Whispers reminisced of a rumored night in the years past. This one was both like and unlike other nights. The air was cool and the sky was clear of clouds. The trees coalesced around a camp of men, not as large as it stood in its full glory, but substantial in size regardless. A cry came out in the night, as it often did, and though normally caused by stains of red, this time it came organically through only frustration. This cry was a shout that led to seven attempts and one success.
“I CONTROL…. EVERYTHING!”
"That so?" The receiver of the shout inquired, sitting on his comfortable chair in his comfortable tent at the center of the camp, protected completely as one could be living in the wilderness in tents behind wooden walls of great log poles.
This man, the one who spoke, was covered by a daunting porcelain mask, with two dark almond holes for eyes, featureless and sheen. He was lithe, lanky, and adorned in a bright blue cloak that came over his head as the hood was drawn up, and the wings of the cloak draped lazily over the sides of the chair, as if equally unamused as its wearer.
"That's so." The enraged other man spat.
That man was taller, larger, battle torn and tanned in skin, covered head to toe in cuts, burns, scrape marks and other nasty malforms from a life fought with battle, and crowned with a head of dark gray to prove that he had lost his youth within it, if not simply by old age.
The man in the mask blinked behind his visage, then spoke simply, “Your concerns have been voiced…now that your ruckus is made…suppose we should take this to the others.” He said in a calm, sinister voice that rattled like some kind of vile creature, but didn’t gravel quite like a coarse man. It was unnatural.
The two men took their quarrel to the camp, and an oval formed around, as the blue cloaked man stood at one head of shape, and the other man stood at the foot. Downwind. Bearing witness to the right, two of three important figures, one young and barren of hair over his head, sporting a light ginger stubble. In this telling of the tale, the young man’s name was Two. The other, beside Two, was only a little older, but taller, dishwater blonde and regal looking in many ways. In the tale, this man’s name was Three.
The man who raised his complaint, said again, “I control everything!” Calmer now, but still shouting loud, “And all you do is sit there and give orders like a rat in a hole!”
There was an unanswered silence, and the older man lifted his head and inhaled deep to let out a hiss, one long monotonous note fed to the night air between his pulled back lips and gritted teeth. Through the crowd of surrounding lackeys that remained nameless that night and all nights to come, came a spattering of other hisses to join the man. One in every six men, perhaps.
The man in the pale mask stood slowly, wrapped his luxurious cloak around all of him, standing then like a specter of a charming blue nature. The figure lowered his head, and did the same. From behind the porcelain, a clearer, high bitched, smoother and almost seductive hiss of the same one note rang out. What voices did not join the older man joined the pale mask, including Two and Three.
Two took his tongue off his teeth and spoke as his station required, “Alright, th’ both of ya, pull yer trousers up. It’s clear. Nothing has to change.” His eyes matched the royal blue of his leader’s cloak as he looked at the man in the mask, “No one has to die.”
The angered, bigger, older man barked at Two, “Oh shut your mouth, you traitorous, useless, amnesiac, mutt!”
Two held a calm about him, but gave the man a defiant look.
The unnerving voice spoke from out of the mask as the man lifted his head, “Yamrae is correct, I’m afraid, Two.”
The angered man, now named in this tale as Yamrae, lifted his head in both anger and pride. Two shrunk slightly, but looked at the pale masked man and shook his head. He knew what was going to happen.
The man in the pale mask explained to his subordinates all, “Some of you…unlucky few…did not release your favor for me, but for this…” He turned his mask to Yamrae pointedly, “Disappointment.”
Yamra brandished his hand axe and let out a battle cry as he charged across the clearing.
Two cried out and sprang forward, “Yamrae, don’t-!” Three held him back.
Blue became red that night. The battle was over, but the loss had only begun. One man was punished fully. The ones who supported him were ousted by those who stood beside them and noticed, and received floggings and lashings and other forms of torment for their insubordination, which they happily accepted after the spectacle.
Oh, the spectacle?
The traitorous Yamrae was beaten in combat. He lacked both feet in the instant it subsided, but the rest of his body remained at the mercy of the torment. He was sentenced to be executed until death. One may ask, isn’t that how all executions work? Not these ones.
It took seven. First he was poisoned until his mouth frothed white. He was saved.
Then he was drowned until he stopped breathing. Again he was saved.
The third time he was tied to a pyre and lit ablaze. Just before he could sear too badly, he fell limp, and he was again saved.
On the fourth time he was hung. Saved again.
The fifth time he was pierced by arrows until limp, and rescued another time.
The sixth time he was cut until the blood ran him dry, but before he could be gone for good, he was rescued once more.
He did not survive the flaying. The attempts to resuscitate him were unsuccessful that time.
Possibly? Yes. Probably? No. It would have continued, but more harrowing the fact of the executioner. A trained marksman could hit the right spots. A trained hangman could prolong a strangle. A trained bladesman could nick the right slices. So on and so forth.
The man in the pale mask carried out every execution.
It was the last time his leadership was called into question.
When Yamrae perished, accounts tell of a thrilling, taunting laugh, one that knew what it did, one that won the game. It was followed by a hiss. No voices did not join that day. Better to speak and have a voice, then lose everything else for standing aside.
