Excerpt: Crimson Strings

Lucien had come to terms with his death. It would happen an hour after sunrise in the center of the city. On the ground, on the earth, with the sun shining high above. He couldn’t rightly recall, but he hoped the square wasn’t shadowed at that hour by any of the large metal towers that made this cursed city. That would put a damper on his dramatic exit.

There was plenty of time to imagine how he would leave this world as he sat in this dark cell, wrists, ankles and neck surrounded by burning metal. In those first days he imagined the iron would burn right through him, leaving him a stumped freak for the jailors to find. That may have happened, if one of them hadn’t noticed and been intelligent enough to replace the regular irons with the cloth lined ones. These still burned as well, but only in a slow, surface scarring way rather than a limb losing one.

It wasn’t out of kindness that they had replaced the irons. No, it simply wouldn’t do to have him die prematurely. They needed to have their spectacle. After years of hunting him down, having him escape, then hunting him down again they needed to prove he was actually dead. Pieces of his body left in a cell wouldn’t do. It could be a trick. Yes, better to have hundreds, perhaps thousands of witnesses to prove that the great Lucien Strelregin was gone, once and for all.

The chains rattled as Lucien carefully adjusted his position. One of the links brushed against the bare skin of his arm, but he didn’t wince. He had become used to these small flashes of pain. The pants they had forced him to wear were dirty and too short, the shirt long enough, but short sleeved. Thankfully the cell itself was of stone so he could lean against the walls with relative ease. It made it difficult to avoid the occasional brushes with the chains though. Any free fae knew to cover most of their body, usually all but the face. He knew the walk to the execution ground would be painful without shoes. Would they make him crawl the rest of the way if his feet burned away? Would they laugh at him? Perhaps. But he had come to terms with his death.

He smiled slightly as he recalled the one other time he had been forced on a death march. That time he had leapt over the side of the platform, pulling one of his captors after him to plummet to the ground. He had used the guard’s own sword to sever the captor’s hand, and then channeled enough energy to get the wind to blow him to a safe landing spot. Then all he needed to do was hide and wait. Only two ribs and an arm had been broken.

That was a very unlikely scenario. The last time had been lucky. He couldn’t count on such luck again.

There had been other near escapes as well. He liked to imagine their shocked faces when they discovered he wasn’t in his cell where they had left him moments before, that the body rotting in there wasn’t his. It made him laugh to suddenly appear where he wasn’t expected and to see their eyes widen with fear. He should have known he was pushing his luck. He should have known they would learn and that someday, he wouldn’t be able to find a loophole. One of those times they would be able to keep him locked up until the day of execution. They would get him to the chopping block and cheer as his head rolled.

Sick, moon touched bastards. He thought out his revenge on them, imagining many new escapes, many new tricks and punishments as he waited in this cell. But there was never an opening. They were very careful. And so, during these last twenty-four hours, he finally faced his coming death. This was how it was to be. In the morning, they would come, more than one of them gripping at the chains that bound him, more than one pointing iron swords with iron hilts at him. Ceriel Fawul had promised him that. That crazy bitch general seemed to have some personal vendetta against him. He hadn’t had anything personal against her. So he had killed her father. Her father had been acting against him. This was war! Such things happened. It was never personal.

She took it so, though. Somehow she seemed to know about just about everything he had ever done. That was how she was able to take such extreme precautions. That was how she had been able top keep him locked up and make him look at his death. His last look in life would be for her. As he knelt over that block, he wouldn’t hang his head with shame, he had no shame, nor would he cry out for forgiveness, he didn’t need any. No, he would look into her eyes. He would force her to see the life leave him, force her to face that she was responsible for his death and that he was not sorry in the least. Yes, he would make her the victim, use his death as a final volley in his great war.

Someone else would pick up where he left off. He could be a martyr. Perhaps the small groups of half hearted rebels would pick up their fight. Maybe one could become as he was, a solid thorn buried deep under the skin of the human warlords. Perhaps. Probably not. This great execution most likely marked the end of an era. The end of the truly great and noble fae.

The cell door creaked open and Lucien straightened his position, ready to smirk knowingly at whoever walked through that opening. He refused to look afraid. He wasn’t afraid. Why should he be, with his death faced and reconciled? With him still in the right? They could take him, make him crawl to the block, drag him if he couldn’t move anymore, but they couldn’t stop him from radiating rebellion, from being who he was and who they tried so hard to snuff away.

“Ready to march me to my death?” he asked, proud at the amount of mockery laced in his tone.

“To your death?” A figure in a black cloak stepped inside the room and laughed. By the voice, a woman. “Who said anything about death?”

Two more figures stepped into the cell, making it feel very cramped. One knelt down and grasped Lucien’s wrist. A key slid into the irons and Lucien squinted one eye as the cloth peeled away from his tender skin. His other wrist was then grabbed as well and as the chain fell away he noticed the blood dripping from the sword the woman carried. And behind her, by her boot, he noticed the fallen body of one of his jailors.

When he looked back up at the woman she laughed again. “Don’t you see, Lucien Strelregin? This is a rescue!”

The smirk on Lucien’s face left. He remained still while each chain was removed. There would be no death tomorrow. All of his plans had been laid to waste, forcing him to rethink everything. And someday, he would have to come to terms with death all over again.