Chapter 3: Not a Man, But a Weapon

The fight continued, Nemesis lashing out and slashing at her opponent with her whip while Charles-Henri swung just as wildly in order to block and deflect the whip strikes. It was all he could do to not give the Goddess of Revenge a leg up. The audience watched, both sides shocked and unsure of what to say at the display of violence from the two combatants.

"Neither fighter is giving up an inch! Whoever lands the next blow will likely be the one to control the flow of battle," Selene commentated from above.

Charles-Henri knew he had to wait for an opening, even if only for a split second when he could try to make up for the ground he was losing. Neither of them could maintain this type of exertion for forever, even if one were to account for the divine powers enhancing them both.

"Pistis, our timing has to be perfect for my plan to work," Charles-Henri admitted to the spirit dwelling within his body.

"I'll trust in your plan. Just try not to take too many unnecessary risks," Pistis advised, receiving no response from his partner.

"Now!" In the moment between whip strikes, when Nemesis was still preparing for another swing of her weapon, Charles-Henri brought his sword up well above his head in a massive upswing. In that sudden moment, he brought the sword down in front of him and slammed it into the ground with as much force as he could muster. The ground splintered, and a shockwave shot through the ground, cracking it as it ran and sending the wave of sheer force directly at Nemesis. "Peine Forte et Dure!"

The ground shaking and breaking destabilized the Goddess, and the sheer force of the swing slammed into her, knocking her several steps back.

"I see. You summoned all your energy into the muscles in your arms and attacked the arena itself. Attacks from the environment would be a lot harder to dodge, wouldn't they?" Pistis seemed proud of his partner for thinking of it. "A clever enough plan."

"Not that it did much damage, but it gives me time to go through with my actual plan," Charles-Henri explained, dashing forward while leaving his other half little time to respond.

Charles-Henri closed the distance in a matter of moments, giving an upward slash at the Goddess in front of him. She didn't have the time to react with her weapon, it seemed, as instead she resorted to relying on her shadow magic. Charles-Henri and his sword passed through her harmlessly, but this time Charles-Henri knew to lash out at the space behind him, slashing again too quickly for her to reform and perform another sneak attack.

This continued, Charles-Henri attacking the shadowy form of Nemesis with a flurry of sword swings. The Goddess and her shadow remained stationary, content to keep dodging the attacks, but seemingly refused to counterattack at all.

Perhaps sensing that this was a fool's errand, Charles-Henri opted to take a large leap back from the close-quarters combat, putting distance between themselves.

"So what was the plan there? Swing at her like a barbarian after making her trip?" Pistis asked, almost mockingly.

"So my theory was right," Charles-Henri ignored his partner Aeon, focusing his intense gaze solely on Nemesis as her body resolidified. "You can either attack, or dodge doing that shadow trick. But you can't do both. And if I get too close to you, then that whip won't be able to do you much good. Is that the case, miss assassin?"

Nemesis scowled. "It doesn't matter if you did figure it out, you won't be able to do anything about it."

Charles-Henri sighed. "Maybe so. Maybe not. I just have to outlast you, figure out the mechanics of how your ability works. You may be a Goddess, but your body will still have to follow certain rules and baselines, just like humans do."

"Don't you dare compare us!" Nemesis spat out.

"Sorry, I forgot just how much you hated humans," Charles-Henri said, surprisingly without judgment in his voice. "Humor me a question, miss assassin. If your Lord Jupiter hadn't ordered you to, would you have still tried to wipe out humanity?"

"I'm no assassin, mortal. I'm an executioner. I execute those who break Heaven's laws, and punish those who mock the Heavens," Nemesis explained.

"You hide in the shadows and give curses to people who anger your master. You're hardly better than an assassin in my eyes," Charles-Henri said coldly. "What is it that makes you any better than people like Narcissus or anyone else they said you cursed and struck down?"

"Because I have divine justice on my side. I am Nemesis, it is my duty to give unto others what they are due," Nemesis explained. For a moment, Charles-Henri felt as if he sensed a deeper sadness behind those words.

He felt a pang of sympathy at the insinuation that she was only in the right because she had a sense of justice backing her up. It reminded him of his own feelings toward his position in the French courts, when he was actually alive.

France - March 28, 1757

Robert-Francois Damiens was brought before the galleys, bloodied and beaten. The would-be assassin was hardly recognizable, his hands mangled beyond repair and his body covered in a mixture of burns and chunks of torn flesh. Words failed him, even as the executioner's assistants tied his limbs to horses and prepared to give the command. With one quick command, the horses began to pull, the sound of tendons ripping and bones breaking filling the air. The crowd that had amassed to bear witness to this public spectacle could only wince in mock sympathy; they had all gathered for the explicit purpose of watching this man die, cheering as the executioner did his work.

This show continued on for two hours, until even the crowd grew restless. From his own seat of honor near the scaffold, the King beckoned the executioner forward. He was a large man, in thick blue winter attire. He winced as he moved in his seat, whispering his commands to the executioner.

"This is taking far too long. Take the man's limbs and be done with it, Monsieur Sanson," ordered King Louis XV.

The executioner nodded, silently returning to his work. From his assistants, he retrieved a massive sword, approaching the man as he was still being drawn and quartered by the horses. With some difficulty, the young man lifted the sword above his head and prepared to bring it down. The assassin could only look at his killer, stammering out some apology to God or plea for mercy through the searing pain going through his entire body.

He stared into the eyes of a young Charles-Henri Sanson, a stoic look on his face but a pang of sympathy in his eyes as he prepared to carry out the sentence. This would be a mercy, he decided, before bringing the sword down with enough force that it finally tore through the tendons and muscles keeping the man's arm in place. A howl of pain ripped through the air as Charles-Henri, no more than 17 years of age, continued to dismember the man in front of all the people of France.

It was after the execution, with Charles-Henri finally taking a moment in private. He had been made to finish removing the man's limbs and head with his sword, before setting the remains on fire. The man's family would be forced to change their names and leave France forever, their house and deeds now forfeit. All that, after watching their loved one tortured and dismembered in the town square.

It was all Charles-Henri could do to keep a straight face through it all, the sheer depravity of it weighing on him. He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of someone else approaching him, a slow thumping of a cane along the city streets.

"Father. You probably shouldn't be out of bed wandering around, what if-" Charles-Henri started, cut off by the sound of the cane smacking the ground.

Charles-Henri's father was a shell of his former self, muscles gained from a life of swinging his sword atrophied and the left side of his body paralyzed, hampering his ability to move.

"I understand I put a heavy burden on you…but this is our lot in life. We've been the King's justice since before I was born. There is no escaping this duty for us," his father said solemnly, the words slurring slightly.

"I know that, Father."

"Even if we were to pass this grim station off to one of your brothers, it would change nothing for you. Our family are Les Bourreaux until we die," the elder Sanson struggled to get the words out, a cough interrupting him.

Charles-Henri couldn't argue with what his father said. He had been kicked out of school for his father's job, forced to homeschool with his siblings. People refused to walk near them on the street, refused to sit in the same pew as them at church, refused to buy their bread from the same bakeries as them even. It was a curse, and then they had the nerve to fawn over them like some kind of spectacle every time the King decided someone had to die.

"It's goddamn infuriating! They treat us like monsters, but still expect us to swing the sword every time someone breaks the law. They hate us just as much as they hate the people we kill, so how is what we do any different from what people like Damiens did?" Charles-Henri asked in a sudden burst of emotion.

It was hard to tell what his father was feeling, given the effects of his disability, but the young Charles-Henri could have sworn he saw a pang of pain in the older man's eyes.

"The only thing that makes us different is what we do, we do in the name of justice. Our duty to the King and the Crown is what allows this station to thrive." The elder Sanson was unsure if he even believed the words coming out of his mouth, but it was all he could think to say to the ailing young man.

With that conversation, the only way the young Charles-Henri could continue to stomach his duty was to keep those words in mind. This was their duty, their birthright. The people and the king relied on them to carry out this duty, so long as they followed the king's orders that everything would be in the name of justice.

Despite this, someone did seek out Charles-Henri. A small boy, dressed in fine blue linens. He approached the bloodied young man, stars in his eyes.

"You were the one who killed that bad man, aren't you? The one who tried to hurt father?" the boy asked, correcting himself quickly. "Er, His Majesty, I mean."

"That's correct," Charles-Henri answered, appraising the small child. He recognized the prince quickly, as few others would be able to afford such fine clothes and even fewer would dare to pretend the monarch was their kin. "You shouldn't be near me, young prince. Might reflect poorly on your station to be seen with Les Bourreaux."

"Who cares about something stupid like that? You were amazing!" the young future King cooed excitedly. "When I'm King, I want you to protect me like you guys did for my father."

"My job isn't protection, it's punishment. There's a difference, little prince," Charles-Henri tried to correct, but the young boy wasn't having it.

"You're punishing the bad guys, who cares what we call it!" said Louis. "With a guy like you on my side, I'll be untouchable!"

Charles-Henri smiled despite himself. "Tell you what, then. When you become king, if I'm not too frail and feeble, I'll be your most loyal servant. I'll bloody my hands so that people like you won't have to."

The two parted, not quite as friends or as equals in Charles-Henri's eyes, but as a master and his tool. The boy was still just a prince, a little lordling with no control over the world save for what prestige his father's name gave him, but one day he would be the one who ruled France, and the Sanson family would be there to serve him however he wished.

For years, Charles-Henri continued this grim duty, removing heads and enacting acts of public torture against the enemies of the crown. It was a lonely existence, but it was the only one he knew. He would not be able to attend school with other children, nor would he be able to marry freely. Executioners were front and center as part of the bread and circuses of the era, but would never truly be accepted into the community.

1788

Years passed, Charles-Henri situating into his role as the Grand Executioner. Though he had been forced to pick up his father and uncle's slack since that day in 1757, he had only officially taken on the station some ten years ago. Charles-Henri was older, his face more wrinkled and skin paler. The psychological effects of his job had taken their toll, making the man seem surprisingly frail; luckily he was able to hide his diminutive frame beneath the blood red cloak that had been awarded to him.

Now, Charles-Henri was one of many escorting another haggard and beaten-down young man through the streets of Paris. Jean Louschart stood accused of murder, killing his father. The politics of France were reaching a fever pitch, turning family members against one another. Charles-Henri was thankful that he was able to stay out of such affairs, long since resigned to his station in life.

The march ended at a stage, with a large wheel and a cross set upon it. A crowd had amassed around the stage, watching with bated breath as Jean was ushered closer and closer to the wheel.

"For the crimes of murder and patricide, Jean Louschart has been found guilty and is to face death by the wheel!" called out one of the King's officials.

Charles-Henri looked to his assistants in this endeavor, his two sons, and to the priest standing on the opposite end of the stage. None were allowed to show any signs of weakness or emotion, not right now, not even as the crowd of onlookers surrounded the stage and the players involved in it.

"If I must die, let it be quick, sir," Jean croaked out, his voice hoarse.

Charles-Henri could hear the sound of the crowd, the voices of the masses finally reaching them. He could only frown slightly, feeling the tension in the air.

"This isn't justice, this is torture!"

"Louschart did nothing wrong! His rat of a father had it coming!"

"It was an accident anyway! This is bullshit!"

"If the King's justice is just going to let us down, then we'll take care of it ourselves!"

Charles-Henri could see the crowd inching ever closer to the stage, rage in their eyes. One particularly large fellow, a smith of some kind given his attire, was seemingly leading the pack. For a moment, he could have sworn that he saw weapons or tools brandished in the hands of some of the people he was watching.

"No, sir. If there is a man here who is in danger of dying today, it is not you," Charles-Henri sighed. With his free hand, he gestured for his sons to flee. Whatever came next, they did not need to be present for.

The crowd charged the scaffolding, men in droves climbing upon it. He could already hear the wood splinter, being hacked at and ripped apart by the mob. The leader of the mob, the smith, charged at Charles-Henri and at Jean.

"Do I fight, or flee?" Charles-Henri questioned internally, looking to the king and the guards nearby for guidance. The king had already made a hasty retreat, escorted to safety, and the guards and police were completely consumed with trying, and failing, to fend off the mob.

Charles-Henri was only able to stand aside and watch as the smith, easily twice his size, was able to snatch Jean up over his shoulder with all the difficulty it might have taken one to pick up a book.

"Wait, no! Just let me die, please!" Jean pleaded. Whatever he had gone through before being escorted to the scaffold had surely broken him, desperation entering his voice.

Charles-Henri watched as the pleading Jean was passed off to other members of the crowd, who forced him away and into the throng of the raging masses. The smith turned on a dime and marched his way back to Charles-Henri. The executioner's blade sat on the side of the stage, and surely the executioner could run and grasp it if he so desired. But he was no murderer, and no fighter; he could only bring himself to bring down the ax on those his King ordered him to.

"Fear nothing, Monsieur Sanson," the Smith said, his voice oddly gentle for one who dwarfed all the others in attendance. "We have no quarrel with you. We don't wish to harm you, merely your tools."

Charles-Henri looked as the scaffold and wheel continued to be torn apart. Still, his sons had been allowed to leave without incident, and the priest was even escorted out by the crowd. The guards were not being harmed, simply held in place while the crowd did their work.

"Let this man pass, and take care that he is not hurt!" the smith commanded, reaching out to grasp Charles-Henri by the arm. He gently prodded the man, pushing him to move and to exit. There was nothing left for him to do here, after all. "There is no place for this kind of justice in the world, sir. Take care that those you kill do not suffer first."

With that, Charles-Henri was suddenly amongst the crowd, pushed through the masses like one lost and adrift in the ocean waves. As he came out the other side of the mob, he turned to look at what was becoming of the scaffolding and wheel. The stage had been torn to splinters and thrown into a rather messy pile, in the same spot where Jean's remains were intended to have been burnt. The smith and some of his friends were now working together, moving the wheel and placing it atop the pile as if it were some sort of demented crown.

Before long, the junk pile was lit ablaze, and the people around it began to cheer and celebrate their victory. The guards had fled, accepting their defeat, and all that remained were those sympathetic to the cause of freeing Jean Louschart.

Later that day, that image was still stuck in his mind. The sight of the crowd celebrating around the burning structure, and the way they ushered all the living souls away from the scene of the riot. The King would have to put out some kind of decree about this, lest the civil unrest grow even more out of control.

For now, Charles-Henri could only stare blankly at his violin, unable to muster the energy to pick it up or even consider taking part in his most beloved pastime. It had been a few days since the events at the wheel, and it had become all that the High Executioner could think about.

"Those people were ready to die for the chance to free that man…the man I nearly killed. His Majesty pardoned the man, so I must wash my hands of it, but was I about to kill an innocent man? Is he innocent just because the King says so? I was going to make that man suffer, is that any better than what he did to his father?"

The King's pardon meant that Jean was untouchable for the crime he had committed, and the breaking wheel was abolished within the same breath. Not that Charles-Henri ever intended to use the tool again, not with the blacksmith's words ringing in his head.

"There is no place for this kind of justice in the world, sir. Take care that those you kill do not suffer first." Charles-Henri repeated the words, memories of his role as torturer and executioner flooding him.

The people hated him and his family, they always had, but he at least had their approval. He had the king's approval, and trusted that their sense of justice was absolute. But now that he could see the people turning against them, was the King's justice really so infallible? What would become of their country the next time a decision was made that the people disagreed with?

On that day, Charles-Henri could have had a change of heart. He could have joined in stoking the flames of rebellion spreading throughout France. But instead, he fixed his gaze straight ahead and decided he had to continue on the path that his father had set him on so long ago. This was his duty: not to question, not to even think, but to obey and render judgment unto others.

He was not a man, but a weapon, wielded in the name of his King.

Valhalla - The Present

"You follow your orders like a loyal dog…nay, even dogs have thoughts of their own. You're just a weapon, pointed blindly at whatever your master says," Charles-Henri noted.

"How dare you sit there and judge me!" Nemesis spat out.

"Judgment? I don't judge you, madame. This is pity," Charles-Henri sighed. "You have no life of your own, just waiting for orders. Tell me, what will you do when the day comes that your master is gone? What will you do? Whose orders will you wait for, then? Will you wait for the next tyrant to come along and throw his weight around pointlessly?"

The gods reacted in a mix of shocked gasps and angered cries. The insinuation that the day might come when their Lord Jupiter would be dethroned, or even worse disposed of, was nothing short of blasphemy. Jupiter glared down at the mortal silently, grinding his teeth in frustration.

"Well, he's a funny one," Marduk said through his ever-present grin.

Horus did not reply to his fellow Chief God, though Marduk could have sworn that he might have seen the faintest sign of a smirk under the Egyptian God's mask.

"Lord Jupiter-" Juno began from her spot beside the King of the Gods, but he interrupted her by slamming his fist down on the railing of their balcony, smashing it and sending a rain of pebbles and stones onto the spectators below them.

"Juno. Not one more fucking word." Juno and Minerva looked to one another before acquiescing, falling completely silent.

On the other hand, the humans reacted with a mix of humor and surprise. The same humans who had jeered and questioned Charles-Henri's presence in the arena now cheered him on. Many were surprised by the man's insinuation, but many more took it as a chance to let their true thoughts about the Gods be known.

"Yeah, you tell him little man!"

"This Charles guy ain't so bad! Tell 'em how you really feel!"

Robespierre and Danton could only sit back and laugh at the sudden fire the executioner was showing. The two enemies were now, if only for a moment, united on at least one front. Even Charlotte Corday, ever the lady, brought a hand to her face to try and stifle her own giggle.

"Never would have thought him to be such a rebel," Danton said cheerfully.

"Perhaps I was a bit too harsh on Monsieur Sanson, he may have more heart than I gave him credit for," Robespierre agreed.

Prometheus from his seat, was grinning and laughing like a man possessed. Pandora looked on uncomfortably, not used to this much of a display of emotion from her brother-in-law.

"The look on Jupiter's face is priceless!" Prometheus laughed.

"Please tell me we didn't lead with this fighter just because you thought it would anger the Gods," Pandora pleaded.

Prometheus' laughter stopped, though still smiling he responded. "No, this was all part of the plan. I thought Jupiter might lead by sending out his favorite assassin, especially with how much he loves his little games. Sanson was chosen because he was our best bet. Him being able to upset Jupiter for so petty a reason is just a pleasant bonus."

Down in the arena, Nemesis seethed at the mixture of jeers and cheers from the audience. None of the Gods would dare to risk insulting Jupiter by laughing at the human's idiocy, but the humans who dared to speak out against them only infuriated her further. They owed everything to the Gods, and now that the Gods decided to take back the gift of life they wanted to play the victims and fight back?

"Jupiter and his will are eternal. Creation is his to rule now and for forever," Nemesis said, her eyes aimed at the ground.

"No." Charles-Henri lifted up his sword, pointing it directly at Nemesis as some sort of challenge. "Tyrants always fall, and then you will be left to pick up the pieces of your life."

"Speaking from experience, kingslayer?"

France - 1790

Only a few years had passed since the incident with Jean Louschart, and Charles-Henri had spent that time refining the finer points of execution. The smith's words that besought him to find a way to kill without suffering had driven him to spend the last several years finding someone to work with. Some decried his idea as being preposterous, and others saw no need to switch away from the days of beheading via sword.

But in 1790, he and surgeon Antoine Louis worked together to present their idea: the guillotine, a wooden machine with a straight, angled blade that would cut off the heads of the convicted in a clean slice. More efficient and less torturous than anything the Sanson bloodline had used in decades.

Charles-Henri now led a certain bandit and highwayman to the gallows, his executioner's sword nowhere to be seen. Once upon a time, death by beheading was a fate reserved only for the nobility, a quick and painless death. Now all men were to receive the same fate, with none of the bloody pageantry that he had been forced to take part in previously.

In a matter of moments, the blade fell, and the highwayman's head was removed from its shoulders, tumbling into a basket below. It was a rousing success, a symbol of everything he had come to hope to achieve in his profession during the last few years. He had no way of knowing that it was also a grim symbol of what was to come as the same revolution that inspired it would become an era of terror.

August 13, 1792

It was at the top of every newspaper, and the word was being spread by every tongue in Paris. When the news reached Charles-Henri, he could react only in abject shock and horror.

"The King has been arrested?" This was something he had never heard of, seeing a monarch detained and arrested. "And for treason, at that?"

Charles-Henri was among the many French citizens who made their way to the National Convention, where the people would hear the charges brought against King Louis XVI. Thirty-three separate charges were read to them, and through it all the King sat quietly, only chiming in to offer a sentence or two of testimony in his defense.

The king was a nervous, frail fellow adorned in a now disheveled blue tunic. His crown was missing, revealing a tangled mess of prematurely thinning brown hair. The stress of his position had taken its toll upon him, not unlike that which had happened to Charles-Henri and his father.

When the final charge was read aloud, it was almost like a punch to the gut. Charles-Henri felt a wave of nausea come over him.

"You caused the blood of Frenchmen to flow."

The man who had ordered him to carry out his duties, to slay revolutionaries and assassins alike in the name of justice, being held accountable for the things they had done in tandem. Would he be next on the chopping block? Truth be told, Charles-Henri didn't care about that. If it was his time to die, then he would let it be so, even if it was at the hands of the machine he had helped to perfect.

But that was never to come. King Louis was the only man condemned that day, and when the meeting was over, Charles-Henri found himself called before the National Convention for a different reason.

"Monsieur Sanson, as High Executioner of the French First Republic, it falls upon you to carry out this great duty: The traitor king, Louis XVI, is to be executed by guillotine. It is your duty to carry out the sentence," said the head of the Convention.

Charles-Henri began looking for the words to respond. Would he refuse? Spit in their faces and take it as an insult to betray the King he had loved and listened to for decades?

No, instead the man could only bow his head and calmly state. "It will be done."

In one month's time, Charles-Henri would be expected to execute his King. Now as far as the general public goes, this is where the story of Charles-Henri would end. Forced to carry out his duties until the end, he would go on to kill his king and settle into a life of retirement. But that is not the whole story.

In the days leading up to the execution, Charles-Henri was beset by guilt and regret. The only thing that made him any different from those killers he executed was the word of his monarch, his king. And now that word was meaningless. His belief that he was only a weapon to be wielded by his king had failed him, and he had no idea what to do next other than to seek out the one person whose orders he had followed so diligently all these years.

Rumors had spread of a potential plot to free the King, but nothing material had come of it. People came to gawk at him like a caged animal at the zoo, staring up at him through the windows of the ancient fortress that had been converted into his prison.

Charles-Henri, thanks to his station, was allowed in to see the convicted, staring at him through the bars of the king's room. A far cry from the palace and its opulence, for sure.

"My first and only visitor," the King noted sardonically. "To what do I owe this particular pleasure? Not my time yet, is it?"

"No, I…don't know what to do," Charles-Henri admitted. "My family have been loyalists all our lives, because that was what was expected of us. But my job is to dispense justice, to punish those who would endanger our people."

For the first-time in years, Charles-Henri's voice began to waver, a look of panic coming over him. "What am I supposed to do? Give me some kind of order, please!"

Louis XVI gave his future killer a look that could only be described as pure pity. The king's fanciful attire was little more than dingy rags by now, and his body emaciated from the conditions in which he lived. And yet somehow still he seemed to be looking down on the weary executioner.

"No."

"What do you mean, no? Just tell me what you want me to do!" Charles-Henri pleaded.

"No, your time as my executioner is over with. The people of France have spoken, and more importantly, I want to face my fate head-on. I will not tell you what to do. I will not beg you to spare my life, or to leave me to my fate. I leave this up to you. You've spent your entire life serving the crown, and now it is time for you to go off on your own. Do as you wish, just this once, Monsieur Sanson."

Louis stepped away from the bars, turning his back on his former servant. Charles-Henri froze, left to his own devices for a rare moment in life. After spending his life consumed by his duties and obligations, his professional career now rested on him making a lone choice.

Charles-Henri fled. And later that very same month, he sent Louis XVI to the guillotine and gave him his last chance to speak to the people of France. His last words were simple enough, capturing the attention of all.

"You see that your king is willing to die for you. May my blood cement your happiness." Sanson pushed the king down, letting the mechanisms of the guillotine lock him in place, and then the blade fell. The crowd rushed, hoping to get a lock of hair or a handkerchief wet with the blood of a fallen king. Sanson stood to the side, staring into the nonexistent void as he remained unable to move.

Just outside of the crowd, he almost swore he could have seen a bloodied and headless Louis XVI, staring at him in disapproval. The more he focused on that image, the more things began to change. He saw a crowd of bloodied corpses, some beheaded but most mangled and damaged. It was like the entirety of France had been replaced by a horde of the walking dead.

Valhalla

"Are you really going to sit there and take that from her?" a voice shouted out from the crowd. Charles-Henri and Nemesis both looked up to see the form of Louis XVI, much healthier than he had been during his time in prison and on trial, standing amongst the crowd. A faint scar could be seen around the whole of his neck, a permanent reminder of his fate on Earth.

Around him, the Kings and Queens of French history were gathered, nodding in silent agreement.

"You said you did this out of duty? Your duty to us is done, you've stained your hands with enough blood in our name, so stop pushing the blame on the people!" Louis XVI continued. "Why did you do what you did when you could have defied your father? You were brilliant, you could have been anything, so why did you do what you did?"

Charles-Henri started to respond. How could some pompous little king understand the position he had found himself in. Exiled from his school, friendless and without any options. What choice did he have? He bit back the resentful response festering inside of him, remembering his conversation with a child Louis after the execution of that assassin, so long ago. The day of his first kill.

"We were lonely, but well off. Father's money meant I probably could have just left. My brothers could have done this job just as well as I did, maybe even better," Charles-Henri agreed, mumbling to himself. "But I stayed. I soaked my hands and my soul in blood for these people, and told myself it was because of my duty. I acted like a mindless weapon, waiting to be pointed at its next target."

Suddenly, Charles-Henri charged in, faster than ever. It was as if he was putting every ounce of strength he had into his leg muscles in order to close that distance. Nemesis swung her whip out at him, calling out for her Bridle of Glaucus attack once again. But this time, Charles-Henri made no effort to dodge. He let the barbs wrap around and sink into him, but he kept charging.

With the amount of force he was putting into each step and leap forward, even Nemesis with her godly strength was unable to pull him away from her. His overcoat now torn to shreds around him, Charles-Henri rushed in, raising his sword up above his head. He had closed the distance and now stood directly in front of Nemesis, the distance now closed completely.

"Peine Forte et Dure!" he brought the massive sword down, aiming for a single massive cleaving motion. But at the last second, Nemesis twisted the whip, shifting his position ever so slightly so that the sword twisted until it was coming flat side-down.

The flat end of the blade came down like a club, smashing Nemesis down and onto the ground, the dirt cracking and splintering under the force of the hit and the weight of the Goddess and the sword that had struck her.

The Gods were stunned, and the humans erupted into applause. Robespierre and Danton, overwhelmed with joy, clung to each other for a moment before realizing their situation and separating quickly. Louis XVI was smiling smugly at his old friend. Charles-Henri caught his breath, recovering from the sudden burst of adrenaline he had felt during the attack. Taking in a deep breath, he made an announcement to all in attendance.

"I don't care about justice. Or punishment, or duty, or any of that crap anymore. You gods and your mock justice are just in the way. I'm here to protect my people just like I tried to do then, that's what I've decided."