"Since I was young, I've had a fascination with death. Empty bodies, empty eyes. Edward always worried I'd find a taste for it and kept me far away from executions, sheltered from the brutality he feared I had inherited. I'm not like them, though. I don't want to cut my way through innocents to examine the innards of some poor soul as they bleed out. This world is just full of inscrutable mysteries and I want to gaze deep enough to pierce them. But sometimes I feel this anger in me, creeping beneath my bones, and I wonder if Edward was right to be worried after all. -Journal of Narav
Ymiden 10, 415
Swing. Swing. Swing.
Edward had gone to market that day with strict instructions. Narav was to stay indoors studying the Etzos tongue. Enough traders made their way to Hiladrith, just up the Long River from Ne'haer that it would prove a useful tongue to learn. Narav made no argument, burying his nose in a thick tome on dialect. Satisfied, Edward had left him and taken Danielle. Nearly alone in the Tobelle mansion, he had quickly lost interest in the glottal intonation of Etzos tongue and its curious verb, subject, subject pronoun construction. Leaving the book turned pointlessly toward the middle, Narav stole into the kitchen and gathered two hunks of bread, some dried fish, and three apples. He dared an extra moment or two to snatch a small wheel of cheese and tied it all together with a a tablecloth. Outside he affixed to the end of a stick and shook the bindle experimentally. Satisfied it seemed stable, he scaled the south wall of the estate, using the thick creeper vines as footholds as he climbed.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
It was a windy day, clouds chased narrow and long across the blue afternoon horizon. Narav reveled in the freedom, tapping his foot musically with each few steps and turning in a few poorly balanced spins. Shake his head, he balanced the bindle a little easier on his shoulder and made for the edge of the city walls. It was still early enough that the gates were open to allow traffic in and out. A sporadic stream of covered wagons and dusty travelers stepped in and out, vaguely appreciative of space and respectful of the shiftier figures weaving between heavy wagons with hidden hands. Among these people Narav set out. Tolkim, a friend he'd met by the docks just a few trials earlier, had let him in on a secret his father forbid him to tell.
"Swear on the salt!" He'd said, dipping a finger into the sea and crossing it over his lips. "Pa says Ne'hear likes to keep things neat and sometimes they'll hang the marauders and bandits in a grove outside the city walls. Hanging Boughs, they call it, all those dead men doing a wind jig till birds peck em dry!" He'd mimed the pecking of a bird, tucking his hands beneath his armpits in awkward wings. They'd laughed, but Narav committed it to memory.
It wasn't hard to find, a mile outside of town there was a small sign that marked where the road diverted. Jenny Glen, they called it, but someone had carved Hanging Boughs into the back of the sign, deep enough to be seen as shadows collected in the dark, jagged letters. Narav debated here, unsure whether he should continue or not. The raw interest pounded under his temple, an itching that drew him forward despite the rules Edward had set. Taking a deep breath, glancing both ways to assure himself no one had followed, Narav made his way off road and into the trees.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
They were hanged high, messy painted signs dangling from their swaying feet. The low call of carrion birds swelled in the grove and every branch seemed filled with the hunger-eyed creatures. Seventeen bodies in all, in various states of decay that drifted aimlessly from each branch among many of the trees. Narav sucked in a sharp breath, held it, and let it out with a shudder. The light had fallen enough that he couldn't see their faces, but the curious angle many of their necks broke made it clear that the dead-man stare could be angled down in a way not possible from a living man.
Thief. Mage. Murderer. Deserved it. The signs that hung from each foot told mostly one word stories of vague indictment. There was no law out here, beyond the walls of the city the road set its own judge, jury, and executioner. Narav found he was transfixed, looking up at these swinging corpses with unbroken interest. They were so...empty, like man shaped sacks belonging to the wind.
He didn't notice he was not alone. He did not notice the silence of the birds.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
There was only the dance that deadman do, the string-song of ropes rubbing the branches.
Ymiden 10, 415
Swing. Swing. Swing.
Edward had gone to market that day with strict instructions. Narav was to stay indoors studying the Etzos tongue. Enough traders made their way to Hiladrith, just up the Long River from Ne'haer that it would prove a useful tongue to learn. Narav made no argument, burying his nose in a thick tome on dialect. Satisfied, Edward had left him and taken Danielle. Nearly alone in the Tobelle mansion, he had quickly lost interest in the glottal intonation of Etzos tongue and its curious verb, subject, subject pronoun construction. Leaving the book turned pointlessly toward the middle, Narav stole into the kitchen and gathered two hunks of bread, some dried fish, and three apples. He dared an extra moment or two to snatch a small wheel of cheese and tied it all together with a a tablecloth. Outside he affixed to the end of a stick and shook the bindle experimentally. Satisfied it seemed stable, he scaled the south wall of the estate, using the thick creeper vines as footholds as he climbed.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
It was a windy day, clouds chased narrow and long across the blue afternoon horizon. Narav reveled in the freedom, tapping his foot musically with each few steps and turning in a few poorly balanced spins. Shake his head, he balanced the bindle a little easier on his shoulder and made for the edge of the city walls. It was still early enough that the gates were open to allow traffic in and out. A sporadic stream of covered wagons and dusty travelers stepped in and out, vaguely appreciative of space and respectful of the shiftier figures weaving between heavy wagons with hidden hands. Among these people Narav set out. Tolkim, a friend he'd met by the docks just a few trials earlier, had let him in on a secret his father forbid him to tell.
"Swear on the salt!" He'd said, dipping a finger into the sea and crossing it over his lips. "Pa says Ne'hear likes to keep things neat and sometimes they'll hang the marauders and bandits in a grove outside the city walls. Hanging Boughs, they call it, all those dead men doing a wind jig till birds peck em dry!" He'd mimed the pecking of a bird, tucking his hands beneath his armpits in awkward wings. They'd laughed, but Narav committed it to memory.
It wasn't hard to find, a mile outside of town there was a small sign that marked where the road diverted. Jenny Glen, they called it, but someone had carved Hanging Boughs into the back of the sign, deep enough to be seen as shadows collected in the dark, jagged letters. Narav debated here, unsure whether he should continue or not. The raw interest pounded under his temple, an itching that drew him forward despite the rules Edward had set. Taking a deep breath, glancing both ways to assure himself no one had followed, Narav made his way off road and into the trees.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
They were hanged high, messy painted signs dangling from their swaying feet. The low call of carrion birds swelled in the grove and every branch seemed filled with the hunger-eyed creatures. Seventeen bodies in all, in various states of decay that drifted aimlessly from each branch among many of the trees. Narav sucked in a sharp breath, held it, and let it out with a shudder. The light had fallen enough that he couldn't see their faces, but the curious angle many of their necks broke made it clear that the dead-man stare could be angled down in a way not possible from a living man.
Thief. Mage. Murderer. Deserved it. The signs that hung from each foot told mostly one word stories of vague indictment. There was no law out here, beyond the walls of the city the road set its own judge, jury, and executioner. Narav found he was transfixed, looking up at these swinging corpses with unbroken interest. They were so...empty, like man shaped sacks belonging to the wind.
He didn't notice he was not alone. He did not notice the silence of the birds.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
There was only the dance that deadman do, the string-song of ropes rubbing the branches.