Tsarek

  It was a lovely day to die. The sky was a perfect blue, more brilliant than it had ever been before. Tsarek closed his eyes as the sun's heat warmed his bones. The slight breeze shifted his tangled hair. The day would become hot as it went on, but he would be dead before then.

  His next step brought him into the shadow of a grey brick building, and his chains rattled with each movement. With each step, a jolt of pain. Strange that he could still feel it.

  He shivered, his body only sinew and nerves and bone.

  Why hadn't he died in his sleep? Maybe that was why they chose today for him. He wouldn't have lasted much longer. Perhaps a tribute to his reputation? What an honor.

  The guard handed him off to a man he hadn't met before. The man led him forward onto a wooden platform above the straw and mud.

  He guided Tsarek down onto a stool, supporting him as he half-collapsed. Then the man sat next to him.

  "I will clean you, and cut your hair, yes?" He said, his voice gentle.

  Tsarek nodded, and tears pricked his eyes.

  The man then cut away the matted tangles of his hair and beard. He spoke as he worked, "Do you believe in the gods, son?"

  "I don't know. I did once. I believe in the spirits of the dead, though."

  "Well, that's something. I hope it gives you peace today."

  He started cleaning Tsarek's face, wiping tears with the grime. Tsarek flinched at his soft touch. The water was warm and clean, with a floral scent. Washing a body before a burial.

  He hummed as he worked, and Tsarek started twitching a little less.

  "And do you regret your crimes?"

  Tsarek smiled somehow. "I regret getting caught."

  The man chuckled. "You still have some spirit left in you."

  "It's all I have left, and soon that will be gone too." Tsarek’s heart panged. For more life? Or for letting his spirit fly free?

  "What's your name, son?"

  "Tsarek."

  "That's a nice name."

  "I had another name once, from my first mother. I suppose I'll see her today. I'll be seeing most of my family on the Otherside."

  Few survived the massacre.

  "They'll be glad to see you."

  The man wrung the washcloth. He pulled out a long cloth and draped it over Tsarek. He tied the sides together, not needing to separate Tsarek's chained hands. Was it dark to hide bloodstains? Tsarek’s breathing eased. At least he wasn’t naked anymore. He brushed his hand against its softness.

  "Would you like me to use the name Tsarek in my prayers tonight?"

  Only then did Tsarek recognize the man as a priest. He had lost the habit of looking at people. But sure enough, the man wore the holy symbol of Helion around his neck.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He looked into the priest’s warm brown eyes. If there were gods, this man was touched by one.

  "Yes, thank you."

  The priest laid a palm on his head. "I pray your spirit will rest easy."

  Tsarek wasn't worried. The dead he loved would guide him home.

  The priest helped him up, his touch steady but light. Tsarek’s vision went black, and he swayed. A guard grabbed him with familiar roughness and pulled him along, the respite over. He, too, wore dark colors to hide the blood.

  He wiped his bare feet on a dirty mat made of woven straw before entering the grand building. He dared not stray from his assigned spot and soil the tiled floor further. The decorations in the room were lavish, with vases of fresh flowers and a full-length mirror on one wall. A man stood in the mirror, more skeleton than human, bones showing through his face and hands. A dead man. He met the man’s eyes, one brown, one blue, still flashing with life and thought. The only part of himself he recognized.

  He expelled a deep breath, as if he could will his spirit free of his body.

  No such luck.

  He heard the door open, and a woman's voice said, "I'm so tired of this bureaucratic nonsense. I provide no value here other than making the king feel better about his executions."

  A guard, wearing no armor but carrying a baton, escorted a hollow-eyed prisoner past him. Tsarek's guard ushered him in. The spacious room had white walls and curved vaulted ceilings. A stern woman sat at a tall black desk in the middle of the room. She barely spared him a glance.

  "This is the last one, your Honor," said a stout clerk in dark robes, sitting at a lower desk and taking notes. He dipped the pen in ink and waited.

  "Name?" the woman said, scowling at a paper in front of her. Her silver and black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore delicate reading glasses.

  Her desk towered above him.

  "Alensar D'Ambrosia." Tsarek grinned, perhaps with a touch of madness. To be using a noble name in these circumstances was absurd. But why the hell not? Might as well die with his oldest name.

  The clerk snorted. "At least this one will provide some entertainment."

  The woman glanced up, no longer scowling. He stared at her.

  Then the guard grabbed him on the back of his neck and forced him to his knees. "Say your real name, you Karangasz trash."

  His brain lit up with the pain, and he swayed, the chains rattling. He stayed silent, wincing when the guard lifted a hand. The guard stopped with a single gesture from the woman.

  "Do you have anything to prove who you are?" she asked.

  "What?" he said as a wave of pain radiated through his bones.

  "Answer your Honor's question!" The guard hit him on the back. A wound reopened, and he fell on his broken hands, now on all fours. He rolled onto his side, breathing hard, his vision black.

  He refused to scream.

  "How dare you disobey me?"

  He wanted to protest that he wasn't trying to disobey, but only groaned.

  "Didn't I make it clear not to hit him again? Find a replacement for yourself, ideally someone who is less of a buffoon."

  "The prisoner–" the guard said.

  "The prisoner cannot stand. He poses no threat to me."

  "Yes, your Honor." The guard bowed and left.

  "Eduardo, please lock the door after him."

  Alensar couldn't sit up. Blood dripped down his back. He curled up to protect his hands. Footsteps drew closer, each one a sharp clack.

  The woman crouched next to him. She took his chin and tilted his head up towards her. "Let me look at you. Open your eyes."

  He obeyed.

  "Please stop this. Just let me die. My name is Tsarek Houndsblood."

  She continued to study him. "Then why did you say otherwise?"

  "I don't know," he whined. "I got confused."

  "A strange thing to be confused about," she said to herself. "But you look like him, and not just your eyes."

  Eduardo spoke up. "It says here he had an additional crime of impersonating a noble. They found a signet ring from the Zhao family on him."

  "That's a useless tacked-on charge since half the outlaws have some stolen symbol of a house…. Signet rings, though…those are rare." She leaned forward. "Now, why would you have a Zhao ring and call yourself a D'Ambrosia?"

  The edges of his vision were still black.

  "I don't know. I always had the ring. I never did anything with it. I swear."

  He would confess to anything. He would deny everything. He just wanted it to end.

  Eduardo came closer. "The captain noted that it's possible the Zhao family would provide a reward for returning it. Well, more precisely, he scribbled the word 'reward' with a question mark next to the description. How crass."

  "And yet, did the captain not consider there might be a reward for returning the person the ring was attached to?" She lowered his face to the ground, and he rested it on the cold stone floor.

  "What are you implying? They found this criminal on Zhao lands. He must have stolen it."

  Who cared? He was an outlaw, so what did it matter? Obviously, the ring was stolen, though not by him. He tried to say this, ready to be done with this farce.

  Instead, everything went black.