Treason prologue

As the young man felt the coarse rope around his neck, he sighed in disbelief. So this is what it all came down to. For all he knew, all of his sacrifice and devotion to a cause could have been for nothing. He had been so close to making a change, so close to saving his people from lives of oppression.

The wooden landing creaked as he shifted onto his left foot, and surveyed the crowd. They were all there. His people. The women with tear-streaked faces and the men with gloomy, downcast eyes. Every single one of them had thought the teenager infront of them was their last hope. Many a time had they daydreamed of much happier days ahead because of this young man’s actions. Now these dreams were gone, leaving a bitter taste in their mouths. False hope. Little did they know how wrong they were.

The young man shook these weary thoughts from his mind. There was one thing his people didn’t know. He had prepared for this. Did they think him a fool? The kind of person that would risk his neck everyday without a backup plan? Because he knew this might happen, the proper arrangements had been made. So there was hope yet. It was like loosing a duel and as you take your last breath, knowing your second could still win the match. Furthermore, if this young man was anything, he was not a pessimist. Ever since he was a child, he did not stay gloomy for long, but would shake everything off with a laugh. Part of the reason for this was his very nature, quick to grin or laugh. The other part came from his father. Once his father had asked him a question.

“My son,” he had said, “will your life be a comedy or a tragedy? You decide because no matter the circumstances, no matter what you endure, if you are mocked, spit upon, tortured, or sentenced to death, you are in power of yourself. You decide how you are going to handle things and feel on the inside. You are always in control. So what’s it going to be? A comedy or a tragedy?”

From then on the child sought to turn even the most horrid affair into something humorous. When he would work in the fields, he turned it into a game, competing with his fellows to see who could pull the most weeds or ear the most corn. When there were famines in the land, he would put together dances during those bleak nights where families huddled together wondering how much longer they could go on empty stomachs. When he lost his ear to a drunk noble, he laughed and said, “Well, that’s one less ear to clean!” So now while waiting to step off the platform into air, only to be suspended by a rope around his neck, the young man desperately tried to think of something funny about being hanged.

When nothing came to mind, he tried a different tactic. He did a quick review of his eighteen years of life, and thought of all the funniest things that had happened to him. One came to mind instantly. A grin split across his dirty face. Loud laughter erupted from his chest.

The crowd looked up in shock. The women stopped crying and fought back laughter themselves. All the men laughed, happy to see their leader acting like himself again, and proud he wasn’t a cowering fool at the gallows. The only men who didn’t laugh were the nobles and the executioner. He nudged the teenager slightly in the ribs with his elbow.

“I’m going to count backwards from five,” he said slowly, “Either you step off when I finish, or I push you to your death, understand?”

The young man glanced at him with a buoyant expression. “Alright.” He whispered with a rather girlish giggle, which hurtled him into even more laughter.

“Five…”

More laughter.

“Four…” The young man pretended to sleep, much to the crowd’s amusement.

“Three…” Charlie (for Charlie was the young man’s name) made to jump, then caught himself saying, “Oops, not yet.” This caused another bout of laughs.

“Two…” Charlie blew a raspberry.

“One…” Charlie took a deep breath, put one foot out in front of him but stopped as the crowd parted suddenly.

A little boy no older than five years ran to the foot of the platform, and looked at Charlie, his face ruddy with tears. “No,” he sobbed, “let him go!” He tried to get onto the platform, but a tall peasant with premature white hair pulled him back, trying to comfort him.

Charlie’s smile quickly faded, for he had hoped his brother wouldn’t find out about his death until after he was already gone. He knew his little brother would be crushed and didn’t know if he could bear to say goodbye. Charlie gathered himself and then turned to his executioner and asked quietly, “Could I speak to my brother for a small moment please?”

Now the executioner sympathized with Charlie and so nodded his consent, disregarding what the nobles might think.

“Come up here, brother,” Charlie called out kindly.

The tall peasant let the little boy go. He didn’t waste a second reaching his brother’s side.

Charlie put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I know this is hard for you. But know this. I have no regrets, except for leaving you of course. But other than that, I did everything I could, and in a few years you will know exactly what I mean. It’s my time to die and I accept that.”

His little brother cried anew at this. Charlie spoke quickly. “Stop. Don’t shed another tear for me. Be strong. Take this.” With a quick, deft movement Charlie ripped a necklace from his throat. Its chain shimmered in spirals of gray metal, a miniature, silver sword, no longer than the little boy’s pinkie finger, dangling from it. On the little hilt, a 'B' was carved with elegant calligraphy.

The little boy took it with shaking hands, muttered a thank you, and threw his arms around his older brother’s knees.

“Goodbye brother.” Charlie whispered.

“Enough!” An angry noble came forward, Lord Mandine was his name and his green eyes sparkled as he yelled.

“Executioner, either you will proceed with the hanging, or I shoot an arrow through your chest. The choice is yours.”

Charlie stood up, quick as a whip.

“That won’t be necessary.” He announced and with that he gently removed himself from his little brother’s grip, patted the executioner on the shoulder, and stepped into air. Treason put his head in his hands (for Treason was the little boy’s name).