A/N: This is thoroughly AU. Three years ago, I wrote a story called "At the Core". In that story was a line which has gnawed at the edges of my mind ever since. Finally, I was ready to see where that line might have led had the prediction it made come to pass. This story takes place before Nooj has his near-fatal encounter with Sin. He is still intact at this time.
This is the fifth variation in a series I call "Transition". In these short pieces, I am journeying with Nooj down some paths which sometimes parallel one another and sometime diverge sharply. As always, I turn over what stones I stumble across simply to see what is under them.
Un bel di
TRANSITION - 5
So it had come to this. He was to die; that much was certain. Shortly after the sky had begun to grow light, he would enter into the Eternal Darkness. He knew the details. He would be taken from this place, his wrists bound behind him and, later, his ankles bound together - no unseemly 'dancing on the air' when he swung from the gallows he could see if he turned his head just to the west. One thing he had not thought to ask. Were condemned men Sent or were they left unshrivened to devolve into fiends? He supposed he would find out soon enough.
It was all his own fault. He had been careless. Too intent on perfecting the intricate design to notice the approach of the group of fellow Crusaders until his hand was jerked away from his still breathing victim and the dagger torn from his grasp. The major looked at the renegade priest slumped against the rock, his face a mask of blood. Gauging the extent of the man's injuries, the officer drew his own dagger and mercifully slit the priest's throat, almost beheading him in the process.
"What do you think you were doing?" He barked at Nooj. "No. I can see all too well what you were up to. Secure him!"
Nooj's arms were roughly pinioned behind him and lashed at the elbows, then he, still silent and unresisting, was turned to face the florid face of the furious major.
"Take his weapons and throw him in the stockade. He's disgraced us all." The shorter man strained his neck to look into his prisoner's eyes. Nooj had drawn himself up to his full height, knowing how his superior officer hated being looked down upon. It was his sole gesture of defiance.
The court-martial was perfunctory; the verdict certain. Nooj had expected nothing else. He had always know what awaited him were he to be discovered practicing his cruel art. He had only two regrets. First, he was disgusted at his own carelessness. He should have been more alert. Second, his death would be a dishonourable one. He had planned to die in battle, in a manner which would not disgrace his name. Now that was no longer possible. He had been fairly condemned and now the sentence was to be carried out.
His hair had been cut, shorter than he could ever remember it. It had been unevenly cropped to just beneath his ears so that it would not interfere with the placement of the rope and its massive knot. Without the heavy, elaborate mane, his head felt light and unfamiliar. In fact, his entire body felt strange with all his senses sharpened and vibrating near the surface. The iron of the bars in the narrow window was searingly cold to his palms. He could hear the tiny motions of the insects in the walls and the muffled clank of the guards down the hall. The smell of prisoners who had inhabited the cell before him was clearly distinctive as was the metallic reek of his own blood and the deep-sea saltiness of his own sweat.
The two moons were low in the sky but still shed enough light to make objects easy to discern. He found himself looking at the smallest things with a ravenous hunger which surprised him. He had not thought himself to be so attached to the commonplaces of the world. Ixion knew, he was not afraid of Death; he had lusted after the Dark Lady all his conscious life. So why was he standing sleepless at the barred window on this last night of his existence? Why was he not escaping into the little death until it was time for the great one? The minute whirlpools of sand which patterned the swept courtyard were fascinating to him as were the sparse clumps of weedy grass which had taken up their tenacious hold in the less trafficked areas. The one direction in which his eyes did not turn was west where the stark geometry of the gibbet cast its ominous shadow on the ground.
He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably under the coarse linen shirt which they had given him to replace his uniform tunic. The public flogging had been the worst thing so far, much worse than the prospect of hanging. It was not the pain in his lacerated back. He could bear pain and he had been flogged before. But those stripes had been inflicted in private. To be so humiliated in front of the troops he had led made his face burn with angry shame in the remembering. Hanging would be easy in comparison. A sardoic smile twisted his lips. The corps would shortly have to assemble again. He imagined the men would not be happy to get up before dawn just to watch him dangle at the end of a rope. Such a viewing was hardly worth the loss of another hour of sleep.
He hoped the man who would hang him knew his business so that his neck would be broken cleanly and he would not be left to strangle slowly as he had heard happening in some botched executions. Not that it mattered all that much. One way or the other, he would soon be absorbed into Nothingness. It might be comforting to believe in the existence of a FarPlane, but he could not bring himself to fly to the embrace of the church after all this time. Where faith could not draw him, fear would not drive him. No. Darkness and extinction awaited him and he welcomed them after the trials of a life not well lived.
There was a faint glow just at edge of the horizon. They would be coming for him soon. Should he face the door so that they could see the defiance in his eyes from the first moment or should he keep his back turned to demonstrate his contempt? It would be the last decision he would ever make and it must be the right one.
Friday, May 16, 2008
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