Author #1
Antoine stands by the little window and gazes down at the square below. A small crowd has gathered – early-comers who want a place near the front. The soldiers are there as well, patrolling the scaffold. For the moment it is quiet, but the gathering is growing. Soon it will become a throng, then a mob.
Antoine grips a folded piece parchment, his knuckles white. The city’s bells chime and peel, their sound reverberates around the room. It is half-past the hour. He looks down, and opens the worn page.
My dearest, it begins, in her clean script.
Know first that I love you. Of all those who have come to pay me court, who have flocked to my father’s door desiring my hand, none compares to you. I would have you at my side in front of the alter, and swear my life to you, and hear you swear your life to me. I know you feel the same. We have only met in public, yet you declare your passion in a hundred ways, with every turn of your head and passing glance. You are always there, watching, my faithful shadow. I have hoarded each and every moment. I have pressed them in my mind, and they are perfectly preserved.
He hears her voice speaking to him, echoing inside his head, bright and clear.
I love you with all my heart. There is none other who I love more. I hold you in greater affection than my father, I yearn for you more fiercely than I do my dear departed mother, and my brothers and sisters are pale and insignificant next to your radiance.
He has read these words a hundred times, and more. Despite his prayers they have never changed.
Oh my love, I hesitate to write, but there can be no secrets between us, my friend and helper, my soul’s companion. I can only hope that you will find forgiveness in your heart for what I have done.
The ground is pulled anew from beneath his feet.
I follow the old faith, the faith of our forefathers. I know of our planned assault on the Holy City, and I have gone with warning. By the time you receive this I will be on a boat, ahead of our forces. I will not allow the City to be ransacked as my father and his ilk have desecrated our fair home. For this I will be called a traitor.
A silent tear trickles down his cheek. It is not alone.
When this calamity is over, come to me. If you wish to bring me back, to face justice, I will be obedient to you, the man whom I consider to be my lord and husband. For you there is nothing I would not do.
The missive closes simply, Your true love
Forewarned is forearmed. The expedition, the cleansing scourge was ambushed outside the City. It was not a battle, it was an annihilation. Antoine remembered he had been so very angry, had felt betrayed, and had brazenly declared he would return with the traitor in tow.
A man coughs, and Antoine blinks the mist from his eyes. “Sir, we are ready.”
Antoine regards his companions. “We are all agreed?” They nod their assent. “Then to your posts. I will join you, later.” They file from the room.
Antoine looks back out of the window. The mob fills the entire square, and is still being fed by the streets. The officials have taken their places. The sound is louder, more insistent.
They had met again in the Holy City, in a house she had been given. She had been waiting for him. When she saw him she flung herself at him, and held him, and in those clasping arms his anger had dissipated, but his duty remained. They had talked then of love, consummated their passion, and when he told her he must take her back she had agreed.
The drummers rattle their instruments, and the noise reaches a crescendo. From the side tower a door opens, and she is hustled into the light, onto the stage.
They had shared their lives on the journey home, and had never talked about what would follow. She knew, as well as he, their fantasy was finite. Only at the end, while they were waiting for the soldiers to come and arrest her, did she turn to him. “Do not abandon me!”
She suffered that night, the first measure of her punishment. He knew, he had been there. Her capture had brought him a certain fame, prestige enough to get his way. He spent most his time outside her cell. He hoped he had dampened the gaolers little entertainments.
She is thinner than she had been. He could not prevent everything, and the months have taken their toll. At the roar of the mob she falters, casts her eyes about, frantic. She looks up, searching, and their eyes meet. His heart stops. He sees her dread bleed away. She smiles for him then, and walks unafraid to the hooded man. He cannot tell what it is she says to the headsman, but he can guess. In the long nights, and longer days, beneath the city’s streets she has had one constant refrain: I forgive.
“I am surprised to find you here,” a harsh voice interrupts. Antoine snaps his head around. “After all, you have scarcely been parted from that whore,” his uncle continues.
“I can watch well enough from here,” he replies. His uncle goes to another window, and grins at the sight.
“Three days, and we move,” his uncle says.
“Move?”
“To continue with the revolution,” his uncle explains. She refuses the blindfold, and kneels in front of the block. “With her father disgraced, and the opposition in shambles, we will eject the so-called moderates and cure the state of their corruption.” His uncle’s smile grows. “Her father will be among the first.” He breathes heavily at the prospect.
The drummers increase their tempo a second time. The crowd falls silent. She places her head on the wooden surface.
This last week they have left alone, so that she would be presentable for her final outing, and last night, for a few moments, they had been alone.
“Antoine,” she had begged.
“Hush,” he replied. “I am here. I will be nearby. Tomorrow, look up.”
“Do not betray me,” she had pleaded.
He had touched her then, and made a forbidden sign. He had not been idle with his time. Against his chest for the first time in years is his grandfather’s crucifix.
The axe rises, and descends in a perfect arc. The executioner knows his trade, and severs her head with a single slice. The drums stop, and the mob stays silent.
Antoine glances at his uncle, and slides a dagger from its sheath. His uncle frowns, scenting something is amiss. Antoine waits, prays, and hopes.
The mob roars, presses against the soldiers, tears at them, hacks at them, and breaks their fragile cordon. They pour onto the platform, and hoist the judge aloft, a rope ready for his neck.
“Antoine,” his uncle begins, a note of worry in his voice.
Antoine takes a single step and rams the dagger into his uncle’s chest. He staggers and slumps into a chair. He looks at his nephew with disbelieving eyes. “Why?” he asks, fumbling at the hilt.
“For her,” he replies. He takes out his cross. “For the faith.” His uncle looks shocked, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend. Antoine crouches close, and says. “She is the martyr who by her death will bring you down.” He reaches over and pushes open a window, letting in the sounds of a riot. “Your revolution is over,” he says. “A new revolution has just begun.” He stands, and walks towards the door.
His uncle launches himself from the chair. “You traitor!” he yells. “You treasonmonger!” He coughs, and blood spews from his mouth. He falls, and grabs the table. He tries to pull himself up.
Antoine looks back. “I am,” he agrees. “As were you uncle, in your time.” He leaves the room, and closes the door. His uncle loses his grip, and slips to the floor. For a few minutes he jerks as he struggles, a fighter to the end, and then the spasms cease.
Thank you to everyone that requested a slot. If you did not make it this time, a new round starts next month on April 1st and we would love to include you!
