Vindicate

This man though, he had something about him that was unnatural. Not that he held any magical prowess, or that he was an imposing beast of a man. No, he is nothing more then a pick-pocket, good with a knife, but nothing spectacular. It was more in the way he carried himself. The way that despite the fact that, even now, as he walks towards the court where all of us are painfully aware that he will be sentenced to death, he walks with his head held high. Considering the charges lay against him, it will probably be a beheading in the main square outside the palace.

A shame really. Before the kings recent binge in the extinguishing of life, our city was the most pristine in the land. Truly a sight that never failed to rob one of their breath. Even those of us who had lived here all our lives could be moved to tears from the beauty of it. Those same people are still moved to tears today, but not from the weep of joy. It is the weep of a man who must watch as his lover slowly dies, while he can do nothing to help her or ease her pain. Tears of frustration, of helplessness, of such utter grief that one would think that the very gods had come down and cursed them personally. Maybe the gods have done just that to our city. Are we doomed to watch all that which we held dear slowly decay under the weight and stench of blood and gore? Did we bring this upon ourselves?

—

Just as most of us had assumed, the pick-pocket is to be sentenced to yet another public execution in the square. The reason of course, is treason. I find myself wondering recently if he and all the other rebels are really the traitors, or if it is we who still follow the king that are the villain in it all. We arrest the innocent; we kill them under the kings will, but is that will sound? Have any of them done what the King says they have?

Again he holds himself with that quiet grace that we all find so unsettling, but there is something different. His eyes no longer hold within them the same spark that was contained with such reckless abandon a short while ago. His eyes are cold now, hard. He holds his head high still, and refuses to look away to those who dare to stare him down. More then one guard has had to glance away for the guilt they feel building within their very being. The last weapon of a man condemned. Does he feel some sort of twisted sense of pleasure, of entertainment as everyone around him squirms?

It’s his calm that throws us all so harshly. This is what sets him apart from the others we’ve ‘contained’. They all either weep like a new born child who knows not their parents, or rave like a man who has glimpse the mind of a god, who spout out incoherent drivel at the best of times. Some even rip at the bars, the walls, even themselves in a blind rage at the thought of their life being cut so violently short.

Not him. He sits there humming a tune, or trying to converse with the guards as if nothing were the matter and that his being held here was but a mere accident that would be corrected within the hour. Still though, it’s his eyes. It’s all a pantomime I know, for as I watch him I see the cold sweat beading along his hairline. I see the tremor in his hand that he cannot seem to banish. I hear the crack in his voice he covers up with a cough. I notice how he constantly paces back and forth, always moving. So much so that I would think the man could be a river, should he ever become a part of the Earth.

—

The pick-pockets day has come. He has but hours left to live, and I chafe. I chafe for the fact that I feel he was doing nothing but trying to help the city he has come to love, much like the rest of us; much like I have. When I joined the King’s ranks, I did so with the romantic notion of protecting the city I had lived in all my life; the city I had come to love as dearly as any parent; the place that I called home. What happened to that I wonder? Have I been so drawn into the motions of the job that I have forgotten the reason I had joined to begin with? Have I, in my own small way, become no better then the raving King I so respected long ago?

Maybe insanity is contagious, and I am as sick as all the others.

I pull out the keys to the pick-pockets’ cell. For the first time, I take a look at that which have been the tool of so many peoples’ destruction. Cold, hard, every nick and crack is filled with grime, dirt; there are even spots of dried blood on some of them, the keys where the more… spirited… individuals were kept. They repulse me now, but they serve their purpose silently, without complaint.

I insert the key into the now rusting lock of his cell. The lock screams its outrage at its use, so seemingly unwilling to be a part of the horrors that it has been in the past. The cell door swings open, and there he is, standing. He doesn’t dive for the door, he doesn’t scream his outrage, nor does he weep like all the others. He stands there, so strong despite the weight of all that he knows is about to happen.

“Come along now, it’s time for you to go.” I state as I stand aside to let him escape from his cell, where I am sure he could barely breathe with all the dark thoughts that pollute the room. As we walk down the hall, I grab his meager possessions, and bring them along. “I’ll at least let you die in the same state in which you lived.” I mutter as we walk past the last check point.

He gives me a look that could break even the stoniest of hearts.

“Thank you. That is more then I would expect from his graciousness, the King.” Even as he says this, he cannot completely hide the contempt in his voice, nor the sneer that crosses his face. I don’t blame him; he has every right to curse the king. Most of us do. This whole city has that right.

We approach the door to the courtyard, and I see that for a brief instant, a mere iota of time, he falters. That spark in his eyes returns in a flash, and dissipates just as quickly. For that brief moment, he cannot believe what is happening, he doubts everything as it is happening. He wonders if it’s worth his very life, and in that same instant, he knows his answer.

He adjusts his shirt, smooths his hair, and prepares himself to die for what he believes in.

I open the door, and the cool demeanor he had himself so well entrenched in slips away. We’re in the entrance to an alley. Human refuse and byproduct fills the air with a nigh-ungodly sent. The heat of the day does little help other then to keep the air heavy, and the smell low. Those in the spires will never notice, to which their blissful ignorance only perpetuates.

“What is this?” He blurts out, his mouth agape. He looks around in wide-eyed disbelief, like that of a child entering a candy shoppe for the first time.

“My own redemption,” I say as I pull out the keys, the very embodiment of everything I had come to despise. “Take the keys, and go. Do what I… What all of us are too terrified to do. Fight for our city. Free it from the death march it seems so content to continue on with. I will not stand by as my home crumbles and turns in upon itself.”

That hard look has returned to his face, and his eyes betray no emotion. All I can see within them is a reflection of myself. That same look graces my own face.
We can hear yelling from down the hallway, and the scuffling of boots as those who have caught onto my plan race to stop that which is already too late.

“You’ll die, you know this right?”

“I made my choice. Take the keys and go.” I drop the keys into his hand, and he flees the scene with a speed born of fear, of exhilaration, of a man living on the grace of the gods.

“Let my choice be not in vain.”

The guards show up and run me down without a second thought, possibly without even a first. It may be all instinct at this point. They disarm me, and force me at sword-point to the kings’ court. The King screams his rages at me, his curses at me, all his hatred and malice at me. Were I any other man in that room, I would have had to turn my head from the shear detestation that emanated from the man in palatable waves. All his hate fell upon deaf ears though, and I return to him the stare I learnt so well from the pick-pocket. He accuses me in being in league with the rebels, and I have been for months, feeding them information. A complete and unnecessary action on his part as no one believed an acidic word that dripped from his frothing lips, and no one would challenge him anyways. Who would defend a man condemned?

Other then myself.

—

It seems my last day has come. I sit in the very cell that he was contained in. I found it to be fitting that we trade places so readily. None of the guards can look at me now, and those that do stare at me as if I am already dead. Many were one time friends, some from childhood even, but none will look at me. None will fight for me. I’m just another criminal to them now. Already I can hear the rumors in the air like a perfume of a love long past; bittersweet. It has grown to be a harrowing escape wherein the pick-pocket and myself fought our way through nine or ten guards, and ending with the pick-pocket abandoning me when I was caught. I won’t correct them, I’d rather the story grow into a legend to shake what they believe in.

The lock screams once more in bitter outrage at the system it finds itself in. The door swings open, and I am dragged to my feet. I shake off their grips and hold my head high, strong. I want nothing less then to be treated like the man that I am; a man of purpose, a man of dignity; a man walking towards his own self-imposed vindication. Suddenly I know how he felt. The feeling is like no other. A total calm, a resolve in what you are doing.

I hold myself with quiet dignity as they open the doors to the courtyard. So many times I’ve gone through these motions and it was all so routine, yet this is the first time I could feel everything. I could smell the stale sweat and blood in the air. I could hear the screams or hate and sorrow of those who came to watch. I can feel the wind as is teases through my hair, giving me one last moment of solace and care-free pleasure in my ever-shortening life.

I stand before the King now; two men: one holding all the power, and the other seemingly none. He reads off the charges laid against me and grants me leave to speak my last words, and I stare into his eyes with an intensity I didn’t know I possessed.

I stare into him for what seems like an eternity, though in actuality it could have been no more then a second or two. In that moment, we clashed. Our stares fought like two souls on a battle field who have everything to lose. I can have the satisfaction of knowing that that shook him. Never had he been forced to do that. Never had he been forced to look at the people he condemned in the eyes. Never had he been forced to see the evil he had become.

He blinked first, and we both knew it.

I turn to the people, who have gone quiet as they wait for me to scream my hatred, scream my injustice to them, at them, at the very world. I hold no malice though, no hate. I have no reason to scream, to rant and rave like a man possessed.

“I chose this path, and I stand firm upon its trail. I love this city as much as I could ever love anything, and I did what I felt was right for the good of the city. I would not change my actions were I given the chance to do so. I die a man of resolve, a man of dignity. A man no more, and no less then that of you and your protectors.” My voice rings out in the square. The world has gone silent. No creature stirs, no child wails, the wind too, has gone still. My voice echo’s like a penny dropped into a well; haunting, distorted, as it rebounds off of every surface, every facet of the city I so cared for.

Emerging from what seemed an eternity of agonizing silence, the world resumes from where it had stopped, and I am placed on the block that is already slick with the blood of others. How much of this blood did I assist in spilling?

I hear the executioner pace towards me. I turn my head to face him. He, like all the others, falters under my gaze. He doesn’t agree with this anymore then I do, yet he will do his job. I can respect that, and I should expect no less. I scan the crowd for nothing more then for something to do. There he is; the pick-pocket. He stands in the front row, and stares at me. No smile graces his lips, no cries of anguish escape his lips, yet I can feel his gratitude, hear it even as clear as if he here inches from me, talking. No one recognizes him, though he stands mere feet from guards. To them, he is just another street urchin.

I turn my head and glance one last time at the King. Gone is my respect for him, gone is the fear that he used to inspire in me. All that I feel for him, for everyone, is a deep sadness and a pity for what they have, do, and will have to endure. A smile breaks the calm of my face, and I see it shake him to the core. I see him notice for the first time that he has no power over me, that even as I die, I die a man devoid of his influence.

I hear the grunt of the executioner and the scrape of the axe across the pave stones. I see the flash of light at he raises it. I feel the blade tickle the hairs on the nape of my neck. So gentle, like the kiss of a lover gone a lifetime, and freshly returned, as if we had never parted. Just as quickly as it came, it left and I am left with a sense of complete serenity, all the doubt gone from my mind, all the guesswork of life has fled. The only thought left was ‘I’m about to die’ and my acceptance therein. My expression remains placid even as the axe that once had the touch of a lover rips through my neck with military-esque precision.

Actually, I did have one more thought. For in that last, fateful moment, the spark I remember so clearly from his face, that hint of doubt, flared in my eyes.

Would I die in vain?