Written for Whumpers-Monthly issue 21 on tumblr.Written for Whumpers-Monthly issue 21 on tumblr.

Normally, he would not give the scrawny boy in the dirty rags a second glance. Not a first one even. However, something seems to mysteriously draw his eye to the by far smallest and youngest in the group of waiting men and women. Something about him is special. It is hard to put a finger on what it is, what exactly makes the boy stand out among the condemned other than his youth. He looks like he could be around thirteen, maximum fourteen, judging by the lack of anything even remotely indicating the growth of facial hair. Pretty much the same age as he was when the Usurper took the throne from him, had his father imprisoned and tortured, and him cursed and driven out of his own country. He could be wrong, though, he is not an expert on children or teenagers, gods forbid, far from it, although he is a father. Not much of one at the moment owing to adverse circumstances, but this will change in due time. When he has gained back what is rightfully his. This here is one more step in the right direction, yet another little piece in his, admittedly, very ambitious plan. Standing on the raised platform beneath the gallows, not far from the boy, he can spot the reason for his presence, why he is hidden here in the crowd of spectators. The man looks pale and gaunt, old, almost feeble, scared. Not at all like the powerful ally of the var Emreis family that he remembers from back when he was a child. Well, this must be what happens after years locked away in a dungeon. If not for the aristocratic nose, he would not have recognised the count at all among the crooks and petty criminals that will hang next to him. And the one juvenile delinquent. Briefly, the future Emperor of Nilfgaard wonders which crime would cost the boy his life. Beggary? Loitering? Thievery? Most probably the latter. Teenagers are always hungry and this one here looks half starved. It would not be surprising at all if he was caught stealing food, or the coin to buy some.

A bell rings. The crowd falls silent as the bailiff steps onto the podium.

"All men are created equal," he reads from a very official-looking parchment in a loud voice. "So shall all men die equal also, nobility and lowly thieves. By the hangman's rope. 'Tis the will of his majesty, the Imperator of Nilfgaard." He rolls up the parchment. "In the sacred quest for justice, let the execution commence!"

He gives the guards standing behind the fettered convicts a signal. They grab the first five of the condemned and push them up the wooden stairs and onto the upper level of the scaffold - the one with the nooses and the trapdoors for the deadly drop. Even with five executions at a time, carrying out all the death sentences will take quite a while as there are more than a score men and women meant for the hangman's rope today. The boy is among the first to die. The soldiers place each of the convicts behind one of the nooses hanging from the sturdy crossbeam. Two of the men - they look like beggars who might have stolen a loaf of bread or just asked the wrong lord for alms - are crying for mercy as they do so, but, of course, there is no mercy. All the while, the bailiff reads out the convicts' crimes. He was not wrong about the two beggarly men, the secret onlooker notes with satisfaction. The tall, angular woman next to them is accused of having poisoned her husband. She does not appear to regret her deed in the slightest. A stark contrast to the young man on her right. He stands shivering and with hunched shoulders, obviously suffering from withdrawal symptoms in addition to being afraid. A drug addict who committed fraud to buy his fisstech. A lamentable sight. Last in line stands the boy. It was indeed stealing that brought him where he is now. Figures. Still, Emhyr cannot shake the feeling that there is more to the thieving little gutter rat than meets the eye. He has another, closer look at him. The boy's longish, light brown curls are matted with dirt and grime, his lip is cut and there are several dark bruises on his chin and cheeks. The guards do not seem to have exactly handled him with kid gloves. With his high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes he has a somewhat elvish look about him. Perhaps this is what caught his eye? But what Emhyr spots of the boy's ears under the wild hair is perfectly blunt. Not a half- or quarter-elf, but not the typical street urchin either. He could look handsome, pretty even if soaked in a hot bath for a few hours and given clean clothes and a decent haircut. Much like the son of a nobleman. Or maybe what has attracted his attention is the way he carries himself in the face of certain death, standing ramrod straight and as tall as physically possible? Or the expression of defiance and utter contempt in those young eyes?

"Any last words before you meet your creator?" the bailiff asks the first of the doomed, interrupting Emhyr's musings.

Another loud plea for mercy from the beggar on the left, then the hangman places the noose around his neck, steps away from the crying man and pulls the lever. The trapdoor opens and the convict drops. To his death. Emhyr can almost feel the man's spinal cord snap. It gives him goosebumps all over. He is not a squeamish person and has witnessed plenty of fights, killed scores of enemies by his own hand, but having to watch executions or torture is nothing he would do for sport. The crowd of spectators, however, gasps and jeers with excitement. One down, four more to go in this first batch. Hopefully, he will not have to wait and watch for too long until it is the count's turn and he can give the signal to attack.

The hangman works his way up the row quickly and efficiently.

"Fuck my husband's rotting corps, and fuck you, too!" the woman hisses before the noose tightens around her neck and she falls through the hole beneath her feet. The only remarkable last words so far. Will the boy say anything, too? Probably not. The closer the hangman has been moving up to where he is standing with the noose dangling over his head, the paler has he gone under all the dirt in his face. He is trembling slightly, too, Emhyr observes. Nevertheless, his posture is erect and proud, like the woman's was. One more convict to go, then it is his turn. The fraudster is so shaky and frightened, he does not manage to say a single word. Then it is too late. The trapdoor opens and he drops. The hangman moves on.

"Any last words?" he asks for the fifth time.

"Death to the Usurper!" the boy shouts loud and clear and with utmost loathing, his voice cracking slightly. Then he spits the executioner in the face. Emhyr raises an eyebrow in approval. That kid has spirit! A pity that he is going to die shortly.

"You'll pay for that," the hangman growls under his breath, wiping the spittle off his dark red, almost purple face. "I'll make sure you dance for us, gutter scum!"

Hmm, it might not be the smartest move to anger your executioner right before you are hanged, Emhyr suspects, the contrary. Still, he appreciates bravery when he sees it. A lot. What a waste. He sighs, awaiting the inevitable.

The livid executioner grabs the rope and pulls at it to place the noose around the boy's scrawny neck. However, it does not work. The boy is too short. Or the rope is. Or both. Furious, he goes even darker in the face, looking close to exploding any moment. It is almost funny. Some people in the crowd point and laugh at the man. The boy has clearly won some sympathy among the spectators. It will not save his neck, but it makes for a good tale. And that is what people want. Finally, a soldier fetches a wooden crate for him to climb on. Although he has gone even paler than before, he steps onto the box without hesitation, head held high. The executioner lays the noose around the boy's neck and moves toward the lever that activates the mechanism for the drop.

"I want that boy," Emhyr suddenly whispers to the hooded man standing next to him. A spur of the moment, a rash decision, probably more than stupid, but he has to try.

"What about the count?" his follower asks doubtfully. Still, he reaches for the arbalest hidden beneath his cloak.

"Change of plans. We'll do without him. Quick now, and don't miss!"

While the crossbowman takes aim, Emhyr blows into his horn. The signal for the horsemen. It has begun. Only, the arbalester does not release the missile. It is too late. The hangman has already pulled the lever. Together with the box, the boy falls.

The crowd gasps as the rope straightens with a jerk.