Vipersong

2 || Lord, Friend, Convicted Wife-Killer

Fear not the darkness the dusk brings! It is the deepest night that births the most beautiful stars.
–Seventh Daughter of Adria to the People of Ilantha, 453 Divine Age, Ilanthian Letters.

——

FOR THE SECOND TIME that day, Elio Otón couldn't help but think there was something oddly romantic about the Theater. The entire establishment spanned a large hexagon-shaped courtyard, hemmed in by yards of succulent cypress and olive trees and tall sloping walls of sandstone manned closely by Imperial patrols. The floors featured tile set in interlocking geometric patterns, the artisan work bursting with brilliant colors—fuchsia, tangerine, and deepest turquoise. A long stretch of limestone risers ran the length of the perimeter, hunched over the main floor of the arena like hulking cliffs staring down the stretch of a canyon. Chattering commoners and nobles alike milled about the stands, jockeying for shade beneath canopies the color of ripe persimmons, their faces flushed with excitement. Ready for the show.

He fought the urge to yawn into his hand. Yes, the Theater was undoubtedly lovely, built centuries ago by some old Enfatalan lordling with an appreciation for the arts; for it had indeed served as what its name suggested—a theater to showcase the great comedies and tragedies of the age. His magistra once told him that Enfatalan bravos believed life existed on a sliding scale between the two. It was either a comedy or a tragedy or something delightfully inexplicable in between. It was the only bit he remembered from the long, insufferable hours he spent in school, and consequently, the single piece of philosophy Elio actually appreciated.

And he liked to believe the past Enfatalan lordling would appreciate the fact that his usurpers still utilized his precious theater to this very day—even it was to display a much different form of entertainment than originally intended.

"Bring out the prisoner!" one of the guardsmen shouted impatiently from the floor. Clearly irritated, judging by the expression on his face. Elio hardly blamed him. Executions didn't usually take so long, and the day was warm with balmy spring weather.

There was a faint rustle on the far end of the arena at the mouth of a long tunnel—where the condemned usually emerged to meet their peril, blinking like newborn fawns in the blasted midday sun. All around the risers, the cheering commons leaned forward eagerly in their seats like ravenous dogs straining against the chain, growing raucous with a bloodlust that was heightened by every additional minute.

What must it be like to be the condemned, to sit in the cool bowels of the underground bowl and listen to the thudding stamps and roars of spectators overhead, the distant cry of the bugles as they announced the next? What must it be like to emerge from that still, quiet cocoon of darkness into an arena of hot dust and burning sun, to blink away the shadows and find yourself face-to-face with a lion or dracaena or pit fighter?

Elio's father, the General, had once made both Elio and Ira watch executions when they were young boys. To be blooded, he declared at the time. To observe the ways treachery and crime always crushed its participants to dust in the end. As a child, Elio had been transfixed, but not because of anything to do with treachery or crime. Instead, he had taken careful note of the savagery of the entire affair, the screams of the criminal as he was ripped apart in the jaws of a monster. Had felt the heartrending ache when the inevitable end came, when the sum of Imperial justice was reduced to such a gruesome, yet honest display.

The General would be disappointed in his son if he knew.

Sky blue banners waved at the mouth of the tunnel but still, no prisoner emerged. This time, Elio allowed himself to yawn—a long, satisfying yawn that he mightily enjoyed.