Warning: Nudity, graphic depictions of torture and violence.
I am a slave to duty. It is my master above any who wear a chain of office. It is my wife, my lover and my child. It is my all and my reason for existence in this world that sees such an obligation as nonsense. It is also the reason that I have taken this task, though it fills me with revulsion, which I wish to expel like so much bad meat in my stomach after a long night of drinking.
As captain of a unit specifically trained and housed to be the spear, which can be thrown in any direction by our monarch and the esteemed family, should see fit, it is my duty to serve the crown and administer to my men. And as I intoned earlier, duty is the one thing in my life I never question and will never take for granted.
To uphold this obligation, I and my men have been deployed to the furthest reaches of the principality, and we are now trudging along through the dense undergrowth of the forest. It is just off the beaten path to allow us to conceal ourselves before we come upon our target, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
I will at this point expound upon the details that you are most certainly unaware of as I am a terrible storyteller. Unfortunately, I'm the only one you've got, so you'll just have to make due and grant me some latitude. I serve the crown with all my heart, mind and soul, and it has within the boundaries of this kingdom, which stretches far and wide, a myriad of colonies.
Forty-six fully formed and functioning city-states can he counted as part of this impressive entourage, but such a large number of independently operated regions requires a keen mind and more than a little knowledge that falls outside the purview of what simple men can be expected to know and commit to their daily actions and intentions.
It is one such governance, a smaller boundary, that is marching toward the castle with a fully armed and armored contingent. Such a unit is far too small to have a chance against the royal guard, but their hope is that their display of bravado will inspire their surrounding neighbors to rise with them at the appropriate hour and form a proper host to make their demands known.
What they do not know is that their neighbors have no intention of helping. In fact, it was one of these trusted neighbors who alerted the crown to this mutinous action. Further, that all able bodied men have left the territory, leaving behind only women, children and the elderly to safeguard their populace from any incursions.
The crown did not take the news of the mutiny well, as there is no reason it should, and ordered that a full third of the guard mobilize and squash the revolt. Total annihilation is all that awaits these poor fellows, and they have no idea just how closely death is stalking them, but they will learn. However, it is a lesson they will not profit from.
Upon being summoned to the war room and catching wind of the rumors going about, it was my hope that my leige would cast his spear ahead of the main body that we could weaken the main body and allow our army an easy victory against such malcontents who have forgotten their place and like a dog, must be brought to heel. But such weakness was not what was in the works.
Instead, it was determined that the proper action would be to demoralize the troops by sacking their community and razing it to the ground. All who dared present an opposition would be slaughtered and the rest would be bound up and sold off as slaves. It is a simple but effective measure to squash the rebellion and send a clear warning to those who would rebel. It is a proverb I heard of in my academy days: Crush one enemy to warn off a thousand.
I was appalled that my orders were to butcher and enslave a helpless populace and thought to raise issue, but duty demanded I keep silent. This was an order from the monarchy and one does not question the orders of their betters. It is the first and most lasting lesson all cadets learn early on, or they never make it in the ranks.
All I can do, as the bile rises in my throat, is remind myself that a successful mission would mean great honors bestowed upon my unit and more importantly greater glory to the crown. It is a pitiful excuse, I grant you, but it is all I have left to cling to. I accept the mission with much gusto and betray not the ill feelings churning up my insides as I present a brave front.
I call my unit to arms and select ten of my finest who hold no position of real authority to form a forward contingent while appointing my second in command to lead the troops. Highly irregula, I know, but I will not ask my men to do anything I am not, or have not, done myself, and this includes the slaughter of deluded fools and those unfortunate enough to be protected by them.
While the rest prepare for the march, donning their bright metal armor and implements of war, I and the ten cover ourselves in dark garb and have blotted our faces. We carry no banner nor implement of battle, but only short blades with which to strike quickly and silently from the shadows. We are the forward most unit and set before the main body, staying well ahead of them.
This brings us now full circle with my select group and I breaking through the forest boundary and catching sight of the town whose only fortification is a high wall composed of smooth wooden stakes. We all draw to a halt within the protection of the obfuscation of the thick branches. Now, there is only my word to set the wheels in motion. I carefully scan the area warily while praying that our Intel is incorrect.
I hope that there is still at least a small, proper guard left behind to defend the town and give us some challenge. After all the pernicious thoughts that plagued me during my march, I desire to do battle with a strong force in the glory of combat. I'd even settle for a few veterans passed their prime. Anything, just please do not make me have to fight…
No! This cannot be! The entire town is dark save for a few torches, and the streets are deserted. All I can see are a few women on patrol, with two standing at the closed gate that is the main entrance. They stand with the posture of amateurs in over their heads, and for a weapon, they carry nothing more than long, sharpened sticks with a horn hanging from their individual necks to alert the whole town.
I silently curse myself. My orders and protocol are clear on this manner, I simply have no choice. These women, harmless as they are, must die, and it must be swiftly and without mercy before they can raise an alarm. Would that I could change the situation and will them to at least have the bearing of warriors, but no amount of wishing will change the reality that is staring at me.
I signal the two men closest to me and they take off while disappearing into the shadows. Only a trained eye would have any hope of detecting them, and they'd have to know what they are looking for while operating within the scant amount of time afforded before they are unceremoniously dispatched.
All the same, I would have liked to avert my eyes to the coming slaughter, but I cannot. I must insure that all goes well, and even among professionals who have trained all their lives for any eventuality, there are still a million things that can go wrong, and only half of those are truly unexpected elements.
I watch closely as two slight distortions steal forward and it takes all of my eyes' cunning to keep track of them. Their skill is without equal as they move like lightning and their stealth is unparalleled. They creep right up to the corners that stand directly behind their individual target and there they hold.
The two women remain in their places and are ever observant as they hold their spears in a relaxed position that could quickly be turned to a ready one. What's more they keep eyes on one another with frequent glances during which they physically check to make sure their horn still hangs on their chest. They are vigilant to be sure, but no one is more so than the hunter stalking prey.
Then, like a well-oiled trap, my men spring, each of them, acting with one accord, clamp a hand down upon the mouth of their victim. The women are overwhelmed and haven't a chance to react as the other arm is locked around their middle effectively hold their arms in place while granting a lever from which to manipulate their captive as the guards are dragged into the shadows.
What follows next I could not physically see, but know all too well. They will drop the hand from the mouth and immediately squeeze the throat closed in the crook of their elbow while pulling their victim backwards to keep them off balance. Once this is complete, they will release hold of the belly, grab their respective blade, draw it to just beneath the throat and plunge it into the heart, just behind the ribcage.
If done properly, the heart will be pierced and the victim dispatched before the wielder can withdraw the blade. This is the move known as the red rose, for the blood will billow through the opening and blossom at the point of entry. After which, both women are returned to their places with a single knife pierced deep into their dress and pinned to the wood. To the outside observer, it will appear as though two tired guards standing in place.
The two return to the shadows after removing the key to the large double doors which they unlock, but do not open. It is now time for the rest of us to join them, and we are not long in our traversal of the ground. The previous two remain in place as our guards, while the rest of us pull open the door just enough that we can slip inside. I am the last inside and I steal a glance to our first victims.
I try to tell myself that their deaths were honorable. That they somehow posed some form of challenge, but I know better. There's no honor in this endeavor. We are raiders, raiding a harmless village to demoralize their troop and allow them no retreat. We are therefore villains, plain and simple. There are no words to dress up our nefarious acts, accept one, duty. I pull myself away and return to my men.
I watch closely as more guards fall and are pinned up the same as their sisters. All the while, I remain just outside of the action as it is my obligation to make sure everything goes according to plan and keep a level head should alterations be necessary. But it isn't an issue this time around as everything goes smoothly, too smoothly.
Within moments the raid is all over, but something is indeed wrong. Just as I observed from the outside this town is deserted and a quick reconnaissance reveals all the guards are dead, fifteen in total, and another ten are holed up in a single building. This puts me ill at ease. They knew we were coming and they were prepared for our arrival. I feel as though a rat going into a trap.
I make my way to where the survivors are being held. A quick glance reveals them to be between thirty and sixty years of age. They are all seated and trembling with a few even crying while being comforted. My men aren't sure what to do and look to me for orders. I don't know what to say so I remain stoic and passive to the situation.
I immediately spot the ring leader. She is a woman like any of the others, but she is the only one not terrified at the prospect of losing her life. This tells me she is prepared to die and if I had appointed someone to command this village it would be someone like her. The only question now is how to approach this flower made of steel? I determine the forward approach is the best one.
She's in the middle and though she speaks no words, she still influences a certain courage and strength to those that surround her and keep her safe from even my imposing presence. Perhaps, I have misjudged just how strong these women are. I order my men to remove her to the adjacent room. They do as instructed while her cohorts protest in pure futility.
I enter within and find her tied to a chair, even so she has not lost her commanding demeanor. I know from the start that she will not talk easily. As such, I will have to employ all the tricks I know to make it happen, and with that matter determined, it is time for the interrogation to begin in earnest.
I start with demanding her name, she will not speak. No matter, I continue unabated and move on to the real issue at hand: how had they transported their population while being clever enough to cover their tracks, and where exactly did they hide them? Unsurprisingly, she remains mute and defiant.
The matter remains unresolved, and it is starting to irk me. This is the one issue the crown would demand I resolve before taking these women prisoner and returning to the castle where they shall begin their new lives as slaves. I suppose, given the circumstance, that as much as it repulses me to employ the tactics of torture against so delicate a create, I must-
A scream rings out from outside of the house and it completely unnerves me. I leave the room and take note that my soldiers are in their appropriate places as well as the captives. I carry on outside where I find nothing but darkness and for a moment am lost as to the source of the sound, but I do not give up easily.
The only light comes from the moon which allows for many dark places that my eyes simply cannot pierce. It becomes unnecessary when a stray beam of moonlight reflects off the edge of the blade which has been driven into the dirt and is near to a pair of writhing bodies. One of them is easily identified as one of my men. The other is that of a girl who remained uncounted with the rest and appears to be more of child than a woman.
My rage knows no bounds as I storm forward upon the girl who is being violated while she struggles with a hand over her mouth and silently cries out as she wrestles with what is happening to her. This is no spoil taken after an intense battle, nor is this a trophy of conquest to mark the end of a successful campaign.
This was a sneak attack upon the defenseless in the dead of night. There is no merit here. No honor in what we have done that should be rewarded. This is the most loathsome of tasks and should be treated as such, though it be the crown who instituted the decree, it was the soldiers who fulfill our obligations in the matter.
I snatch up the deluded troop from his wayward pursuit and with his grip is so tight he tears the shirt of the girl, exposing the breasts which have barely grown. He turns about to fight back, but drops all such notions once he takes sight of who has challenged his pleasure seeking. I order him to continue his search for more of the citizens and he complies without any word against it.
I turn about and gaze upon the sobbing child who clothes her nakedness the best she can with torn articles and her arms. Back and forth she rocks herself as she finds what little comfort she can. This however, will matter very little when she finds herself a slave. Her days will be filled with scrubbing floors till her hands are red, emptying chamber pots till her stomach is completely turned and preparing meals she will never eat. Whereas, the nights… well, best not to think about that.
An idea occurs to me and I proceed with a new tactic. I rip the girl from the ground and plant her on her feet before tearing her shirt even more so it hangs in useless strips. I then proceed to march her in front of me and into the house. I parade her in front of her fellow captives and they all go slack from shock. Lastly, I push her violently ahead of me into the room with the ringleader and allow her to comfort the poor thing while staring daggers upon me.
I take in all her hate and redirect it by demanding to know if this will be the price of her silence. Will I be forced to order all of my men to commit violations so unspeakable they cannot be done in any but the darkest corner? Will the promise of such lascivious acts of debauchery finally loosen her tongue, or will I be required to give the command and force her to watch the entire time?
I stand steady with my arms folded and my eyes staring into hers. I'm bluffing of course and I think she knows it. Either that or she is so enraged by the proposed prospect that she cannot even think straight. In any case, this has only made my job that much more difficult and placed the promised glory further from my reach. I have tried to be diplomatic. I have used threats. Neither have worked.
There is only one other tactic I know how to effectively deploy, but it is my weaker tool and thus reserved for only the most desperate of situations. I continue to stare upon the woman and start in strong. I ask if she is prepared to die to keep her secret? She says nothing. I inquire as to whether she is willing to sacrifice her sisters for this same secret? It gives her pause, but she quickly returns to her resilience.
I decide to lay it all out. She will know exactly what price her sealed lips shall pay for. I pull the blade from my hip and throw it into the ground near her feet. I launch into my tirade, informing her that she will be tortured unto the point of death and not to underestimate the skill of the crowns inquisitors. They have the necessary abilities to let her taste death without imbibing. She is unmoved.
I point to the blade in the dirt and paint for her a picture that cannot be unseen. I illustrate for her that they will cut her in ways she never dreamed possible, that her mouth will open of its own accord to issue forth a guttural scream. I point out that she will hear sounds she never thought possible for a human to make and she will learn that it is she making them. It does not sway her.
I am beyond frustrated at this point. I am near to the point of ripping her from her chair and cutting her throat. But my orders are very specific: to kill any that resist and to enslave the rest. As it stands the rest have been secreted away and it is clear that these women will not speak outside of the most tumultuous interrogation.
I withdraw my blade and replace it on my belt before giving the order to mobilize upon the presence of the main unit. They arrive in the morning and with our captives all in chains around the wrists and necks we set off. It is a much longer hike than when we initially walked, but that could just be me.
It is not long before we have returned to the castle and the women are all removed from our custody that my men and I might clean ourselves up and make ourselves presentable for the king's inspection. We wash our bodies of the dirt, shine our armor and sharpen our weapons before gathering in formation and holding ourselves steady as a rock.
Our sovereign is fashionably late and it isn't until near evening before he makes his appearance. Despite this our military discipline never wavers and we brave the hot sun and sweat it out without even wavering, for we are professionals who have carefully chosen our profession and we are married to our jobs.
The king graces us with his presence and walks among our ranks where he remarks to our strength and fortitude. Afterwhich, he returns to the front and presents me with the Knight's Devotion, one of the highest medals the crown can bestow. To my four sergeants at arms he gives the Acolyte's Errant a decoration a step lower than mine and to three random troops he awards the Squire's Fortitude, a lesser, but no less important commendation.
I am brimming with pride and feel nearly faint, but hold myself steady all the same. Thankfully, the inspection doesn't last long and we are soon ready to fall to ease. All except myself who am called away, but before leaving I dismiss my men so they can return to their homes and families and enjoy an evening of revelry to mark the end of a hopefully forgettable mission.
Thus completed, I join my superiors who desire a full debrief which I give willingly. They are troubled by the subterfuge of so simple a people and assure me that they will torture the desired information out of each one of them, just as I predicted. The only caveat is one of my men will have to be present to confirm any details that will be coaxed from their unwilling lips.
For a moment I think to pass on the obligation to one of the others who part of the raid that I might free myself of the obligation, but I will not force upon my men any task that I am not willing to perform in my stead. I volunteer myself, despite myself. They are shaken by my display, but allow for it anyway.
They inform me that the inquisitors will sharpen their blades this night for tomorrow, the interrogations begin. They thank me for my selfless service and bid me depart to my home and a well-deserved rest. I offer my own thanks in return and follow their advice after I remove my arms and armor.
I return to my domicile, where my children greet me with open arms and ecstatic enthusiasm and my wife stands with them showering me with kisses. They have prepared a feast in my honor and cannot get enough of my decoration from the king himself. I am more than pleased to take the head of the table to carve up the beast that has been prepared.
I thrust the knife deep into the flesh and am instantly reminded of the sentries and the red rose that sprouted from the base of their throats. I shake my head and continue on, but then I start to hear the screams of the girl who was to be violated. I push the unwanted thoughts away and press on with all possible dispatch.
I serve up the meat to each hungry belly and we all dig in. We eat heartily and many is the word exchanged to my greater glory. I revel in all of it, but it feels hollow for some reason. Why? I do not know. All I can think of is that woman and how she remained silent and would divulge nothing to me. I shake my head again and carry on.
All into the evening I play and generally entertain my children with my previous exploits, some of which I twist together that I might repaint the sordid affair of our conquest. They love every part of my tales, even those they have heard many times before and the merriment only ends when the sun goes down entirely.
Afterwards, it is my wife that leads me to our bedchamber. Together we express our love for one another with all the energy we can muster, but just as with dinner, the hollow feeling returns. I ignore it the best I can and perform my husbandly duty to the extent of satisfying the woman to whom I have sworn my loyalty. She is soon sleeping with a smile on her face.
For me though, there is no sleep, and I withdraw from the bed and walk naked onto my balcony. I try my best to understand what is going on in my head and my heart as I stare at the moon. Many are the campaign that I have been apart of and always I have returned home feeling full of vitality and vigor. Has this one been so different from the others?
I have killed countless soldiers till blood has nearly rained down from the skies upon me. Can a handful of women really be so jarring to me? So what if they posed no real threat to me or my men? So what if they were little more than fodder for the war machine? They shouldn't have stood against the crown.
I hold the medal in my hand and gaze upon its reflected beauty and yet I cannot remember picking it up from the table near my bed. I feel the revulsion growing in me. This is no trophy awarded for valor. This is simply a reminder of the dark deed done. I wish at that instant to be rid of it, but I know I can't.
One does not refuse honors bestowed upon them by the crown. Not only am I to keep it, but I would have to wear it from now on. I'm sick and collapse to my knees. In this my hour of weakness I recall my man. They delighted in the spectacle I had provided. They were happy because they thought I was happy.
And yet I know that this very night, perhaps even this very moment, each of them is searching themselves to find the answer they so desperately need. The difference is that when they come upon their brick wall, they are able to tell themselves that it was alright because I was all right. And I wouldn't dare shatter their illusion.
The morning comes far too quickly and with it the position that I have taken upon myself. I make my way into the bowels of the castle where the nefarious figures known as inquisitors involve themselves in the dishonorable occupation of using people's weaknesses to break them and extort as much information as possible.
All eleven women are brought in naked and sequestered into a large cell before a single one of them is selected and taken to the table where she is strapped down. I steel myself to the best of my ability, but it is simply not enough. They set to her with the knives on their collective belts and the screams she issues are nothing like I have ever heard upon a battlefield or field hospital.
The only sound to rival it is that of the women who watch helplessly and even turn and beg the ringleader to divulge the information, but she will not speak. Not even as the first woman dies from being flayed alive, her outstretched head finally hitting the table that is covered in her dripping blood as she breathes her last.
No sooner has the first expired than her body is taken away to be hung up so that all can see what fate awaits them if they stand in defiance against the crown. But for the rest of us, who are inside this room straight from hell, in the company of devils, there is only to bear witness to the second woman being ripped away from the arms of her comrades and secured to the same platform.
The blades dance about the room in ruthless efficiency as the inquisitors ply their questions and their trade with such ruthless efficiency that they are unfazed by the spurting of blood, the tearing of muscle and the spilling of bile. To this one they left the skin and simply dissected her body so that the contents lay completely exposed and I had no idea what lies inside our bodies.
I feel myself sick, but swallow it down, rather than soil my presence in this matter. The second victim expires and is taken away carefully, so as not to spill her contents as they hold her like a bag made of flesh outstretched between two of them. And no sooner is she gone than a third is chosen, but she is not taken the table, no, for her it is shackles upon her arms and legs as she is hoisted into the air.
The interrogators work a device that pulls the feet further from the rest of the body by increments. She knows no more than the previous two and from her person issues the most terrible popping and cracking sounds till her body is torn apart at the belly. Another dead, another ornament for the crown and there are still so many more grizzly jewels left for decoration.
All the while I scream and plead and beg for them to say something, anything! Even a lie would help! I could support it and they would simply be executed or sold into slavery! Anything but this living nightmare! But none of it is real. It is only in my head. For reality dictates that I follow my duty which is to remain silent and listening for any clue to corroborate my knowledge of the circumstance that we might find that which has been hidden so cleverly.
The fourth goes up and it is the girl my soldier was in the midst of violating. To her is applied a rope to tie her to a long metal bar that sits above a pile of wood set alight. Not only is she slowly cooked alive, but to prolong the suffering the bar is raised and lowered, allowed to cool before being heated again. Her interrogation and subsequent execution takes the longest and has exhausted the day and it is decided that as her body is carried away that we would break till the morn.
In as much as I am relieved, the thought of coming back here tears me up inside. But wait! It doesn't have to be me! Any of the men that joined the raid could take my place! Then it would be they who endure this unspeakable activity that tears at the soul of those who simply observe. And I would, I would, be eaten up for the guilt of having another take my place. I know then I would be back. And as I leave I take sight of the eyes that stare at me as a trough is brought full of slop and left where they can reach through the bars.
The walk home takes a real toll on me as every eye that looks my way is theirs. Every clap of the hand to applaud their hero is another pop of the body as it writhes in the sky. So much pain, so much blood and I am only a bystander in the process. How is it that these men, these inquisitorsm, can do this day after day? How are they able to look in the mirror and not see a monster staring back? How is any of this real?!
I return home to a greeting only slightly less than my homecoming. My children want to play and I indulge in their frivolous behavior, but my mind is not in it. Dinner is shortly served and my wife has prepared a sumptuous repast for us to indulge in, but I have no appetite. All the same I choke down what I can and excuse myself before the rest is consumed.
My wife takes me to bed and I do all I can for her, but my heart is not in it. As such, I am soon completed and spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling while she sleeps soundly. I cannot get beyond the screams. I cannot forget the blood. I cannot even forget that there is a sound skin makes when it is sliced with delicate precision.
I should love to forget all of it, and I keep telling myself that it is merely my duty to the crown and nothing more. I try again and again to affix the labels of traitor, rabblerouser and revolutionary to the women who have gone on ahead, but none of them stick. Not a single word that I can contrive are capable of dismissing this out and out butchery.
I am beyond exhausted and can feel the cold sweat sliding down my skin. I so badly want to close my eyes, but I fear the dreams that will infest me. I am afraid that they will find the loophole that leaves me blameless and that I will grow to love the slaughter. And thus, I will be changed forevermore.
The sun splashes upon the room and I am made aware of the beginning of a new day and the specialized torture that awaits me before it is all said and done. I rise, dress and make my way to the best of my ability to the dungeons, and feel as though I am not choosing to go, but am being pulled along against my will.
The women are all huddled around one another for the sake of comfort and security with the ring leader center amongst the lot of them. They stare upon me with eyes that scream that they just want to go home, all but her. Perhaps, perhaps I can entreat the inquisitors to let them go. It is clear they know nothing, only she need remain.
I am about to speak when the fifth is selected and before even a moment passes a pair of tongs are produced, clamped upon her tongue and twisted while being pulled until a mass of flesh is ripped from the throat. The woman falls forward with copious amounts of blood pouring from out of her mouth as she covers the opening as though she can stop it, but she dies before such a miracle can transpire.
What is this?! What kind of madness am I bearing witness to?! She cannot speak without her tongue! She cannot give information without the means to speak! What is going on here?! What have I found myself wrapped up in?! How is this evil of evils allowed to exist?! Does the crown know what takes place under their feet?! Does…
All at once, it becomes clear to me as I note that the final position of the corpse is an arm extended toward the ring leader whose eyes are moist with tears, but she herself does not move in any way. I feel the ache that she does for not being able to take up her comrade one last time before death takes her.
I look to the inquisitors and it becomes clear to me. They already know that only one woman is privy to the information they seek. They have determined that hers is a will of iron that will not break. And so, they have decided to use the rest as leverage to bend that metal and learn the truth before it is too late. The rest, the rest do not matter.
Frustration is dripping from the faces of the interrogators as they select a sixth, but she is not as brave as her sisters who went before her and she drops to her knees as she begs to be allowed to live. She reaches through the bars and takes hold of any flesh she can grasp with claw like hands.
She is ripped away from her place, kicking and screaming while I remain frozen in place, unable to even think at this time. All at once everything before my eyes changes. It stops being reality and becomes a macabre play put together by the mind of a depraved soul who wishes to make a point from all this bloodshed.
The women are no longer naked, but covered in a flesh colored tunic with crude scrawls to depict their nudity. The pool of blood is no more than a piece of red cloth. The walls are merely constructed of weak material that has been painted to look like stone. And the inquisitors all hold flimsy tools that have no edge to them.
As for myself I have become a statue and remain rooted in place. I cannot move. I cannot do. I am merely a piece of decoration that holds no will of my own. And the bars change themselves into bits of water dripping from the ceiling, creating a steady stream which gives the appearance of an impassable barrier.
In this state of complete immobility, I watch as the latest victim is dragged away as a trail of red ribbon follows along. She is taken to a kind of alcove where she is cast down upon the unforgiving stone. Sluggishly, she recovers, but remains on her knees as she holds an arm in front of her head while the floor raises as though it were a stage of some sort.
All at once the victim's voice rises in song and she protests the treatment being meted upon her while she declares her innocence in the matter and her ignorance over the desired outcome. She even stands and dances about on the raised platform as the inquistors draw ever nearer to her person.
They pull forth knives which they use to slash at the empty air and yet, for each of these pointless actions, a new ribbon of red is grasped by the dancer and spins around her. They become a spiral of fluttering material before she reaches an intense moment of both voice and motion, the end of which sees her hang for but a moment of stillness before she collapses and red spills from the stage.
The inquisitors do not tarry for longer than is necessary to confirm that the dancer will not rise again. They then break into their own song that describes their job and how wonderful it feels to perform the deeds which are deemed to be important to the continued existence of the crown while being despised by all who know them.
All the while, they dance their way to the cage and pull the water apart as they coax the seventh woman, destined to die, to come forth. They lay not a single hand upon her as she willingly joins in their dance and is led along in this fashion to a simple chair where she is bidden to sit. This she does without protest, but her exaggerated motions have not stopped.
The inquisitors leap all around her as they fluctuate between being near and far from the one they intend to dispatch in grizzly fashion. All at once their hands drop and flash upward, each now brandishing a sword made of paper. These impractical weapons are then driven deep into the flesh of the woman, which fold into recesses, over and over again til they suddenly stop.
The scene lies in complete stillness. All at once, butterflies of rainbow color explode from out of each gaping wound. They fly in circles all around the seated victim, creating a sphere of brilliant display as one might expect to see should a stained glass window break into a torrent of falling pieces.
Faster and faster the little insects fly about the place as their flight pattern opens up to encompass the entire room. It is so dazzling that it takes the breath away from my person and is stingy in giving it back. But it is not to last, as every one of the emissaries of the final moments of a woman not long for this world, flap upward and exit through the only opening, barely accessible to all but those who possess wings, leaving nothing on the chair.
I feel my breath become erratic and only then realize that I am breathing at all. I want to do something, but I have no idea what that something is. How can I, a solid statue, hope to contend with the insanity that seems to be the central focus of my mind? All I know, all I am, is reminding me that I am stuck where I stand.
All at once the inquisitors, who were standing as still as I, spring to life and take hold of victim number eight. Unlike her predecessors, she seems more than happy to go along with them and even has a skip to her step. She wants what is coming to her and I have no idea why, as even I, a seasoned veteran of the battlefield would not skip to my execution.
The more than jovial group make their way to a spinning sphere where they all put a hand to the massive object and lift it with considerable ease given the collective strength of those involved. It is so light in fact that they take to tossing it into the air and catching it with surprising ease. Once secure again they instead lift it as high as their outstretched fingers will allow.
It at this moment that the woman breaks of her involvement and enters inside the circle itself. She sit herself down crosslegged and raises her head toward the object as she extends her arms in acceptance of the gift she is to be given. Once she is settled the inquisitors let go of the sphere and it falls with a speed far slower than it had previously exhibited.
It descends with the gentlest of grace as it touches upon her head and slowly envelops her body till she is sitting inside the sphere which has only just become transparent. In this manner does she run her fingers all along the sides, which leaves a trails of red ribbon wherever her fingers go. In the end, she lays down her head and that is all there is for her.
There are now only two victims left and I can feel the exagerations start to slip away leaving adequate room for reality to take its place. I note the frustration in the eyes of the inquisitors and see their hands draw their blades. This time it is not a nameless victim that they draw forth, but the ringleader. She is removed from the cage before the savagery takes place.
Sharp knives flash all around, but it is not ribbons of red, but real blood that splashes about and coats the bars of the cage. When it is all said and done two more bodies lie in the cold embrace of death while still being warm and fighting for every breath they can get a hold of. But there is nothing to be done, they are past saving.
All at once, my shell breaks away and falls completely to pieces, allowing me to move once again. There is so much blood all about the room and I feel myself sick for having been apart of it, even just as an observer. I can no longer fill that function. I have to act, for the sake of my sanity, I have to do something.
I march over to the last living woman and drop down to my knees in front of everyone. I take hold of her face and stare into the eyes that bare the scars of innumerable, horrific deaths upon them. Her face is worn, no longer the youthful complexion that I had first observed in her person. Were I not privy, I would believe her to be a different woman entirely.
All the same, I push past all of that and beg her to give us the information we seek. Allow herself to be executed swiftly rather than fall under the machinations of these depraved individuals' imaginations. Simply tell us where to find the others of her village and we will round them all up that they may…
That's when it dawns on me. Her strength, her will, is borne from the fact that she does not want anyone else to live through this. She knows that a fate just as terrible awaits those that come under our hand, worse still as they will be enslaved, a guarantee that they will forever be treated like cattle and forfeit all connection to human protections.
I know then there is nothing more that can be said. I bow my head, take a breath and pull my blade which I use to cut off her head. Barbaric I know, but the only sure method of swift death. Her head falls to the floor and her body along with her. All the while, I gaze upon my bloody instrument and watch the red liquid drip off it.
The inquistors are shocked and remain still as statues, before exploding with furious anger and attacking me. They have dropped their weapons as this is not about retribution, but simply blind rage at having lost their chief plaything. Their blows are little more than soft poundings against me and given what I have witnessed mean nothing.
The crown is disappointed in my actions, but willing to show leniency at the behest of my superiors who weigh my dedicated military career against a simple bout of warrior's fatigue. They determine that the best course of action is to let me go home and rest it off. They surmise that I will feel so much more like myself when I've rested.
I agree with the assessment and return to my domicile where my family do all within their power to help me forget what I witnessed and for a time it works. I stop thinking about the blood and violence. I simply allow my inner self to just be myself again and no one else. This is my life and I will return it to normal.
Come dinner, we all gather round the table as my wife brings in a covered dish to serve us all. It's is an interesting aberration as I do not recall her ever being so oriented toward presentation that we kept such a covering in our kitchen. She sets it in the middle of the table and opens the lid spilling the pleasing steam into the air, revealing the bounty that it conceals.
My heart drops within my chest and I am forced to brace my arms against the table as I stare with unbelieving eyes upon a sight that simply cannot exist. Upon the steaming plate lies her head. Her eyes are open and staring at me, just as they had before. I look up and see my wife, she's smiling and brandishing a bloody knife.
My mind can take no more. I rip the sharp instrument from her hand and turn upon her with murderous intent. Again and again I stab her as I remember all those women who went to their deaths for nothing. The wasted life that had been spilled all over the stone floor and even congeal within my mind.
I look once more with eyes that understand beyond the madness and gaze with horror on the mutilated corpse of my wife and the knife that drips with her blood still held in my hand. My eyes go wide as I try to rationalize what has happened and divorce myself from all responsibility of the action.
I look to my children, but I do not see them any longer. All I see are the brutalized remains of those that I had brought back to suffer unspeakable horrors. They raise their individual hands and point directly at me while their mouths open in silent accusation. They have taken the blame and leveled it all on me.
This is my fault?! This isn't my fault! I had nothing to do with it. It was just a job! I was only doing what I was told to do! Their deaths are not on my hands! This has nothing to do with me! I just… I just made it all happen. I could have refused, but duty would not have allowed it. It was destiny and it's not down to me. It, is, not, my, fault.
I will not let this blame sit on my shoulders, no matter what I have to do. It isn't right and it isn't fair. I am just a soldier, a man sent to do the bidding of others and that's all this was, a job. I will not allow for this guilt that I am feeling. I will break free of it. I will have my revenge against the forces that are pushing me in all the wrong directions.
I open my eyes and find that I am the lone occupant in a room painted with blood. Everywhere I look dead bits of dismembred bodies litter the floor and even for one such as I, intimate with the shape of each person, can hardly identify, let alone put back the pieces of this macabre puzzle that demands my attention.
I fall to my knees as I lose control of my muscles and drop the blade to the floor. I cannot even begin to understand what has happened or what my role was in any of it. I have known a berserker rage, but I have always been aware of my actions. I have never blacked out. At least, not until now.
All at once, the door opens and I snap my head to see who it is. Two of my soldiers have come to call on me, what excellent timing. They stand frozen, shocked, by what they see. Their eyes take in every little detail as they rove about the enclosed space and return to me each time, they cannot believe what they are seeing.
They have been with me through many a massacre. They have waded through seas of blood alongside me. They have known the tear of flesh and the evisceration of their muscle to see to the end of our enemies. But they have never known me to raise a hand against my progeny or speak of anything but fondness for my wife. But this, this is beyond the pale.
I am undone and there's no going back. I pick up the knife and charge full strength with it raised high. This is meant to be the end of all things. That is why I hold it aloft as it is my intent to drive it downward with as much force as possible. It is a shame my men have to die, but I cannot allow any witnesses to my fall from grace.
I fight like a wild cat and though my troops fight to subdue me, I am having none of it. They have no choice. They must kill me. There is no other possibility. They strike me down with swift cuts to my person and I fall at last, like a sack of potatoes. My head hits the floor, but I remain within my mind and do not pass into unconsciousness.
My men beg to know what is going on, but I'm not listening to them. Instead, I am watching my blood spill from the many cuts and mingle with that of my family. It is an honor I do not deserve, for I know I will live in torment. Of all the deeds that may be forgiven, the cold-blooded murder of one's own family is not one of them. Duty be my watchword. Duty be damned.