It was an unfairly nice day on the long-awaited execution of one infamous assassin, Zephyr Fae.
Perhaps that wasn’t fair to the Navy soldiers, Poseidon blessed them, said merchant Adrian Sadler to his business partners as they sipped ginger ale in the warmly lit tavern. They had worked hard day and night, tolling away for years to capture this ghastly nightmare, the definition of pond scum, the humanisation of every wrong within the Bronze Sea. And, now, this secret stayed between you and me, yes? Do you know Payne? Yes, Payne! Payne Witherstone. The one found dead in his drinks?
Fae did it, or so they say. Fae did it and many more, countless good men falling under his cruel hands and filthy tricks. Now that the slippery rat is firmly in the Navy’s grasp, it’s only fair they make a little… debacle about it, no?
Yes, they should! Huffed Marie Josepf to her husband one night, all righteous anger and just terror, when the dishes were done and the children soundly tucked in their beds. That monster, that absolute abomination with blood of countless dripping from his hand, finally met well-deserved justice under the hands of the Navy and its people. Yes, Joey, he is that bad. Have you read the news this last century? - no, Joey, you don’t understand. That man, that white haired demon in human skin, he was the Butcher of the Bronze Sea! Yes, Joey, one of the most prolific assassins that roamed this sea in the last decade!
The Butcher, Joey. The Butcher that was around when we were mere babes, the one parents and nannies told us about! Sleep tight, or the Butcher shall come and string you up by your entrail! Poseidon blessed, the Butcher, unmasked at last! He is horrible, yes, and his death shall come as a relief to us honest folks, no?
Yes, it will! Sneered Sherril Lowe, lounging amongst mountains of pillows resting on the acoustic sofa on the balcony with servants and friends alike hanging on her every word, bejewelled fingers swirling sparkling wine in crystal glass. The Butcher of the Bronze Sea! No good louts, the lot of them. Stealing and plundering and killing good, innocent people just because they are too lazy to work- No, no, no, Lily- What do you mean the Butcher of Bronze Sea- Poseidon be damned, Lily, you are so dense sometimes. They are horrible, yes? And oh, isn’t it so clever of the Navy to make these things public? It sure would deter any idiotic -ugh - poor people from having… ambitious dreams, wouldn’t it not?
Oh, it should… Sighed Marita Vasquez to her wife, voice reaching above the screeching bundle of children running outside her ramshackle hut of a house, ladle dripping with soup hot in her calloused hand. I suppose that Fae had done something bad, hadn’t he? The list of crimes seemed too long, printed in columns across the tattered newspaper with big, bold letter, next to the mugshot of the feral assassin with blood leaking from his ears. Well, it could always be his circumstances! Her wife argued, and Marita just sighed indulgingly because oh, her lovely felt so strongly about these things, even if her eldest had made a righteous, proper life out of poverty in some governmental job up north. Speaking of which, she should really write to John, shouldn’t she? They hadn’t talk in a while now, that silly lamb, and Marita will drag her son back home if she must, to see his face again.
Yes, reassured David Wellwood to his fellow officers, this execution would do us good. Reassure the public, settle their nerves, yes? Shock some of the wayward youth into reality. The Tearing Gale, The Butcher, Fiend of the Southern Sea. This cruel, terrible man had evaded us for nigh 20 years or so, hadn’t he? Then this would be even greater! Show people no one can elude justice, how it would come eventually, swift and brutal no matter the case, no?
“Can’t he just escape??” Some unimportant side character shouted from the corner of the room.
“No, no, my dear Thomas,” grinned David. “I have our Maestro’s weakness right here, in our dungeon. She is a mere babe, of course, and it’s hard to imagine if these scums can even feel empathy, but this one can.” He tapped the portrait of a flame-haired, green-eyed girl, wide eyed and panicked. His grin stretched into something victorious and cruel.
“If he escapes, we slit her throat.”
It was an unfairly nice day to spent watching the certainly grotesque death of a criminal soul, but people stay excited regardless.
…
Atop the balcony overlooking the rather blood-free execution stand that occupies a rather large ground space in the middle of Palo town’s public market, there was a child. The child had flaming auburn hair a touch too deep to be natural, porcelain skin with rather synthetic-looking freckles and clear green irises that sparkled and gleamed in the sunlight not unlike cut emeralds.
Dressed in ripped, non-prisoner clothes she was, courtesy of being a child of 14, in her arms rest a small doll, red-suited with a familiar, slitted-eyes mask for a face. The girl held it close, slotted against her chest, fingers clutching at fabric with enough force to burst any other cheaply stuffed animals into showers of cotton bits. Tears stained the corner of her eyes, wide in shock and terror, and if one looked closely enough, they could see the faintest tremor on her whitened knuckles.
Around her wrists rested a pair of cuffs.
Just a reassurance, they had said, forcing freezing cold bracelets of metal onto her arms as she struggled and squirm and attempting to bite the guards struggling to hold her down. She may look a child, but there’s no telling whether someone might be a wizard nowadays. And besides, we aren’t trying to kill her, no? Just get her shocked up a little, showing her the consequences of being illegal scum, yes?
There are supposed to be Navy guards with her, but they had long since disappeared to fuck-all nowhere, deeming the girl too harmless to deserve their caution. What could she do? They asked. She is cuffed, chained with the best of arcanium metal. Only with outside help would she be able to escape, but who would help the girl in assassin red?
They aren’t wrong, though, and that realisation stung with terror. Chained, with terror flooding through her body, her father on his way to imminent death. What could Penny do?
…
“That girl.”
The assassin in tattered clothes and gore looked at David Wellwood, blank heterochronic eyes shadowed by blood-streaked white hair that curtained past pallid skin. Bounded as he was to the back of a rickety wooden chair, more than one length of rope tied tightly around scarred wrists and muscled arms, rough hemp digging against purpling, mottled skin, blood trickling down in small rivulets where rubbed raw flesh had given out.
A metal collar rested around his neck, cold and unyielding. The air stank of stale blood and tobacco smoke, the dim lighting fluttering periodically, vaguely illuminating the racks on the walls and their contents. Sharpened, hooked, curved blades gleamed cruelly against the moss-covered walls, their shiny, well-cared for edges stained with unwashed blood. Blood that leaked out of reddened flesh and bloody patterns of half-clotted cuts on the chained man’s mottled skin.
The man who stared at David with all the interest given to a dead fish, flat red and violet gaze purposefully dull under snow white lashes. He showed no indication of hearing David. Maybe he can’t hear David, at least not clearly, if the red streaks that ran down the side of his face means anything.
“The girl.” David tried again, because he’s nice like that, loud and slow. The assassin showed no recognition nor interest, eyes drifting away from where they had pinned David before. His head lolled back. “The girl captured alongside you.”
No reply. Lord Fae, The Mistral Sage, The Butcher of the Bronze Sea didn’t even blink, eyes rolled back and forth long and slow as if the dying fly in cobweb on the ceiling holds the meaning of life itself. Lesser men would’ve pissed themselves, right here and now, through the pressure and untense interrogation under the Navy’s best and brightest, begging for release, for prison, for death. Cracked like an egg under pressure.
Fae was no lesser man. There is only so much physical agony could do, and they do still need the man in some state of functioning for his imminent death. No. They need to break Fae in another way.
“Fine girl, isn’t she?” David barrelled on, walking pass the assassin to the nearest rack, housing wickedly sharp curved blades specifically designed to extract secrets from the hardiest of men. “Screaming and kicking the whole time. Keep calling out for her father. A child, a mere babe, caught up in the Syndicate at such an age. Do you stoop so low as to recruit children, now?”
For the first time, Fae showed any sign of interest. His gaze drifted down from the ceiling, heterochronic eyes lazily tracking David as he circled the room, pausing periodically to check on weapons hanging on wall racks. He tilted his head ever so slightly, blowed stray strand of hair out of his eyes, and smiled, all genteelly and mocking. His voice was low, rough with the remainder of seawater burning in his throat.
“We don’t recruit children, my good Sir. They come to us, in rags and begging for shelter, for food, for protection against other, crueller forces that ran this sea. Why should the Syndicate deny them?”
“You are brainwashing them. Indoctrinating them into a life of crime. The child was caught with a doll of the Architect, Poseidon’s sake!”
“It’s just a doll.”
“And she is just a Syndicate member.” Fae flinched, ever so slightly, something panicked carefully hidden beneath layers of disinterest. “She was a child, but she was a child caught in assassin’s clothes. Who is to say she doesn’t hold information?”
“You said yourself. She is a child, a mere babe. Are you going to cripple a child for information she may not hold?”
“She may hold no information, but her mentor will. Her mentor, whoever cared enough to come to retrieve her. Someone must’ve cared for this child a great deal, no? Considering they hand-sewn a doll for her.”
Silence. Fae remained speechless, burning eyes pinning against David’s back with intense hatred. Or anger. Probably both. David retrieved a knife at random, something sharp and swirled and decidedly painful if stabbed into bruised flesh.
“Who knows? If we are lucky, a lord or higher would come for this child. And if not, well…”
“You will hurt a child?”
“Frankly, yes. Oh, don’t give me that look- you assassins are so hypocritical! A child she may be, but she still willingly wore the uniform. Besides, it would be best to educate the children on consequences nice and early, yes? Show them justice cannot be exempt with age. I’m sure parents of some… ambitious children would like that.”
“She is a child!” Fae’s carefully constructed façade was slipping like melted ice, sharp canines bared and eyes alight with suppressed magic and anger. Why, if the circumstances were different David would call him pretty. As it was, Fae’s angered growl, too feral to be fully human, sent shivers down David’s spine.
“As it was, we have no idea who the girl may be. No records!” Fae’s breath hitched, and David pretended he did not notice. “Almost a ghost, I would say. Even children in the slums had some semblance of records. That can’t do, no? And of course, it wouldn’t be out of the Syndicate’s league to use children as informants. It would be best for us if we checked, just in case…”
The knife was sharp, metal blade shining in the lights. David can see his reflection clearly as he gazes into its mirror like surface, as well as the assassin burning holes through his back. If looks could kill, David would be 6 feet under.
“We can’t do anything too drastic, of course. Some of my good men has daughters her age, and similarities can be too great, no? but I suppose no one could be too worried over some light roughing. Nothing as bad as you, good heavens, no!” A faux laugh. David pretends to not see Fae’s face growing more and more panicked with each word. “Perhaps we should just toss her in the dungeons. A night down there would shock some sense into her, and Gods forbid some of the prisoners had been rowdy lately… “
A pause. Fae remained quiet, but if looks could kill David’s soul would be shrivelled and burnt as it rests with Hades and Those That He Rules.
“Or perhaps I will take her, myself.” David mused out loud, continue on glancing at Fae’s rapidly darkening face. “Spritely little thing, isn’t she? Such charming features, striking hair! She will need to be trained first, of course, taught proper etiquettes and all, but once that goes through, oh, wouldn’t she be divine- “
“IF YOU FUCKERS DO ANYTHING TO HER, I WILL KILL YOU!”
The wind picks up, swirling and angry as metal rattles and moan. Fae was positively incensed now, his voice amplified by the howling gale inside the tiny dungeon. Even as chained with arcanium as he was, magic energy still whipped haphazardly around, snapping back and forth in thick blades. Much too weak to break through the mile-thick rope restraints, but sharp enough to cut flesh, nonetheless.
Something cold and biting slices against David’s face, blood bursting from the wound and dripping down tanned skin. He swiped a thumb against the thin stream, already clotting under the cold, humid atmosphere of the dungeon. The thumb came away bloodied, and David smeared blood on the shiny surface of his knife.
“So, you do know her!” It’s hard to keep the triumphant from his voice, the sweet taste of victory bright on his tongue, the grin that stretched his lips when Fae realised he fucked up, lurching forward with his eyes wide open, teeth bared like something feral, breathing uneven and ragged. David briskly closed the distance between them, knife still in hand, head raised, eye flickering to catch even a hint of helplessness on the assassin’s livid expression. “Who is she, then?”
The assassin doesn’t reply as David stopped in front of his face, tall enough to cast a shadow over his hunched frame.
“Is she your apprentice?” He continued, smiling at the way Fae’s entire body creaked violently in helplessness as he struggled in futility against the ropes. “Couldn’t be just that, with how worried you look right now.” Horror flashes in quick bursts across Fae’s face, and David laughed, loud as the sound echoed across mossy stone walls. “Your child, perhaps?”
He yanked Fae’s face up by his chin and leaned in close, and were the circumstances different, David would call Fae pretty, if that wasn’t too underwhelming a word. Long, white lashes, large eyes, pale lips pulled back in a sneer. “So? Is that girl your bastard? Who was the unfortunate whore that bore a child for the Butcher? Perhaps we should arrest her too, then, for association. Couldn’t be hard, with how much that child took after its mother- “
Fae yanked his face out of David’s grip, and at the same time a particularly ferocious gust of wind slammed hard against his chest with enough force it knocked David’s unarmoured body backwards and into a wall, leaving him slumped against damp moss. The assassin panted heavily; no doubt winded from the effort it took to redirect a measly gust of wind. David lifted his head up, touched the back of his head gingerly where it slammed into cold stone, and his fingers came away pattered with blood.
“YOU BITCH!” He yelled, staggering up on shuddering knees, gritting his teeth as he saunters over to Fae, who looked back up at David’s rapidly purpling face and grinned a shit eating grin, mocking and amused.
He wasn’t grinning when David’s now magicked palm slapped him across the face.
Fae’s head snapped sideward with a sickening crunch; the left side of his face marred with angry red on purpled skin. He coughed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, bright and red and thick.
“YOU FILTHY BITCH!” Another slap sent Fae’s head cracking to the other side, sending white locks of hair to tumble over his face.
“HOW,” Another slap.
“DARE,” harder, this time, with power aura. Something snapped underneath David’s palm.
“YOU,” blood ran down Fae’s chin, bright against pale, pallid skin.
“TOUCH,” the air stank, metallic and cloyingly sweet; the scent of rotting flesh. Cold, humid air burns in David’s lung.
“ME!” something bright and metallic tanged inside his mouth. David looked through the hazy red rage to find Fae lurching backward on the decrepit wooden chair, his face swollen and bruised, his mouth bloodied. His eyes were closed. The assassin’s blood smeared across his palm.
Silence descended. Loud, angered breathing and soft, barely there gasps filled the air. The fly on the ceiling buzzed.
“Fuckin’ pathetic.” David spits out, first, whipping a kerchief out of his uniform’s breast pocket and wiped the blood on glossy satin fabric, cleanly and quickly. “You are all pathetic. Keep your head down, filth, and maybe we will be generous enough to spare your hell spawn.”
He threw the bloodied kerchief at Fae’s head on the way out.
…
“You will spare her.”
David’s hand just brushed the brass handle of the cell door when the voice called out, raspy and rough and distinctively threatening in ways that sent shivers down his spine. David turned around. Fae’s head still lolled down his shoulder, a slice of blood on his cheek that must’ve split during the beating, but blood red and violet irises stared at him from the corner of sharp eyes with malice.
“And why would we?” He laughed, mockingly, turn around and looked down at Fae, bent and broken on a wooden chair, at the state of his body. “She is an assassin, after all. But, you keep your head down, die quietly, and who knows? The Grand Navy may feel generous!”
“You will spare her.” Fae restated, unfazed, as if he didn’t heard David in the first place. “You captured me. Your words held importance in this scenario. You spare the child, and therefore I will cooperate.”
“Under whose authority? Lord Fae , I don’t think you understand this. You will cooperate. The child may be spared. You have no authority. I understand you may find it hard to take orders, but I think you’ll best listen to this, for the safety of that red-headed gremlin if not yourself. Are we clear?”
Fae lifted his head and grinned, all bloodied gum and sharp teeth. His eyes were wide, pupils blown so wide they were almost black. “Oh, I understand alright, Mister Wellwood, Sir. But understand this. Silverhold will be on fire in a full moon after my head hit the ground.” He ignored David’s barely concealed flinch. “You will let my child go free, and the Syndicate may have mercy on you.” His smile stretched wider, a nightmarish, Cheshire thing.
“Are we clear?”
Through the last few weeks of David Wellwood’s drastically shortened life, he could never place a word on the absolute, primal fear that rushed through his vein at that moment. It was as if the air itself had changed, morphing into terrifying beasts that lurks in front and behind, on all sides, teeth bared as they wait for the slightest mistake. He wanted to run, but Fae’s mismatched gaze pinned him against the cold iron door like a butterfly, splayed on all four and bare for the world to see.
Fear. Absolute. Overwhelming. A prey facing its predator, already tempted to accept its fate, no matter how injured, how crippled the predator may be.
David swallowed his fear and tried to replace it with righteous anger. It worked. Maybe. Instead, he studiously ignored the heat slowly building in his throat and audibly sneered at Fae.
Fucking bastard keeps. On. Grinning.
The knife left David’s right hand before he knew it, flying through the air with a metallic whistle and landed square on Fae’s shoulder, buried up to its leather hilt in tender flesh. Blood leaked through, rivulets down pale, tender skin, a red seal against dingy light. A seal of death.
David, the man, the monster, the fool, left the room with terror burrowing in his bones and the laughter of a mad assassin ringing in his ears.
…
When Zephyr Fae felt the overwhelming midday sunlight washing over his tattered body, he didn’t quite sob out of relief, but it’s was a close thing.
The Navies dragged him out of the glorified cargo ship none too gently with all the gentleness of starving dogs, their shrill laughter jeeringly mocking all the while. They made a show, shoving Zephyr out of the holding cell entirely too small to house his 7’3 frame, as bent and broken as it was, and into the dusty, sun-lined docks of Palo. Chains lined his body – to halt his escape, and because the Grand Navy can be kinky bastards like that. They allowed him to keep his blindfold under some pretence of modesty but stripped him of everything else that remotely resembles assassin red, which is to say – all his normal clothes.
They give him rags, instead, but Zephyr thought they would let him die naked and undignified if given the chance. Thank Poseidon for child safety laws.
The rough planks of the docks shoves splinter up his feet as he walked, the wood itself showing its very own version of spite to the violent once-child that spilled innocent and guilty blood alike. Autumn sunlight spilled from the great ball of gas on the sky, angry glimpse of luminescent gold on blood-streaked white hair, pooling in the multitude of creases on the rags too offensive to be called a shirt. More chains wrapped around scarred wrists, because the Navy are considerate on all the worst times, cold and stifling coils that had his magic swarming agitatedly inside without a release.
They forced him forward, under the watchful, distrustful, disgusted eyes of all present. The walk- well, hobble -, was a short one, made longer by the… everything that was present in his path, from the sadism practically leaking out of all guards present to the state of his knees, what with one broken and the other shattered and both hurting like death warmed over, damaged just enough to brush the side of overwhelming for Zephyr’s admittedly high pain tolerance, but nowhere near enough to render him a cripple. Even so, the shattered leg was drag along in the walk, and the bone shards left inside dug against overtaxed nerves that would have Zephyr screaming if he was a lesser man.
The first rotten cabbage hit him square on the side of the head, moments after his first stumble. The broken knee smashed against dusty cobble stone, and the ripping agony that rippled across vaguely poisoned veins had his vision burning white. The cabbage-man did not waste time, and what with mob mentality before long the rain of tomato to cabbage to apples were pelted towards the general location of the despised criminal and whatever unfortunate men of the law who was forced to guard him.
As funny as it was, the horrendous stench and increasingly growing boos and jeers and- cat calls, because of course, why would we not expect this- wrecked hell on whatever was left of his unfortunately oversensitive senses. Sharp pain pulsed periodically, growing in frequency with each cry for justice, each time he stumbled, each rotten vegetable that hits his body with a splat.
