Collaterals

Applause

It's not that Leila had thought the execution would have been private. On the contrary, the Hand had readied herself for the public appearance; she'd dressed in the Hand's attire, sword to her side and brioche secured tightly to her Hand's sash. And yet...Leila straightened her spine against a weight that'd descended more heavily upon her with every inch the sun had risen higher in the sky. Eyes: there were so many watching eyes.  Everyone in the city, it would seem, had gathered as noon settled, heat a steaming hot towel draped atop the nape of their craned necks.  

They'd opened the gates of the castle, the spectacle to happen in the cobblestone courtyard that stood just before the gardens. Five pyres, strong and tall, were set adjacent to each other on a straight line, behind which, several paces away, was a raised dais. A wooden ramp connected the pyres to one another and the raised Dias to them. Atop the ramp was a line of hay that Leila would light on fire so that one pyre would light before the other, and so on. One movement of her hand, one moment. Easier than a sword. Swifter. Easy. It would be so easy. 

Leila now stood on the raised dais, her family seated behind her. As though it were not enough that she had perhaps the city's entire inhabitance here, Leila thought as her eyes looked to the crowds upon crowds gathering ahead of her. No, the entire family's gazes bore into her back so that she could feel their discomfort, their distaste. And mother...Leila took a breath against the thought. She'd not think of the scowl on her mother's face, or the way her father had not met her eyes the entire morning. She'd not think of how Zarqa had tried and failed to flash a polite smile, or how Ali had looked long and hard at the sword on her hip, the brioche on her sash. 

At least Haitham was here. Her brother was the only one who'd come to her, squeezed her shoulder and told her to breathe. She glanced to him, now, as they waited for the men to arrive. Haitham winked to her, gesturing with his hand for her to breathe. And so she did, hands settled atop the hilt of her sword, its feel as familiar as that of the callouses on her palms. Breathe.

"Oh—" Leila took a breath, all but jumping out her skin as she looked to her side at the hand that'd settled on her shoulder.

"Pardon, Princess," Captain removed his hand as he looked her over, a frown on his lips. If he had any qualms with her decision to execute the men, he'd kept them to himself. Leila had wanted to tell him this morning, of the poison the prisoners would, perhaps, just about now be hiding in the folds of their mouths. But then...then it was pride that had made her hold her tongue, and pride that now had her only nod at him. They were yet to speak, truly, and the action of hating the Captain was becoming a habit. Leila did not yet know if that was a good thing. He gave a respectful bow of his head, "It is time."

She could not see them, the guilty. But she knew that meant they were behind the other dais, looking up at the pyre. Leila took a breath. The first step she took creaked below her feet, and the sound ran through the leather of her boots, up the muscle of her leg and to the root of her spine so that it took all of her to ensure her next step was strong. Strong. She was strong. She was the Hand of the Tainish Empire and she was strong. 

Chatter died to whispers, and by the time Leila was close enough to the edge that she could see those in the first row, any sound had fallen into that dreaded silence.

"People of Aradia," Leila's voice did not shake. For a moment, the realization shook her. Her voice was steady, loud so that it carried across the courtyard, loud so that she could see the people straighten, see them blink away the haze of the day as their eyes focused on her. "You are a kind people," it was easy to speak, now, despite the thundering beat of her heart, the sweat sliding down her back. It was easy to speak because she knew what she was going to say, knew it as well as she knew the pamphlet still in Haitham's room. "You are a welcoming people. I saw it, I felt it, the day I arrived on your beautiful shores."

What did they see when they looked at her? Did they see Leila Nageeb El Ezz, Princess of Aradia? Did they see the Hand of an Empire, as sure as the promise of death? Or did they see a pawn, a puppet on a high strung string? When they looked up at her, what did they see?

"I heard your chants, I heard you sing for me, dance for me. I smelt the flowers you threw at my feet, and I knew that it was to a kind people, a welcoming people that I returned home." She paused, now, looking over at the crowd as her breath escaped her a moment to fast. Leila's finger's twitched at her side, her sword suddenly growing heavy at her hip. "And yet there are those among you who do not wish I be welcomed, who do not wish the Empire, be welcomed."

Whispers began to dance through what little space was between one person or the next, faces turning as rumors were thrown about like seeds to a flock of birds. Leila raised her hand and silence descended once more. "You may have heard what happened in Diastrop. You may have heard that arrows had flown through the air, and that I was their target. What you heard, is true. And now we know, for certain, that the perpetrators were in fact associated with the independence movement."

This time, she did not stop the people from speaking, from turning to one another, exchanging what little scraps of information they had for another. Leila only turned, and nodded to the men by the pyre. She looked to the crowd guilty were shuffled onto the dais. Leila saw only the flash of Sadiq's auburn hair before she looked ahead, to the people who now looked between her and the pyres. Her voice was louder, now, hands fisted as she spoke, "Look, here, to these men. Look at them and know that they would see you fall to ruin, see us, fall to ruin, see our Empire, fall to ruin! To chaos! No. No, that cannot be allowed. Treason cannot be allowed, not to the crown, not the Empire."

Each word rang true as it fell from her lips and onto the ears of the crowd below and ahead of her. Leila raised her chin, shoulder square and back straight as her blood pulsed to the very tips of her fingers. "You need not know their names. You need only know that these men, the movement they represent, mean only to harm you, to harm your children, and to see to it that they know not the kindness of your hearts, the welcoming warmth of your homes, but the chaos and ruin of a false independence. Look to them, now. Look to them and know that the treason can be met, will be met, only with Divine Fire!"

Part of her had expected applause, Leila, with a start, now realized as she her chest rose and fell with effort, the skin of her face dancing to the beat of her heart as heat overtook her. Or perhaps...perhaps shock, silence. Not one part of her, not one small part of her had expected the shouts, the anger, the booing of the people as they raised their fists, looking to her with brows cinched and teeth bared.

"A child!"

A child?!

"A child, she'd kill a child!"

Leila turned, looking now to the dais. Her eyes met Sadiq's, for a moment. He must have been looking at her, for the man took no time in spitting onto the ground. Leila frowned as the people shouted, frowned as she kept his gaze. Very well. It did not matter that he spit the poison out, that he chose the flames. It was to his own demise. He smirked at her, now, resting his head on the wooden pole he'd been bound to. Just hours ago he'd been so...Leila thought back to the image of him, his head settled onto the bars as he looked behind him, how he'd taken the pouch from her silently. Why was he so certain, all the sudden, so sure? 

Perhaps it was the shouts of the crowd in his favor, the way they chanted, oh, but was it truly for him that the shouted? The thoughts ran through her head as she broke their gaze, as she scanned one bound perpetrator after the other before— the last pyre was empty. Or...rather, her eyes fell down, fell down to what must have been the shortest — heavens.

A child.

A child, strapped to the pole, eyes wide and searching, face streaked with tears, mouth clenched against a sob. Clenched...as they held in the poison Sadiq must have given him. Him...a child. 

A child.

A child, with hair just like Sadiq's, with a chest that rose rapidly in fear and his legs, trembling beneath him, barely keeping him up.

A child. Why was there a child on the pyre?