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Princess Iona took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. Breathe, she reminded herself. Just breathe . Of course, it was easier said than done when one’s lungs wanted to forget how to function, but she had no choice -- her people awaited guidance in these difficult times.
“Princess Iona,” she heard her name called. Acting on pure instinct, forced into her through years of training, she politely turned to face the approaching figure before she consciously realized who it was. The Hootsman looked battle-weary, wolven armor stained with the blood of fallen foes and allies alike. The blade of his axe still had a glint of red, if looked at from the right angle, though perhaps Iona was just imagining that, knowing what was to come next.
“Hootsman,” she said, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “Is there something you need?”
“Only to ask how you’re faring,” the barbarian said, sober and somber.
Iona took a breath and was about to speak, but her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t make a sound beyond a pitiful whine, tears threatening to break through and make themselves known to the world. No, I can’t cry. I must address my people first. Then once this is over, then I can let myself cry.
The Hootsman held out an arm, as if offering a hug, but Iona stepped back, shaking her head vehemently, knowing that if she accepted the hug, then her carefully crafted facade would crack like the walls of the citadel had when Zargothrax’s forces invaded. The Hootsman looked confused and almost injured as he lowered his arm, and Iona had to fight back tears all the more.
After a moment of tense silence, Iona managed to compose herself enough to speak. “I am faring well enough,” she finally answered.
“I don’t--” the Hootsman began.
“Is the Commander ready?” she asked, cutting off the Hootsman’s question before he could finish asking.
The Hootsman nodded. “Aye, so he claims. He also looks about as alive as the stone statue we had taken down earlier today.” The one of the Dark Emperor. (Ex-Dark Emperor, now. Defeated, after so long… and at what price.)
“Then it is time,” Iona declared, with all the confidence she lacked. Without sparing another glance at the demigod barbarian, she strode out through the gates and into the public eye of the people, head held high. She was well aware of the heavy footsteps behind her as the Hootsman followed, just as she was aware of the silence that fell across the crowd as she exited from her private hiding place.
“Mighty warriors of Dundee,” she began, using strategies she had been taught by people who had once been friends and almost family, who were now scattered among the fallen, “You have proven yourselves to be brave and loyal indeed.” The last word had slipped in there out of habit; it was too late to take it back now. “With your help, the evil wizard Zargothrax is now dead, and our mighty Kingdom of Dundee is on a path to regaining our fallen pride once more!” Once more, another slip, another thing she must go along with. “Many difficulties await us on this journey, but with our honor and loyalty, glory will prevail!”
The cheers from the crowd were deafening, unaware that many of the words she spoke were those of the dead and the fallen (and the to-be-dead). She waited until the cheers silenced before continuing.
“Alas, one such difficulty is the one we are faced with today. Though we wish to save all that we can, sometimes those who are still among the living cannot be saved despite our best efforts.” She took a small pause for a breath. “For these, we must consider, would they have wished to continue living as what they are, or would they have preferred to remain loyal to their cause until the end?” She felt the lump threaten to appear in her throat once more, but she swallowed it down, refusing to let her feelings win. “Angus McFife XIII had came from another dimension and had been ready to give up his life to defeat the Dark Sorcerer. He had survived -- at least, in physical form.” She looked down, but then quickly reminded herself to look up, to look at her people when speaking to them.
“In his final moments, Zargothrax had stabbed Angus McFife XIII with the Knife of Evil. Despite our loyal commander’s best efforts, all attempts to bring him back to his normal state of mind failed.”
A pin-drop silence fell over the crowd.
“It is in service to the person he had been, that we have decided that the only way to proceed is to uphold his final wish -- his wish for the battle to be won and for Dundee to recover. He would never want to be the reason we failed.” She took a breath.
“On this day, Angus McFife XIII is to be executed, for the eternal glory of Dundee!”
The gates on the opposite side of the hall opened, and Commander Ralathor led in the prisoner. The prisoner still wore the green armor, sans green helmet, which had been lost in the battle. The armor, or what remained of it, was filthy, covered in soot and blood alike -- blood of foes and allies, and anything in-between that had been caught in the crossfire. There were gouges in the green material, the depths of them being the only places where some of the original light green color of the armor was visible, where it hadn’t been blackened by soot and caked with drying blood. There were handcuffs connecting the gauntlets together at the back of the armor with a chain that had been reinforced not once or twice but nine times.
Iona did not allow herself to dwell on the dark glare that seemed to slice through her like a blackened, cursed blade.
She watched impassively as the Commander led the prisoner forward. She watched impassively as the Hootsman stepped past her and approached the Commander and prisoner. She watched impassively as the two forces met at the center of the room, the Hootsman reaching for his axe and the Commander forcing the prisoner down.
She felt nothing as the axe was brought down.
Everyone else was too busy watching the events unfolding in the center of the room. No one noticed the lone tear that slipped down from her eye in the moment when she had faded into the background.
No one noticed when her voice did not join the calls of “For the glory of Dundee!”