Chapter 1: The End of His Day

November 9, 2011 at 7:40 am (Fantasy, medieval, short stories)

Castor was chained and he was dragged along the way into the clearing. The crowd was swarming, reproaching and cursing him as if he was a piece of a maggoty inbred who deserved no better life, though what he did was intolerable-such as committing regicide, but Castor had his own reason. Whatever the reason was, no one cared. He had chosen his destiny.

As he got dragged along roughly by a sturdy guard, people dispersed with disgust.  From afar, he discerned a dingy stage which a very broad, tall and hooded executioner stood upon.  His dark hood was facing him and following where he got dragged to, Castor was pretty sure he was keeping an eye on him, maybe he could not wait to cut his head off. Other than that, he looked like a grim reaper and that sense made him shudder. There was a dark unease feeling around the executioner, which no one could see but Castor. He had no idea where the dark vibe came from, but he was pretty sure he still owned his gut feeling which talked to him a lot, though in the most despairing time, he had almost lost faith in it.

The executioner had taken many lives with his strong hands and axe, that solved the puzzle. Castor did not want to haul unnecessary thought to run his mind where his life was now at greatest stake. He had no time to think of anything else but his own miserable life. His chains clanked on his hands and his feet as he walked, noticing him further that it was not an easy task for him to elude.  He was hobbling as he got dragged. His bare feet were swollen and wounded, telling that he had walked enormously long path until he finally tumbled himself into an unfortunate event.

“Don’t worry boy, loosing head is prevalent,” joked the guard who dragged him to the stage. Castor remained silent, but his look was fairly apprehensive. “Now, what can ye do, ey, losing your wondrous power, eh wolf. Now, what stands before you and death is only that axe.”

Caster could see a black sharp and heavy axe was held upside down against the wooden floor by the executioner, right on his side. His fingers were drumming on the handle. He starkly had been waiting for the time of execution.

They arrived at the clearing. Castor had to force himself to climb the short slippery stairs. His feet were weaker the closer he approached the executioner. He slipped and fell of the stair but the guard pulled the manacles on his hands forcefully to make him get back on his knees. He was hurting and weary, his wrists were rimmed and blistered. The great pain of being pulled like a wild horse  and being humiliated in public could drive any man crazy, but he was grateful he was a were whose strength left was able to hold such pain.

He finally stood before the executioner. He barely could see a face inside the dark hooded face, but an image of a cranium emerged behind the mysterious hood.  Castor gave a faint smirk, it clearly explained the mystery of dark vibe around him. He was no mortal. It was certain that his death was arranged. It was certain that it was his time to die. At least, no more suffering after this, he thought to himself.

As they forced him to kneel down upon the log, Castor finally released his restraints of what he called freedom for losing his life could mean freedom as well.  He could have never thought that the ending of his life, though so horrendous as it might sound like, would be finally a doorway to freedom from all the pain he restrained inside. It was not his choice to become a werewolf, but he had managed this far to serve his purpose; to revenge. At least, he had killed Prince Vasilis, the one who conspired against his father and later on gave him the most incurable curse. Though he could not rewind the time to be a young normal lad, but he had given his life to hunt down Prince Vasilis and it was worth it. His death would be his payment, and it was invaluable for no mortal men could kill him. It was as if God had sent him an angel of death to depart his life from further unfathomable suffering.

Castor laid his head on the surface of the open log. He closed his eyes.

“What is your last wish,” squeaked the guard. “It is our courtesy for a scum like you.”

Castor opened his eyes, he looked at the guards but then saying nothing, he closed his eyes again.  “Just kill me.”

The crowd grew impatient, they shouted and jeered as the grim reaper took his axe and held it aloft. Without hold, he swung his axe. Blood splattered as a loud thud was heard. Castor’s head rolled over the wooden floor.


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