text: It wasn’t that long ago I looked upon Wanderers with disgust. They had been the scum of the earth. Rejects. Scavengers. Ultimate leeches of our world. And now that I saw them again I couldn’t even muster half a teaspoon of hate. I was invaded by an overall sense of weariness. I saw my neighbour, a tall large man yell at them, face contorted out of human shape. He had mastered the hate. And he looked ridiculous for it. I wanted to get out of here. I didn’t care about those sad parades of men and women in chains. I couldn’t join the euphoria of the crowd. The woman on my other side spat at them. I shrugged and pulled my scarf closer to my neck. It hadn’t been my intention to be here at all. I’d been caught by the tide and had no way of going against the general flow. Why would you exhibit people like that? Strip them of their humanity, and then execute them in front of the angry, hateful crowd. There were three executioners on stage. Each one of them had a speciality. Each one of them had a nickname. There was the Axe, the Flute, and Iron Hand. All were dressed in uniform black robes, face hidden by the traditional hood. They were only differentiated by a personal insignia printed chest level. Everyone knew that the job of executioner was passed down from generation to generation. The families kept their anonymity, but were given an emblem. Some people wondered if executioners were human at all. The unconscious collective fear being that they were eternal monsters always there to take human lives. Masses were so gullible. The streams of captives were Wanderers. Not even real criminals. Wanderers’ only wrongdoing was of adhering to different ideals to ours. I would have been publicly stoned for saying such a blasphemy. Well, only if I hadn’t been untouchable. The crowd started to chant for their hero: the Carver. Except he wasn’t here. This was no surprise. He specialised in violent criminals. He was feared and revered at the same time. His name enough to delightfully chill a crowd. They were terrorised by the shear idea of ending up in his tender care, and at the same time they relished in the blood he spilled. Because he was no ordinary executioner. In fact executioners were rarely ordinary. The Flute had a beautiful talent. All his family had had the gift of music. He could possess people with his instruments. Make them dance until they died of exhaustion. He transformed human tragedy into an ultimate artistic sacrifice. His dances were extravagant, captivating and ultimately very deadly. Iron Hand was an obtuse brut next to him. But that butcher was a real crowd pleaser. He had the power of strength. His delicate attentions consisted in pulverising captives and unashamedly spraying the crowd. Nothing much ever remained after he had taken care of it. The Axe was more traditional. Not all executioner blood lines were consistent in power. Axe chopped heads, not always managing the clean one strike decapitation. But that was part of the thrill. People took odds. Exchanging money on whether he would or wouldn’t this time. Only then did I realise I would have to watch the whole show. I grimaced. What a waste of time! Today was my first day off after five months of training and work. It had taken me three hours to get down here. I hadn’t intended to spend my time like that. I’d wanted to go back home. See my mother, brother and sisters again. I only had a few hours to spare. After that I had to go back to the castle. I sighed. This promised to be excruciating. Unless I could spot a member of my family. Then, at least, their company would support me through this ordeal. But it was packed and hard to see any individuals. I massaged my head. I could feel the headache rising. Then I saw a glimpse of white. Across from me, on the other side of the fenced prisoner passage, was someone wearing a scarf matching mine. I didn’t have to see it from close up to know it was the same wool. This had to be my younger sister. She had sent that one for me during my absence, telling me she was wearing its twin. Only my family made wool so fine. Except she was on the other side. And I’d probably changed since the last time she’d seen me. I’d grown thinner, taller, whiter, hollower. In a way the crowd wasn’t too bad. They kept us warm, heat rising off them like a good herd. I raised myself on my toes, making ridiculously large arm movements. I didn’t care if people stared. It would only increase my chances of Illiotrope seeing me. Finally, I caught her eye. She had been mesmerised by the execution scene. Three men had already lost their heads, five women were dancing and something was in the process of being turned into crimson mush. But amongst the butchery, someone had been kind enough to let her know a young man was trying to get her attention. She squinted at first. I must have changed more than I thought. But then her face opened in a smile. She waved at me and got closer to the barrier. We looked at each other from across the fence for a while. This was absurd. I was so close! A burst of bloodshed slashed my mind. It was a violent thought bubble. The big man next to me trembled and an enchanted smile settled on his lips, he didn’t realise a bloody slash had opened on his face. The other people huddled against me shivered. We had all felt it. I saw the ripple of anticipation run through the crowd. They started to yell out for the Carver again. They had recognised his touch. He had to be somewhere around here. They wanted him on stage. After his absence from the scene they were elated by his recent return and wanted him everywhere. The Carver was ferocious. He peeled his victim’s minds apart, projecting the visions of carnage he found in their heads to the whole crowd. As the visions occurred the prisoner would find himself covered with the wounds he had once inflicted on others. Without touching the perpetrator, the Carver managed to hurt them more profoundly then any meaningless violence would have. But Wanderers were innocents. The Carver couldn’t do anything to them. I finally decided to jump the fence. Another stupid law I saw no reason to obey, I wasn’t a parked sheep. And I believed I had a fair chance of being overlooked anyway, people were too absorbed in the action, law apprehenders just as enthralled. I got my first leg over the barrier. Illiotrope gaped. She backed up a little and shook her head. She didn’t want me to risk my freedom for something so... so brainless. I swang the second leg over and started crossing. Suddenly a big hand dropped on my shoulder. I turned. It belonged to a massive sheriff. He was enormous in every way and direction. His face was lumpy, as if he’d been hit many times. A smaller official came to my other side. He wore a nasty smile. My face was blank. I let him pull my sleeves up so as to cuff my hands with a magic deadener, just in case. I watched his face grow grey before he even pulled the deadener out of his pocket, as he recognised the symbol on my wrist. I watched him back away from me. The big one understood fast. He swallowed noisily, but grabbed me by the collar of my coat and lifted me over the last fence. He dropped me exactly where I wanted to be. Illiotrope stared. ‘How did you get away?’ She yelled so I would hear over the crowd. ‘They recognised I worked for the king.’ I shrugged. ‘I’m so happy to see you!’ She finally exclaimed, before throwing herself in my arms. ‘Let’s go home.’ She nodded. And strangely enough we were able to walk away. People mustn’t have been as oblivious as I thought, or perhaps they were just street wise. They parted like the seas for prophets. The streets were smaller than I remembered, darker too. Perhaps spending most of my time in small enclosed spaces had made me unrealistically brighten my previous life. Once we passed the crowd, the streets were deserted. Everyone always went to executions. They were free entertainment and they occurred once a week in this part of town. The sound of whatever Illiotrope had on her feet reverberated happily against the uneven pavement. The fabric of her skirts sighed. Her coat clapped in the wind. And her breathing was loud. As noisy as she was, I made no sound. ‘Don’t you talk anymore?’ She asked. I forced myself to smile. ‘You look like father.’ She said with a grimace, ‘you sound like father.’ She added, ‘Is it the archives which turn men into sad shadows?’ ‘You should not foul mouth the dead.’ When our father had died six month ago a message had been sent from the court. It read that I was duty bound to inherit my father’s position by the king’s side. I would be trained, and I would become a Guardian of the Arcane. My mother had cried - a second separation was painful. My sisters had been proud; the position was well remunerated and had a special social status. My younger brother, Ernst, had felt relieved. He had always been afraid he would inherit that intellectual role because I was so little interested in old paper. Everyone believed the arcane to be the king’s secret archives. But it was me they wanted, not him. Ernst was now free to become the merchant he had always wanted to be. And I was officially a Guardian, proudly wearing the emblems of the position on my wrist. We arrived in Glory Street. Our house was the twelfth on the left. Like the others it was made of dark stones, unlike the others it had a shop front advertising the softest wool. We walked through the door and the bell chimed. Delellia, my elder sister, tentatively came down the stairs to look after the prospective customer. Her eyes opened wide when she saw me. ‘Lelio!’ She cried out before running to me herself, ‘You’ve become so pale.’ Delellia had the gift of dream-weaving and a fertile imagination. As such she worked for a number of rich merchants. She would send them lovely illusions and forbidden fantasies during their nights, awake all that time. She was so good, a number of courtesans had already asked for her services. Soon she would move closer to the castle and work for a more sophisticated audience. Because of this exhausting profession, she was usually relieved from shop duty, it was Illiotrope’s responsibility. Illiotrope, like my mother, was exceedingly good at needlework. But this was her day off, execution day was an institution. ‘Lelio’s home!’ Illiotrope called out to my mother upstairs. I heard shuffling. And then there was the distinct sound of two people getting down the stairs. My mother appeared first, her hair whiter than I remembered. Behind her was Ernst. Like me he’d grown, but while I’d become pale, he now bore a dark tan. In the last missive I’d received, I’d been informed he was conducting all the trade for our family shop, travelling the countryside in search of wool and pigments. ‘How’s the arcane?’ My brother asked. ‘Still as secretive, and I’m still under the same imperatives of silence.’ ‘Just like your father.’ My mother said, ‘God rest his soul.’ She took my head in her hands and kissed my forehead. ‘You look tired my son.’ I was exhausted. It would be lunchtime soon. My mother and Illiotrope disappeared towards the kitchen. I sat heavily at the head of the table. Delellia sat next to me. She had blue shadows under her eyes and an ethereal air about herself... growing into a creature of the night. Ernst settled himself down opposite from me. ‘What good are your powers for the archives?’ Delellia asked. She had always been able to tell when I used my gift, part of her second sight. ‘You are straining yourself.’ ‘I’m training, I’m getting better everyday.’ ‘But surely you do not need them for reading!’ Ernst cut in. This was another reason why he thought he, rather than I, would be going to the king. It was considered criminal to waste powers, and I had shown great potential very early. ‘The arcane might not be what everyone thinks it is.’ I answered. Ernst’s brow shot up. I realised I might have made a mistake. Delellia didn’t blink. The question Ernst was going to ask was prevented by the exuberant appearance of Illiotrope. Mother followed and lunch was brought in by the kitchen hand. From then on we avoided talking about my work. We talked about my brother’s and sisters’ lives, the latest rumours at court, the latest news in town... The afternoon slipped away and soon night’s belly stretched above our heads. I got up. I had to go. I would be required at dawn. My mother’s smile wilted as I kissed her goodbye. I promised that had been my longest absence. I was now fully trained, but I belonged to a low rank - I was still new. I was allowed a free day a week from now on though. I would therefore come back next week. She nodded. In a few years I wouldn’t be at the beck and call of the ministers and then I would be able to settle in my own house away from the castle. ‘Why didn’t you come on a horse?’ Illiotrope asked. ‘I did.’ ‘Where is it? Why didn’t you show me!’ ‘There were too many people. I left it at the Inn up the furthest stoop. They have a stable.’ I said. ‘I’ll walk you.’ Delellia announced. I looked at her, surprised. ‘It is not safe for a woman to walk those parts of town without an escort.’ I reminded her. ‘I’ll only be alone on the way back.’ She said. ‘And you’d have to be insane to attack a dream-weaver!’ Ernst interrupted. ‘Imagine the nightmares you’d get.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s not written on her forehead what she is.’ I said. ‘I’ll take my chances.’ She shrugged, pulling on a coat looking too heavy for her fragile frame. I’d heard the determination. ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’ She added. She wanted to talk... I’d known she would not be as blind as the others. I held the door open for her to follow me into darkness. We took our first steps in silence. I looked at the ink sky. Full moon. Delellia would be busy tonight. ‘Are you happy Lelio?’ She asked. I hadn’t expected the question. I wasn’t sure how to answer it. But she continued. ‘I never told anyone about it,’ she said, ‘but once, I walked into one of father’s dreams. I was young then. I didn’t have much control.’ My blood went cold. I wrapped my coat closer to me. But its warmth wasn’t enough anymore. ‘I believe I know what you do at the arcane.’ She said. I turned to look at her. She was probably the person I was closest to. I had been so afraid of her discovering, of her judging me. And here she knew. Would she hate me? Would she reject me? Would she be disappointed or frightened? But she held no judgment, no accusation. Not even curiosity. She knew. I suppressed a shudder. We had arrived at the inn. We waited in the stable while the boy saddled my horse. I found it hard to hold Delellia’s gaze. She saw me for what I was: a slave to my powers. I had hoped for a trace of admiration. This was discounting the fact she did not have the barbaric taste of our fellow men. And the fact that she knew what it was to be overworked and thrown against your will into terrifying universes. I clenched my teeth. I was getting ready to swing on my horse and leave but she hugged me. I was breathing again. ‘You do a good job.’ She whispered and I heard she was crying. ‘Don’t you ever feel our lives would be so much easier if we didn’t have power?’ She asked. ‘Perhaps for you,’ I smiled, ‘You would spend your day in the shop with mother and Illiotrope. You wouldn’t have to witness other’s nightmares. But I would still have been called to the king. And I would have had to learn to use an axe.’ She paled. ‘At least now I have a kind of notoriety.’ I said. ‘The Carver.’ She murmured so low I almost didn’t hear. This time I did mount my horse. Delellia took a step back. She would be fine tonight. I’d discreetly payed the boy to make sure she got home safe. I’d made certain he saw my wrist. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ I told her. She knew. She waved, even exhausted, as I galloped away. Away to the under castle and the donjons. Away to the prisoners. Away to the condemned. But ultimately not that far. She knew I came back regularly under my black robes and hood. She knew that each time the Carver was on stage she would see me - be closer to me. And she alone shared my secret. &#x200B; THE END &#x200B; Thank you for reading it until the end. I'd love to know what you think about it. This short story unexpectedly gave me an idea for a whole novel, but I'm not sure if anyone but me want to see more of Lelio and Delellia.