The Mask of Mercy
A single lantern flickered against the damp, wood-paneled walls of the Blackwater Inn and Pub, casting long, dancing shadows over the patrons laughing and clinking ale pints together. In the back corner, completely hidden from the tavern’s warm glow, Rhine sat alone with his head bowed over a half-empty glass.
He was drowning his sorrows in the bitter fluid, a nightly ritual that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the staff who watched him slowly decline into drunkenness. As the newly appointed county executioner, his pockets were heavy with coin, but his spirit was entirely empty.
Elma, a seasoned server who had cleared his table for months, stepped into the dark corner and gestured to his glass. “Will that be all for you tonight, Rhine? Or are you aiming to see the bottom of a third barrel?” Rhine didn’t look up, merely sliding the empty mug forward.
“I need another pint, Elma. Fill it to the brim.” Elma sighed, wiping down the scarred oak table with a damp cloth. “Do you spend all your official government pay drinking? Don’t you have a family or a home to support with those bloody wages?”
Rhine let out a heavy, hollow laugh, staring into the dark wood of the table. “I have no family left. Not anymore. You and the rest of the tavern crew are all the family I have now, and given how much you charge for the stout, that isn’t saying much.”
Elma paused, looking down at him with genuine curiosity overriding her irritation. “I have a question, if you don’t mind me asking. Why do you do this to yourself every single night? We appreciate your business, but if you keep up this pace, you’ll rot from the inside out before the year is through.”
Rhine’s polite demeanor suddenly broke. He slammed his heavy fist against the table, rattling the empty glassware and drawing a few quick glances from the nearby dartboard lanes. “I drink because nobody knows who I am!” he yelled, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “They make me wear that suffocating black hood while I work on the gallows, and I get absolutely zero credit. I take immense professional pride in how I perform my duty. No one has ever suffered under my hand.”
Elma rolled her eyes, completely unimpressed by his logic. “How much pride can there really be in cutting people’s heads off for a living?” Rhine leaned forward, his eyes flashing in the lantern light. “Have you ever actually been to a public execution, Elma?
Have you seen how often those amateur axemen butcher the damned? It takes supreme physical skill and precision to remove a human head in one clean, singular blow. That is how I perform. One cut and it’s over. No hacking. No lingering suffering. Not on my watch.”
Rhine slumped back into his chair, his voice dropping to a bitter whisper as he stared at his hands. “And because of that mask, no one knows it was me who showed them that mercy. I get no public credit for my talent. No validation for my skill.” Elma crossed her arms, shaking her head. “So you wallow in pity because you’re not famous?
There is a very good reason why the magistrates force you to wear that hood, Rhine. It’s so the kin of the condemned don’t recognize you in the street and seek revenge. You should be glad they make you wear it. It’s probably saved your life more times than you will ever know.”
Rhine took a slow, deliberate sip of the fresh beer Elma placed before him. “Yes, I understand the security of it. But I am cursed by my own mercy. I am only following the lawful direction of the high court, but I am the best of the best at what I do, and I should be praised for the cleanliness of the stroke.
Instead, I am the Judas everyone despises, but without me, there would be unimaginable pain on that stage.” Elma watched him for a moment, her expression softening. “The common folk don’t see the physics of it, Rhine. All they see is a shadow with an axe cutting off the heads of people they love. They can’t see the man hiding under the wool, so they assume you enjoy the blood. I always did. Until tonight.”
