Ash Grey

The problem with executions is that no one ever considers how uncomfortable the ropes are.

They itch. They chafe. They cut into the wrists in a way that feels both overly intimate and also deeply insulting. If one was going to die, one would at least expect a certain amount of dignity. I glanced down at the thick, coarse bindings at my wrists and sighed.

“You’d think for a state-sanctioned killing you’d splurge a little”, I muttered.

The crowd didn’t appreciate the commentary. A few murmurs rippled threw the audience, followed by a sharp cough from the priest standing besides the platform. He avoided my eyes like I carried something contagious. Which to be fair, I often did – usually sarcasm.

The executioner shifted uncomfortably behind me. Big guy. Wide shoulders. Looked like someone who enjoyed his breakfast. I could hear him breathing deep behind his black hood.

Chop-chop then? I tilted my head back slightly. “Are you always this tense before executions, or am I special?”

No answer.

What a shame. I was hoping for banter.

My gaze drifted over the gathered crowd. It was, as always, pretty colorful. Farmers, merchants, soldiers, some bored-looking nobles who probably only came for the novelty. Some looked angry, some satisfied, some just curious. But no one looked particularly guilty about watching a stranger getting killed, which was rude but predictable.

To my left, leaning lazily against the foot of the platform as if all this was just a performance, was my estoc.

My beloved, beautiful, perfectly balanced estoc.

Confiscated, of course. Stripped from me with the ceremony of a drunk removing a boot. Now it lay there, glinting faintly in the morning light, just close enough to taunt me, just far enough to make a point.

I gave it a fond look.Don’t worry. I’ll come get you.

The officer stepped forward, puffing out his chest. “Ash Grey, you have been found guilty of-”

“Yes, yes,”, I interrupted. “Crimes, misdeeds, morally ambiguous behavior, poor life choices. You have rehearsed this part, I’m sure.”

A few gasps. Always those gasps. A solider scowled. The officer reddened.

“You will show respect in your final moments!”, he snapped.

I smiled over my shoulder. “I mean, personally, I was hoping for some enthusiasm, but respect feels like a stretch.”

He turned a brilliant shade of offended and waved angrily. “Whatever, get on with it.”

The executioner raised his axe.

And there it was. The moment of silence. The dramatic pause before the end. Every good story has one. I always imagined mine involving candlelight and something expensive to drink, but here we are.

The axe whistled through the air.

That was my cue.

I dropped.

The axe sailed cleanly over where my neck had just been and hit the wood below with a satisfying thud. At the same moment I twisted my wrists inward, slipping my thumbs through the one gap I’ve been working on for the last ten minutes. The ropes loosened just enough for me to be able to wrench my hands free with a quick snap of fibers.

Everyone erupted.

I spun, seized the executioners wrist before he could recover, and used his momentum to deliver him, with a well trained throw, right into the crowd.

“Sorry,” I yelled after him. “It’s nothing personal.”

Then I lunged off the platform.

Straight toward my sword.

The officer screamed something about archers. I didn’t really care. It’s always the management type who panic first.

My hand closed firmly about the familiar grip of my estoc, a warmth and balance settling in, similar to the feeling of greeting an old friend.

“There you are”, I murmured.

A sense of calm rushed over me. Those where terrible circumstances, really, but it’s amazing how much serenity a good weapon provides.

Two soldiers charged toward me. I quickly stepped aside, letting my estoc flick out, knocking one spear out of my way and nudging the other man’s knee just hard enough to fold him down.

I could hear boots pounding, voices barking orders, the clatter of armor, the angry screaming of a merchant who had made the mistake of standing too close to the action.

An arrow shot into the wood besides my head. I glanced at it, then at the wall the archers stood ontop.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

They did not find me charming.

I sprinted, my boots pounding across the cobblestone towards a narrow ally at the edge of the square. I made a sharp turn, leaping into a dark corner. Suddenly, the chaos dulled behind me, replaced by a sense of calm and quiet.

I slowed to a jog, then a walk, my fingers brushing the pommel of my estoc as if reassuring myself it was still there.

I paused in a small, forgotten corner where moss crept over cracked stone and old dust hung in the air. The noise of pursuit echoed faintly a few streets away, but they were already loosing tempo.

Amateurs.

I leaned against the wall and ran a hand through my hair, letting out a quiet breath.

From somewhere nearby, a loose shutter creaked in the breeze. I tilted my head, listening. No immediate footsteps. No heavy breathing. No idiot guard announcing their position with clanking armor.

Peaceful, in its own bizarre way.

I checked my sword, brushing away imaginary dust.

“Still looking good.”, I told it. “We should go someplace nicer next time”

If a weapon could roll its eyes, I imagine this one would.

I pushed off the wall and started walking towards the mouth of the alley. Somewhere behind me, the city roared with frustration. Orders would be screamed. Descriptions would be hung out. Bounties would be discussed.

All very tedious.

But for now? For now, I was alive. Alive, and desperately in need of a drink.

I stepped into the morning light, my lips tugging into a faint, proud smile.

Execution avoided.

Honestly, I should start charging for this.