Prologue
It was morning.
Of course it was. Executions were always in the morning; nighttime meant darkness, which meant not seeing the scarlet fountain of bloods spurting from a place where there was once a head, and certainly not seeing the aforementioned head rolling on the floor where it would inevitably stop at the feet of the executioner, its features contorted in a last, awful grimace.
Executions are nothing if not entertaining, right?
This one was different, though. People will flock out by the hundreds to see the execution of a peasant caught stealing from the royal castle, and by the thousands when a lord or lady is caught in infidelity. But when it's the former almost-prince of the kingdom, you can bet your ass that the entire fucking kingdom will show up.
Why am I doing this? I asked myself, as I tried to shove my way to the front of the jeering mob of people. It's his own fault, really. He admitted to it, so he should take the blame. His sister isn't up there, moments away from death. She'll be branded as a traitor, yes, and almost definitely sent into exile, but she'll live. All he needed to do was keep his fucking mouth shut.
But, being the complete masochist I am, I knew that I couldn't just sit there and watch him die. And, alright, maybe it was partially my fault too, whether or not either of us had admitted it. I guess most of it was my fault. Hell, maybe all of it was my fault. So I had to do something. But when I got to the front of the crown to see him, hands bound and on his knees, my throat caught. I couldn't speak.
Had it really been so little time since we had met? One year. More like eleven months, actually. Eleven fucking months, and he was being torn away from me already. And if I just closed my eyes and waited long enough, for a minute, maybe two, he would be dead, and with him, all living proof of the last eleven months would be gone with a shower of blood and a collective gasp from the crowd.
I suppose that a part of me wanted to forget the months that I spent with him. Forget, and move on. My father would become king, and one day, I would rule the kingdom, and no one would ever be the wiser. It would be so easy. In fact, I would probably never have another chance to bury the demons of my past life, where no political enemy or potential suitor could ever find them. But how could I, when the months that I spent with him were the best of my life?
An inner debate raged for what seems like hours, but was most probably seconds as I stood there, holding my breath, eyes closed, completely unable to move or speak. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead and dripping down my back, but my arms were somehow rendered immobile, like someone had strapped me down to a prison wall as a punishment for misbehaving (Been there, done that, all I can say is that you're fucked if you think you can get away with not saying "please" and "thank you" around the palace manners teacher.). I might have well as been a fucking blind peasant, the amount of help I was. No, scratch that, most people would probably rather have the blind peasant on their side. At least he would have been a human being. Not the lying, backstabbing, complete bitch that I had become.
When I opened my eyes, the first things I see were his. They're emerald green, and beautiful. The kind of eyes that you can drown in, and at that moment, they were conveying everything that I could never bring myself to tell him – I love you, I'm proud of you, I would, and will, die for you.
The next few moments were the ones that you only read about in books, where time slows down to almost a standstill. With his left hand, the executioner shoved Edward's head down, and with his right, he brought a huge axe over his neck. I couldn't quite tell from my vantage point, put I was 99% sure that there was dried blood on it. It was just beginning its descent down when I finally found my voice.
"Wait! Stop! If you kill that man, you'll have to kill me too."