Today. He would die today. The flyers announced that with perfect clarity. The words were printed boldly on crisp, white, parchment that was handmade with a deckled edge. At sundown he would be executed in the square by the most renowned executioner in the land for being a wanted prisoner of war, who was personally responsible for the attempted murder of the king. The flyers also promised a marvelous pyrotechnic display immediately following the event.
The sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon, and it warmed my back as I hurtled through the empty streets to the town square. I rounded the corner of the last house, and was engulfed in the overwhelming crowd that was anxious to witness the oncoming death. I pushed and stumbled through the mass of bodies desperate to get to the front of the congregation. My efforts were met with grumbles of “watch it!” and “stupid girl”, but most of the people were too preoccupied with the oncoming display to pay me much attention. Fresh air flooded my lungs when I finally broke through the crowd. Across from me women knelt on embroidered hassocks and looked as if they were praying.
An eerie hush fell over the horde of onlookers as the executioner took his place next to the guillotine. The flyers posted all around the city promised an exemplary executor of execution. However, I couldn’t tell if the foreboding murderer was exemplary at his job, or if he was run-of-the-mill, because at that moment he appeared at the end of the aisle leading up to the stage. In dirty clothes and with a hanging head he was slowly led down the aisle, flanked by guards wielding unnecessary weapons. He had no willpower to fight left in him, as he moved under the cold scrutiny of the masses. Seeing him in filthy clothes with a defeated look in his eyes it was easy to imagine him locked in a putrid jail cell. The women across the aisle from me no longer seemed like they were praying, instead they gazed at him as if he were a piece of garbage they were asked to appraise. I fought the urge to punch them.
He stopped feet away from me, causing his guards to slam into him, and lifted his gaze to meet mine. To all the world he had a reputation as a gruesome, soulless, murderer whose death would mean the ending of the Rebellion’s tragic legacy. To me he was not a murder, but a saint. He was a leader. He could unite the most divisive of nations, and never even know it was his doing. The eyes that gazed at me now did not hold the potential for murder. For a single moment they held fear. The moment passed, and our gazes were ripped apart as his guards led him forward. He marched up to the stage ready to relinquish himself to death. He looked broken, not at all how he looked two days ago when he thrust his sword into one of my hands and his cloak into the other and told me it was time for me to destroy the king.
He was never supposed to follow me. He was never supposed to take the blame for my mistake. He was never supposed to die. As he ascended the stairs to the stage I took a deep breath, ran out into the aisle and screamed the most important word I have ever said in my entire life. “STOP!”