The Executioner's Son [boyxboy]

Chapter One

It reeked in the dungeons as always, the very base of the tower where the scum of the earth were shoved away and hidden from the harsh, criticising gaze of the public. ‘Scum of the earth’, otherwise classified as mislead human beings with no hope left in a world that long ago abandoned them. Granted, not all the prisoners were ‘nice’ people and some even deserved the fate set blatantly, devastatingly in front of them, but most of these people certainly didn’t deserve death. They most definitely did not deserve the luxury of living in the filth ridden, rodent infested, slimy depths of the tower. You would think that being condemned to death was fair enough punishment, but the King had no such thoughts towards the ‘criminals’ he peeled off the streets. He seemed to forget the humanity present in every living person. Harsh and unnecessary, execution of otherwise clean souls was just a way for the King to flaunt his ever growing power over the state. A state which was falling into ruins, no matter what the nobility tried to convince the peasants of. The peasants that lived in the streets, the people would know of the struggle and the dying nation, not the pompous asses that resided in the King’s house. They lived in the wealth laden houses dressed in their fine robes and served by countless slaves, oblivious to the turmoil of the everyday citizen in Wales.

Kraill Dread shook his head at the thought, perpetually disgusted by the act of humans turning against humans. He was sick to death- ironically- of the stories he heard, of the rumours that flew thoughtlessly from ear to ear in this state. Fights, executions, death, illness, poverty… everywhere he turned. This was meant to be the thriving centre of the state, home to their leader, their glorious, marvellous King! All lies of course. Kraill could bet his father’s blade that the ‘King’ was eyebrows deep in drunkenness at this moment, revelling with one of his whores in his private chamber. Hopefully it wasn’t Eve… she always ended up terribly hurt after a ‘session’ with his majesty, the cold, heartless bastard. Evie was like a mother to him, she had practically raised him in the King’s house; taught him morals, right from wrong, what to avoid, who to trust, the way the world works and all that. She taught him everything he knew, apart from what his father had taught him- which was far less dignified- and was one of the bravest women he had ever met. To see her hurt again… it made him so angry!

“Bastard,” he seethed beneath his breath, striding furiously down the rank and ill-lit chamber. The scent of living people rotting and drowning in their own filth would be a sickening odour, had Kraill not become immune to the stench years ago. The keys and charms strapped to the leather belt slung low around his hips clanked and rattled with each stride, echoing down the damp hall, awakening the prisoners from their morbid states of despair. He could hear their moans of discomfort, of illness, whimpering and crying. It made him so sad. His heart literally ached for these poor souls. He couldn’t help but wonder how many cells would be emptied today, how many heads would roll under his fathers blade. Squeezing his eyes shut, Kriall shook his head viciously. No! Don’t think like that! Do your job… talk to them, feed them, give them something in their final days. Sighing he walked onwards, lifting one of the rusted, burning lanterns from the wall.

No sunlight ever reached here, the last glimpse of sun the prisoners would ever see would be the walk to the block; to their death. The dark was like a disease, seeping into the minds of the prisoners… although Kraill was yet to witness true insanity between these walls, he spoke to them, gave them comfort and companionship so they could cling to what was left. Sometimes he wondered if it was better to just leave them be, to let madness reek chaos in their mind so they lost knowledge of their fate; but he wasn’t that cruel.

“Kraill? That you lad?” A weak voice called out in the dark from one of the cells ahead of him. Often he spent most of his day just meandering the filth ridden corridor, checking on them, keeping them safe from the public visitors who laughed at them in spite. He hated the visiting days, there was only so much he could do, and he wasn’t a God. He was merely an eighteen year old boy.