Chapter 4: The Miss: Executioner’s Bane
"What's it like to kill someone, Zien?" The little elf girl inquired.
"That depends on who you ask." I replied bluntly.
"I'm asking you…" She stared up into my face with those big green eyes; those big, hate-scarred green eyes.
"Heh," I exhaled humorlessly, "Well, in that case, I suppose it depends on when you ask."
"What is that supposed to mean…?"
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Three years after the death of the Shadow I started a one-man crusade against slavery in a world where human-kind held little to no regard for the Elvin species. While this fact alone was not uncommon amongst many planes where both humans and humanoids dwell, the extent to which the animosity between the two races went in this realm was beyond acceptable; primarily, as I saw it, because the disdain was almost exclusively one-sided.
In this world, Fennorah, the forest dwelling Elvin creatures adhered strictly to the principals of their ancient religion. The naive ideals of peace, love for thy neighbor, and pacifism reigned dominant in the culture. Even those subjugated to slavery, even those born into slavery, held strong those simple-minded models.
It irked me: to see these people taken advantage of because of their own inability to act in self defense; to see them surrender themselves to the machinations of the wicked humans. Of course, as is always the case, there are those who defy their societal standards and cultures, beating the less-traveled path through life and crafting their own philosophy. In the Elvin world, however, these rare few people were few and far between; independence was tantamount to sin, and guaranteed to mark you a pariah.
I don't know what I expected, in all honesty. I knew for a fact that I would not be able to change human society; I knew all too well the futility of bending the indomitable Homo Sapien module. Though, being one of these primal creatures myself, I merely desired to satiate my own selfish whims. At that particular time said whims constituted the liberation of a people who were probably not worthy of it. Ultimately I just wanted to limit the power humanity held over the natural world the only way I knew how: through some aggravation of my own.
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"It means exactly what I said," I responded to the elf child's incessant inquiries, "It really depends on my situation, my mental state, my mood… So many factors."
"It's not the same all the time?"
I was uncomfortable discussing such matters with full grown adults, much less pre-pubescent children, "Well… I guess both yes and no. No, sometimes it feels wrong, just like it's supposed to. Other times… well, never mind. One thing remains the same every single time, though. Whether you are the one at the receiving end of the blade, or the one holding it, you will always feel fear. It is nature's way of telling us that taking a life is not a trivial matter… Sometimes, even, when the victim and the killer lock eyes right before that moment, the two make a connection, of sorts; a connection of terror."
"You can feel their fear?" The look in her eyes was disturbing: a complete lack of tact. She was curious, simply put, and was taking in my words like any other child would take in an explanation as to why the sky is blue.
"Yes, sometimes." I looked askance.
She smiled up at me, that out-of-place, adorable smile of an innocent child, and closed her eyes. She fell back into my lap, her long brunette hair draping my kilt, and sighed, "That's why I like you, Zien: you're so honest. Not like other grown-ups. I ask these questions to the others and everyone treats me weird. The humans beat me, and the Elves just don't talk to me. You're nice, though!"
"Hmm, well these aren't really matters little girls like you should be concerned with anyways," I stroked her hair and pat her shoulder, "Now go lie down on your mat and I'll go rustle up some breakfast for us ere sunrise, okay?"
"But I'm not tired!" She protested, rolling over and pushing herself up with her thin arms. She brought her face close to mine and pouted, "Can't I go hunting with you?"
"No," I gripped her by the neck of her fur tunic and lifted her up, "It must be nearly midnight and we have to make it to Anaheim tomorrow, you need to sleep." I cradled her in my arms and walked closer to the fire, setting her down gingerly upon the simple dear-skin bedroll I made for her a few weeks ago.
"Fine," She exasperated, "But you gotta teach me some day! You promised!"
"Yeah, yeah," I waved my hand, walking towards the edge of the light and into the black forest, "Sleep well Alicia."
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I started tending to Alicia after one of my less-successful liberations. A city by the name of Hurren was one of the most popular trading hubs for sex trafficking; a metropolis which had rotted to the core. The only thing more disgusting than the open sewers in the slums were the people which inhabited the city.
There were five Elf auction houses in the noble district of the city - each of which was visited by a rather large man in primal garb. The bouncers immediately rejected me because of my appearance, and once or twice the guards were called on me, but when I flashed some gold in everyone's face their conduct completely reversed. I knew the city of Hurren would eventually collapse on itself, and because of this knowledge I had no desire to accelerate the process by taking a more violent approach to my emancipations. The people of Hurren would suffer, slowly, from their own depraved nature and twisted ways.
One after another I bought up the Elvin slaves until I had cleared out each and every single auction house; one of the most practical advantages of having an intimate attunement to Earth magic is the ability to discover, mine, and refine all of my own gold, silver, and gemstones. I stimulated the economy of Hurren, as opposed to demolishing the city, because I knew that slave trade, being so popular in that country, would be localized there as a result of my generous contributions. Imbecilic economists don't look at facts like, "one man single handedly purchased all of these slaves." No, they see numbers on a sheet of paper and allocate city funding accordingly.
With the slave trade booming in Hurren, all I had to do was wait for the subsequent shipments to arrive before bringing everything to its resolution; it was substantially easier than traveling the globe and righting wrongs where I found them. Bring the sin to me, I told myself.
I set those I purchased free, of course, granting each individual with enough money to start their own lives or return to their old ones. For a few months things were working well; I had effectively become the monarch of the slave trade. I could not save every single elf, however, and this perturbed me. There were those in the city who were already the properties of others. While I was able to convince many of these individuals to part with their slaves, there were many others who felt my inflammation of the local economy was a detriment to the city; which it was, naturally.
I would walk the streets of that cesspool of human trash and witness daily beatings, rapes, berating, abuse, and nameless atrocities against nature and the supposed "civility" we humans hold dear. It was all I could do to restrain my fists from flying at every soul without pointed ears I came across.
One night, during an otherwise uneventful stroll through the noble's garden, I made the grievous error of enhancing my mana perception for a brief moment. I typically do not permit my sixth sense to wander when in metropolitan areas, for this reason precisely: I felt every single act of violence being held at that moment within a two kilometer radius. When a mana signature is engaged in conflict, either physically or mentally, is becomes unstable and wavering. Like a flame flickering vehemently before fading away. There were thousands of human-Elvin conflicts raging throughout the city at that exact time. In the less than two seconds I had my perception bolstered to that state I felt no less than seven elfin murders and several dozen fights.
I could not bear it. The sheer quantity and truculence of the city's belligerent encounters infuriated me. I ran out of the park, to the nearest home where I felt a distressed mana signature, and broke down the door. I ran up the stairs and opened a gold-embossed door to the master bedroom of a disgusting pig. The mana signatures in question were an overweight old man with a wrinkled brow and balding grey hair; beneath him a juvenile little elf with tears streaming down her eyes. The girl, perhaps no older than nine or ten, was naked and accepting the girth of the obese old man. Her green eyes reflected the flame of the brazier in the room with a violent, burning vehemence.
"Who the hell are you?!" The old pig cried. He rose, and I got a better look at the girl. Upon the bed were blood stained sheets, and scars up and down the poor little thing's frail arms. Her petite, upturned nose was bleeding, melding with the tears to create a twirling torrent of crimson on her jaw. She locked eyes with me, but her expression did not change; she was furious, frightened. Her small body had been desecrated time and again by this monster, and she knew better than to speak without permit.
"I'll have you hanged, you filthy street urchin!" The pig wailed at me, "I am close friends with the council's chief advisor, you wretch!"
I broke eye contact with the broken little girl, the fires of hatred which infected hers now burning mine, and faced the old man, "And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?" I was barely able to vocalize my ever clouding thoughts into cognitive utterances.
"Wh-what?!"
I would not waste another word on this whelp; he did not deserve my pity. He did not deserve my wisdom. He did not deserve life. I growled like the feral beast that I am and fell to the ground on all fours. I let myself loose, against my better judgment, in the presence of that innocent child. I lunged at the man, knocking him over into a stand-up mirror carved from redwood. I mounted the disgusting pig, clawing my fingers into his skull, and bit down into his exposed neck. The blood which flowed was sweet; that very familiar tart taste which was so comforting to me. Time and again I tore into his throat, each time rending another scrap of flesh which I promptly consumed, until at last he lay motionless.
I regained control of myself when, almost as an afterthought, I recalled that I was, indeed, in the presence of another; a child, and a victim no less. I rose and cast my gaze over to the little girl upon the bed, horror painting my visage by way of apology, to witness a curling, toothy grin on her face. She had not moved anything but her mouth. The hate and fear were still the defining aspects of her eyes, but I could sense it within her: this girl was on the path of the fifth class.
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There was a small camp on the outskirts of Hurren, hidden in an enclave and shrouded with my wards, which I had erected as an in-between residence for the elves I emancipated. No more than a few dozen lived there at once. In spite of the massive diversity between the residents, who belonged to many different clans, tribes, and regions of the world, the people formed a strong sense of kinship. The elves had lived through arduous adversity and, regardless of species, such hardships always tend to bring people together.
I was extremely lucky that no one had witnessed my actions that night, save for the elf girl Alicia. I was able to continue operating with my dual identities, though as the days progressed I was finding it increasingly more difficult to maintain my sanity in that hell-hole.
I brought the little girl with me, wrapping her up in a blanket and stealing out of the house with all due haste into the night. She never spoke a word, never protested, and never changed her visage that entire night.
When we arrived at the enclave I was greeted by Dariah, an ancient old elf woman who agreed to help me operate the camp, "Oh, dear! What happened, Zien? So much blood…"
It was at that moment that I realized I had completely forgotten to, at the very least, wipe myself off before traipsing through the city streets with a child on my back, "Never mind, I need you to look after her… I made a big mistake. I may have to bring my project here to an end, soon."
I left the girl with Dariah, who was confounded by the whole exchange, and made a rush back to the home I invaded. While no one would have ever questioned me, personally, for murder in that city, the death of a noble was something unheard of. By the time I reached the residence, obviously after having cleansed myself, there was already a commotion.
The old man was not bluffing, claiming to know the council's advisor: a man by the name of Garret. The advisor effectively ruled the city, in spite of having no official legislative or executive power, and once he set his mind to something it would not go without resolve.
The city went into a high state of security. All trade, including slave trade, was monitored thoroughly and tracked with scrutiny. With the new restrictions on trade and the half-dozen or so additional forms which had to be filled out with each large transaction, my operation had reached a slow crawl. While it was not necessarily illegal to emancipate slaves, in the eyes of the humans of this world, once they were "returned to the wild" they were free game again. Elves, much like plants and other animals, had no rights in human society there. It was necessary for me to put on the guise of a prosperous plantation owner, or something, with his own private island and mill.
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With all of these restrictions I deigned it hopeless to pursue my aspirations any further in this wretched city. I had contemplated demolishing it, though I could not bring myself to birth such tragedy. I would become the object of scorn for both man and elf alike, with such a brazen act of abhorrence. Finally I decided to move on from the city, the life really did not suit me, regardless.
I had been visiting the girl with regularity. She rarely spoke, and always had a forlorn look in her eyes, at least according to the other elves. After the first few days Alicia had warmed up to me quite brightly. With the exception of that first night I had noticed nothing out of the ordinary in her mannerisms, which was a grand relief to me.
When I broke the news to the camp everyone let their dejection be known. No one was particularly upset with me, mind; however, I suppose they expected more. Dariah and I began going over everyone's unique case. Too often there were children without parents, just as Alicia.
"There is absolutely no one in the enclave she has bonded with?" I was baffled.
"She's a queer little child, Zien," Dariah spoke over her mug of tea, "Everyone keeps their distance from her. To be honest, I included. Something is not right with her head, dear."
"You're wrong," I flicked the table with my forefinger, "she seems perfectly adjusted to me, especially considering her situation."
"Coming from you that doesn't mean a lot," Dariah chuckled. I sneered at her and she raised a hand defensively, "Look, no one will willingly volunteer to take her under their wing. I'm sure someone will, if you asked them, but no one wants to, understand? Why don't you just take her with you? You're the only one she talks to, and when she's around you she almost seems normal."
"You know that's out of the question, Dariah," I tapped my finger to my head, "I've destroyed enough lives and minds simply by being present in any given location at any given time. I cannot bring an impeccant child into my life."
"She'll be crushed…"
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"No! I don't want to go with her!" Alicia yelled.
Dariah sighed and I said, "Alicia, you need someone who can take care of you."
"What about you? You saved me! You can take care of me, right?" She tugged at my kilt, "Come on, let's go play in the woods. Just you and me!" She started bawling, trying to hide the tears behind her free arm.
She was making a scene and the other residents started trudging out of their tents and huts to investigate. I knelt down and pat the girl's messy hair, "Listen, it's time for me to leave, okay? If you don't want to go with Dariah, then what about Fenneric?"
"Fenneric hit me!" She whimpered. I pursed my lips and glanced over to Fenneric and her daughter, but she avoided eye contact.
"Uh, well what about Galdric?"
"Galdric told me I was a monster!" My eyes surfed the crowd and found Galdric with his arms crossed and reciprocating my glare with defiance.
"What's going on, Dariah? I thought you told me those two were the best matches?"
"They are." She replied with a blank expression.
I rose to my feet, keeping my left palm on Alicia's small head, and she whispered, "I hate them… they hate me, nobody likes me!"
I was appalled. I glared at each and every elf forming the semi-circle around us; my gaze was met with a mix of contempt, regret, disdain, and apology.
"So it's true, eh?" I raised my voice to address everyone there, "You ingrates can forgive the humans who enslaved you, who raped and murdered you and your kin, but you can't find the common decency to love a child?" I was met with silence and stares, "You're no different than them…" I growled.
Dariah placed her hand on my shoulder, "Something's not right with her, Zien…"
Alicia buried her face into my kilt and started sobbing before Dariah could finish her sentence. I threw Dariah's arm from my torso and growled, "So she is to be abandoned by fate, then?!" I crouched down and embraced the child, redirecting my attention to her, "Come on, Alicia, let's go." I whispered. I hoisted her up onto my shoulder and walked out of the camp without even a single glance back at the others.
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Alicia had been traveling with me for a little over four months. In that time I had begun to see a little of what the elves had warned me of. Not being as emotionally receptive as most people, the fact that even I was able to sense the disturbance in this little girl's nous was of deep concern to me. I tried, very diligently, to keep her away from my work. I tried to offer her some semblance of a "normal" life; to treat her as the child she was. However; I am not fit to parent, and my work offers no such stability, nor amiability.
I did not want her, already half broken, to bear witness to the monster that I was. Alas, it was not to be. When I told her to wait, she would follow. When I told her not to look or to close her ears, she watched on with glee in her eyes and curiosity in her face. She had seen me kill and had grown a taste for carnage. She had been scarred by hate and discrimination, and as a result she found a companion in the worst person possible.
That night was just one of many when she would question me about my past and my actions. I attempted to steer her away from that path, but as both she and I knew: I am a terrible liar.
"What does blood taste like? Is it good?"
"…It's sweet, metallic. Like licking the wet edge of a rusty blade… You shouldn't need to know that."
"How many people have you killed, Zien?"
"…I gave up count a long time ago."
"What's the most evil thing you've ever seen?"
"You don't need to know that…"
"Have you ever ripped someone's organs out while they are still alive?"
"Yes…"
"Did you ever torture anyone to death?"
"I…"
Night after night she would ask these questions, an innocent light in her eyes. Night after night I would answer them against my better judgment. I feared I was turning her into the very thing I did not want her to become.
It weighed heavily on my mind as I return from the hunt that night; what was I to do with her? Was it too late for her to live a well adjusted life somewhere in an elf village, surrounded by her kin? I could not leave her to any human, but were the elves any better? I saw the antagonism the others shared for her; Alicia, the elf girl born and raised on the ideals and enmity of the human race.
I bagged two hares and returned to the campsite. Alicia was not in her roll; however the fire was still roaring. I piqued up my mana perception, fearing that she had gotten lost looking for me, and felt her signature a few dozen meters to the east, near or on the road. I set the hares on the ground and started jogging after her; her signature was still, unmoving.
I ran through the trees, ducking under low hanging branches, bounding over underbrush, being very particular in my step and avoiding as much of the insect life as possible. I caught a whiff of a familiar olfaction… I found the clearing of the old dirt road and looked off to my left. In the bright harvest moonlight I was able to distinctly see her. In her hand she held a small pocket knife, which in proportion to her tiny body might as well have been a shortsword. Gleaming on the blade's edge was a liquid of pure black, glittering white with the moonlight's reflection; blood.
At her feet was the corpse of a middle-aged elf man which had been perforated dozens of times and now lay in a pool of his own liquor, motionless.
"He looked just like my uncle." Alicia said calmly, facing the corpse. She touched the edge of the knife, stroking the blood, and then brought her fingers to her mouth, licking them. Where did she find the knife?
"Alicia…" I was frozen with shock.
"He was the one, ya know? To save my mommy, who they killed anyways, he sold me to the fat man. Heh," She turned around. She wore a gentle, melancholy smile. The fires of hatred were gone from her eyes, instead replaced by a fathomless understanding and sadness, "You said it yourself, right? We're all just animals…"
"Please, Alicia…"
"You were right, though. Killing feels…"
"STOP!" I vociferated with all my fury. I held my right arm out towards her and, with my magic, brought the diamond from my body and formed it into the shape of a spear. I held the shaft firm, but the trembling in my heart would not cede, "The next string of words to vacate your lips will determine your fate, Alicia," I stared off strong, but my voice faltered as I continued, "You- you have proven to me that you are capable of being treated as an adult… Please, Alicia, please…" My voice trailed into a whimper. Her eyes…those damned eyes, "Please…"
She formed that diabolical, toothy grin - the same one from the night I found her – and giggled. The sadness fled her eyes in an instant, and from that point on was replaced with an expression I know with great intimacy: Fear. Not merely a mortal fear, but the Fear. My Fear.
"…Good."
My body followed the palpitations of my heart; my arms trembled, my legs quivered, and my eyes fogged, "No… Gaea, no Alicia."
"So this is your Fear, huh? It's scary, Zien. How can you live?"
"No more questions, Alicia." I whispered with no force.
"I'm sorry, Zien." She whimpered. Was she sorry for killing that elf? I doubt it. She pitied me; she had tasted my fear, she knew what I was about to do, and she knew that I would have to live with my decisions for the rest of my life. She truly was an adult, enlightened to the ways of the natural world. It hurt me to see the innocence of youth and ignorance lost at such an age.
"Me too…"
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The executioner is an oft misunderstood individual. Regardless of species, experience, strength, affiliation, or creed all good executioners share one defining aspect: empathy. One would most likely associate those who slay as people with no emotion, who are incapable of feeling the sorrows of their targets. This is the complete opposite of what a good, practiced executioner feels.
The people see a blood stained mask, a bare chest and a heavy axe. No one sees the tears falling beneath the mask. No one sees the hands trembling with trepidation as they grip the shaft. He who wields the axe must feel for his work, else he is prone to mistake. This is an extremely difficult position to fill, naturally. The person who both feels empathy and has the determination to swing the axe is an impossibly rare one to find.
Why, exactly, does the executioner need empathy? Because: he must be conscious of his actions. The executioner is a symbol of mercy, of a swift and painless death; not the barbaric, bloodthirsty men and women society paints them to be. The death of the transgressor is to be executed with precision, speed, and care in order for mercy to be manifested. He who swings the axe without the empathy of his target's pain is incapable of mercy, and transitively incapable of being the good executioner.
The greatest fear of any good executioner is a botched killing. This happens frequently as a result of fault in determination. The executioner must feel empathy, and yet this very empathy quite often gives rise to hesitation and internal strife. When an executioner is conflicted, his body and mind are not as one. He may not strike with all of his force; he may not strike with clarity and precision. When this happens the target will live, though mortally wounded. This is not a mercy, it is a punishment.
The good executioner will enter a frenzy. Because of the fact that he, who is responsible for the life of his target, failed to grant the one final mercy he is duty bound to grant; the good executioner reverts to a dark, primal place in his heart. What happens at this time varies from person to person, situation to situation. At times the good executioner will quickly take up his weapon with renewed vigor, an indomitable resolution, and repeatedly assault the target to put a swift resolve to his mistake. Other times he will be rendered motionless, the shock and guilt suffocating and mutilating his mind. Regardless of the action a good executioner takes during a botched killing: he will always feel crushing remorse.
The good executioner is a paradox.
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I aimed for her heart, but as I did so the thoughts of her beautiful little face assailed my mind. The thoughts of teaching her basic arithmetic, of toting her around on my shoulders and naming birds, of watching wolves and rabbits from up in the trees, of playing hide-and-seek… The brief few months I had spent with her almost made the hundred years I had inhabited that rotten world worthwhile.
My spear was only a few centimeters away from her bosom, yet at that last split second my conscience, which I had thought long dead, consumed my very being. Did I have the right to take the life of one whom I myself had desecrated, warped? My body, out of sync with my mind, shuttered, and my weapon missed its mark.
The diamond is my weapon of choice. I am capable of refining its edge to so fine a point that it can slice through even steel as though it were butter; I spared no expense in making this spear sharp and efficient. It punched her little body, though it was a far shot from the heart. I split two ribs and perforated her left lung.
The fear in her eyes grew stronger, and through my spear I could feel it running up my arm and into my very fabric. She exhaled violently and coughed, dropping the knife blade and grunting, gasping for air. She tried to slump, but the shaft held her frail little body firm as my grip. Her eyes penetrated mine, an imploring look in her visage. She contorted her mouth in a peculiar fashion, scrunched up like a child's uncontrollable, sobbing countenance.
My heart raced, I scorned myself. Frenzied, distraught, I rendered mana through my spear, receding the broad head and forming the weapon, instead, into a pike. I retracted the straight shaft and plunged into her body once more before she could even fall to the ground. I repeated this three or four times until the hole in her chest cavity was so sizable that any heart which may have existed became a pulverized pulp of viscera and severed arteries.
I fell to my knees and wailed. Amidst the tranquility of the early morning forest and the corpses, I wailed.
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That was the first time in my life I had failed an execution. It made me realize that I was not the person I thought I was: I was - I am still weak. For decades the memory of that failure haunted my dreams, and to this day the recollection pains me with no reprieve.
The tears and self-loathing would plague me without cessation.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Cyoral
Cyoral As mentioned in an earlier chapter, I lived on a farm and my mother bred dogs. My sister and I raised them. Cleaning kennels, feeding them, cleaning them, and putting them up at night was all part of the daily routine. This chapter was inspired by the…less comfortable aspects of living on a farm: the mercy killings. I am not ashamed to admit it, but I have killed puppies before. It’s hard. I’ve always felt a connection to the “runts” and underdogs of the litters. The trash. The weaklings. The ones with physical/mental deformities. The ones no one suspect to do anything or survive that long. Often times they don’t. My mother used to put them in the freezer. But I felt that was too cruel. I always opted to put an end to suffering swiftly. And I did…but my hands trembled, frequently, and I didn’t always do a good job…
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
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