Lexa’s respect when I die.

After a considerable wait in line as lesser felons met their fate, Gundar’s turn had come. The king’s herald was describing in loving detail the punishment merited by the crime of high treason. Gundar had retreated deep within himself as he had trained himself to do when facing pain or reprimands. He shut out everything around him, concentrating on maintaining his demeanor completely impassive and thinking pleasant thoughts. He was vaguely aware that what was coming involved metal spikes, pincers, and phosphorus fire; but he did not allow his imagination to dwell on it. In this moment of supreme detachment, he was almost glad that the end was imminent.

His spent body was spattered with spittle, excrement and rotten fruit – a humiliation that could be wiped out only by death, As soon as he had made himself known to the king’s men, they had stripped him naked and staked him in the town square for the sport of the citizens. Guards stood by, joking with his tormentors, intervening only to ensure that he was not slain before the proper time. Had he known the custom, he would have delayed his surrender until the last minute. He had expected to spend his last hours in peace, meditating on the rhythms of the universe and preparing himself to face the end of his mortal existence, perhaps enjoying a fine final meal or even sport with a willing woman. Instead, he was relentlessly jeered and badgered by the rabble.

The only bright moment in his torment had been a visitation from Lexa in the dark hours of the night. At first, he had thought he was dreaming. Somehow, she had managed to bribe or charm the guards into allowing her a few moments with him. She had brought him cool water mixed with soothing herbs, scolding him gently as she held it to his cracked lips.

"Honour!" she snorted in a whisper. "You warriors think of nothing else – no common sense whatsoever! What good will you be to anyone dead?"

"You would do the same," Gundar answered, knowing it was true. She said nothing more, but stroked his hair gently, kissed his cheek, and disappeared into the shadows, leaving a trace of her tears on his face.

Indeed, death would be a boon. No more struggles, no more hard decisions, no more guilt – just blessed oblivion. If his vision was true, he would be joining Lili in the Rhydamanth Fields – or perhaps he would earn a place in the warriors’ preserve with his father Baldur. Feasting and playing and wenching might become dull over time, but at least he would be out of the reach of further shame. He did not expect to merit immortalization by the scauldir, but he wished to be remembered for a time. Hopefully, the storytellers who recounted Gundar’s tale would be both truthful and gentle.

"Come now – ‘tis your moment to shine," the guard on his left said, grabbing his elbow. The man on Gundar’s right gripped his other elbow, and they half-pushed, half carried him up the stairs of the platform where the executioners waited. There were six of them, their faces covered in black hoods and their powerfully muscled chests glistening with oil as they completed their final inspection of the tools of their trade.

Gundar tried to move with dignity, but it was impossible. His feet seemed to have turned to stone, and he stumbled on the stairs. His guards pulled him onto the platform with practised ease. Gundar bit his lip, praying he would not lose control of his bowels. If only he could be blessed with a vision now! The reality he faced was too horrible to endure.

I have acted honourably, he reminded himself, clenching his bound hands. I die a man, worthy of Lexa’s respect. Who knows – perhaps she will mourn me as I mourned Lili.

His brave self-talk failed him. Fear washed over him in a colossal wave, capsizing his resolve and drowning his courage.. He would have done anything to escape.

"Hold!" A woman’s scream cut through the excited babble of the crowd. "Mercy! Your majesty! Mercy!"

Gundar tried to turn around to see who was calling, but his guards held him firmly in place. He heard steps bounding onto the platform. A moment later, he was enveloped in Marcelle’s arms.

"Begone, woman!" one of the guards growled, trying to pull her away..

"Spare him!" she cried, tightening her grip.

"He is a traitor to the crown," the other said. "He deserves no mercy. It does you no honour to beg."

"He must live!" Marcelle cried. "I invoke Geryon’s Decree of Patriarchal Succor! I am carrying this man’s child!"