A lone man sat in the dungeon cell with his wrists shackled to the wall. Long, greying hair covered his face as his head hung low. Chains leading from his wrists to the wall afforded him enough slack to either sit or take a single step further. The floor of the damp room was covered in a thin layer of rotting straw, which added to the scent of mildew.

“In here,” sounded a voice from behind the wooden cell door. The prisoner looked up as he heard the key turn the lock and the door swung open. A younger man with short, blond hair walked in and the heavy cell door shut behind him. In the young man’s hand was a small, three-legged stool which he set on the ground. In his other, the visitor held something wrapped in a white cloth.

The prisoner said nothing. He watched his visitor take a seat and hold the wrapped object on his lap. The blonde haired man finally spoke, “Did you ever think this day would come, Cleofric?”

Cleofric cleared his throat. “Is that it, then? Came here to gloat?”

“Hardly,” replied the young man. “I came to learn.”

The prisoner let out a quick sigh.

“Honestly,” continued the visitor. “Any idiot can remove a head. It takes…a true master to remove one swiftly.”

Between long strands of greying hair, Cleofric eyed the man. The visitor clothing was nice enough, he had a handsome face and excellent posture. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Eomund.”

“Why would you ever want to be an executioner, Eomund?”

The young man fidgeted on the stool. “It’s not that I want to. I have a duty to, a debt that must be repaid.”

“So you’re the one who’ll take my head in the morning?” asked the prisoner. Eomund shrugged. Another sigh left Cleofric’s lips. “I have nothing to teach.”

“Anyone who served as the Royal Executioner for as long as you would undoubtedly have something to say,” countered Eomund.

“Not when you’ve done as much evil as I have.” The statement hung in the air long enough to be uncomfortable.

The young man nodded. “I’ve heard stories, those of a king driven mad by paranoia and shadows of betrayal. He ordered you to take a great many lives over the years, didn’t he?”

“I did as the king told me,” replied Cleofric in a voice lacking conviction. He shook his head, “I’m not proud. If I refused, I’d be the one under an executioner’s blade.” His voice grew heavy with sorrow.

“Undoubtedly,” replied Eomund. “God be praised that he is king no longer.”

Cleofric began to speak but his voice choked in his throat. “Come again?” beckoned the visitor.

“I-I know that every man must…pay for his sins but,” a tear rolled down the prisoner’s cheek, “I still want to live. Why should I be slain for only doing as commanded?”

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Eomund nodded, “Do you fear death?”

“Do you not?!” Cleofric shouted. “Apologies.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t see how anyone could avoid that fear. I’ve seen men and women accept their fate when kneeling under my blade, but I do not doubt they still feared the end.”

“You may have only done the job you were tasked with, but His Majesty seeks to purge the remnants of his brother’s reign,” explained Eomund. “You are a symbol of the very stain the king wishes removed from our history.”

Cleofric sniffed and another tear rolled down his cheek. “I never wanted to.”

“Sorry?”

“I never wanted to be a headsman,” explained the prisoner. “It was my punishment.”

Eomund leaned in curiously. “For what crime?”

“For the crime of not letting the king have my daughter,” spat Cleofric bitterly. The visitor’s eyes widened. “She was not yet of age when she caught the king’s eye. This was years before the madness took his mind. Men came for her in the night, and I cut two of them before I was held down and beaten.”

Cleofric looked shook his head then looked up with pitiful eyes. “They took her anyway. She found her way back home in the morning after she had been used and discarded.”

“What became of her?” asked Eomund.

“She raised the king’s bastard in a convent for some time before throwing herself into a river.”

A long silence hung in the air before Eomund broke it. He looked down at the white cloth as if he were struggling with some sort of dilemma. “I’m sorry that happened to you, to you both.” Unwrapping the cloth, he held out the bread swaddled in it. “This is my gift to you.”

The aging prisoner smiled slightly and moved to take the bread. Pulling it just from grasp Eomund donned a serious face. “You should know the bread is poisoned with Sleeper’s Ferry. It is a kinder death than a blade.” Cleofric’s hand recoiled. “You have a decision to make,” said the visitor. “You can live in fear of tomorrow morning or you can eat the bread now and drift away in your sleep.”

Cleofric didn’t move. He sat like a statue, contemplating the offer. Finally, he held out his hand and took the bread. With a solemn face, he ate every crumb of the bread. Eomund looked relieved. He leaned back on the stool, resting his back against the cell door. “I have a final question. For a man so skilled in taking heads, there remains the matter of Baroness Ethelwin.”

Hearing the name made Cleofric close his eyes tightly. “What would cause such a skilled practitioner to foul his sword stroke and make such a travesty? asked the visitor. “How come you needed so many strokes to sever her crying head?”

Cleofric placed his forehead into the palm of his hand. “I was out at an alehouse the night before. I’ve been unhappy with life for a long time but knew I shouldn’t drink too much. There was work to be done in the morning.” He paused. With almost a wistful smile, Cleofric looked up like he remembered a sunny day. “With my executioner’s badge, drinks never cost me a thing.”

“There was a group celebrating something,” Cleofric continued. “Some women pulled me into her party. I knew they knew who I was, and that I could keep the ale flowing, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“So you were still drunk?” asked Eomund.

Cleofric’s face looked as though he had just sipped sour milk.“I just wanted someone to look at me with kind eyes again.”

“Because you drank too much the night before, instead of sharpening your blade, it took six strokes to take her head?” Cleofric noticed the change in tone and looked up. Eomund seemed as if he were growing angry. “I want to hear you say it.”

Cleofric winced and placed a hand on his stomach. “What did you give me?”

“I truly am sorry for what happened to your daughter but even when disaster befalls us, we are still held accountable for our sins.” Even as the words left Eomund’s mouth, it was obvious something was amiss.

The prisoner cradled his stomach with both hands while his face contorted in pain. “What you’re feeling now is Traitor’s Bane,” explained Eomund. “I wanted you to feel the same pain my mother felt by the time you delivered the sixth and final sword stroke.”

A scream escaped Cleofric’s clenched teeth. Eomund pounded his fist against the cell door twice. The door was opened from the outside as he picked up the stool he’d brought with him. “You should know that though it gives me no joy to do this to you. As you wallow in your own shit and vomit, wishing for nothing but death, just know that what I owed you has been paid in full.”