Last Hurrah

Deep breaths.

Eyes closed.

Picture a meadow.

Take a sip of whatever the liquid posing as tea was.

Tell yourself you can do this, because you can do this. Anyone could do it; the trick was doing it well.

This would be his last performance. So many let the fear and sadness get to them and leave the stage having given a dreadful display. Not Alexander. Lives may be short but reputations can live eternal. Besides, his reputation would reflect on his family. They’d be there tonight. At the back, in a private box, out of sight. His brother, of whom he was indifferent, and his sister, to whom he had always been close. Mother and father would likely be in attendance too, though this meant little to him.

“Five minutes”, said an unkind voice, muffled through the door.

The butterflies in Alexander’s stomach felt more like agitated ravens, as feeling receded from his fingertips. He checked himself once more in the mirror. He looked as handsome as ever, without a trace of fear, so the facade was holding strong.

The trick was to get into character early and so he began pacing impatiently back and forth. It helped. He got irritated. How dare they keep him waiting? This was his big moment; all eyes would be on him. It was a once-in-a-lifetime event and he would not have anything spoil it. He marched over to the door with the intent of hammering upon it to demand his moment in the spotlight. He didn’t get the chance, as the door opened on its own. A stern face looked in from beyond.

This would have thrown off many, but Alexander wasn’t himself, he was the ideal version of himself for the situation and he was eager to get on the stage.

The man led the way through the dark stone passages. Another followed behind. The star of the show always had an escort.

He winced as he stepped into the light. It had been a while since he had seen sunlight. The warmth was reassuring, like the sun was wrapping him in a nice safe blanket. He needed its support as he saw the stage, properly for the first time.

How one is expected to perform without seeing the set up before hand was quite beyond him, and apparently rehearsals had been quite out of the question.

The wooden stage was little more than a platform made of planks that rested on a criss-cross of wooden supports. Four steps led to the top. In front of the stage, a suitably large crowd of people watched on. He was pleased to see it was a good turn out, and so his performance started here. Sheer willpower alone kept the limp noodles that his legs had become from buckling beneath him. He kept his head held high.

He mounted the steps and saw what he had to work with. A wooden block stained a dark red. A basket that had just been emptied and an ironically comfy looking knee rest. He could use this.

His hour upon the stage would be all too short and each step had to convey confidence, nobility and a general air that this was just an inconvenience. His co-star was a true professional in the peak of his career. His black hood was well kept and the axe radiated brutal sharpness as though looking at it might slice your very mind.

Alexander admired the weapon and smirked. That was a nice touch, he thought to himself. as the guard guided him to the block. He kneeled on the cushioned rest; it really was comfortable. Soon it would be time for his line but in that brief window of time, he looked out at the crowd. They stared back. Common nobodies. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Beyond the crowd was a ring of carriages that had pulled up. Curtains twitched. He could see a number of noble families in attendance. The Trevlacs where here, and the Nospams, and then he saw his own family crest. He nodded at the curtain. The curtain twitched in response.

It was time.

“Alexander Winfield, for the attempted assassination of the King’s royal budgie, you are hereby sentenced to death, do you have any final words?”, the hooded man announced in a deep booming voice that sounded like a glimpse into the very nature of death itself, clearly this guy had been practicing. Now or never, he mustered his courage.

“Well, I always knew a bird would get me into trouble”, he said with a wink. That got a good laugh, and a lot of nodding of approval. The devilish rouge, he was just one of them really, or at least that was the role he was portraying. It seemed to go well and he should hope so; he had spent hours making it sound off the cuff.

The hooded figure gently guided his head onto the block and whispered, “Nailed it. Always give ‘em  a laugh, every good story has a laugh. Hard bit’s over, I’ll take it from here,” in a voice far more relaxed and high pitched then the one he had used before.

He found himself exhausted. Acting ok when things really weren’t was not for the faint of heart. He closed his eyes. He could use the rest, and you never kept your eyes open at the end. You want to leave them thinking you look peaceful and not wide-eyed in alarm.

“May god have mercy on your soul.” Boomed the executioner. He really was good.

The axe was raised.

The axe fell.

Thunk.

Thud.

Alexander didn’t feel a thing.

The crowd cheered. The cheer aired more towards respect than gratification. Alexander would have been pleased by that, but he wasn’t listening.

The Carriage with the Winfield family crest emblazoned on its door began to move away at a respectful pace. There were no tears, not even from his sister, not in front of father. She would grieve in her own time. Alexander was gone, but his memory, reputation and acts in life, including its end, would live on and influence future evens for many years to come.