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Hazlitt Trelaw, the most wanted rebel in the kingdom, paused a moment on the steps of the palace. He knew what he had to do, he knew there was only one way to end all the bloodshed. King Clarence had been merciless in his hunt for the small and scattered group of rebels, leaving death in his wake wherever he went. There was no way to outlast his forces, not with the overwhelming numbers against them.
Hazlitt knew that if any of his people stood a fraction of a chance, he would have to put an end to the searching. The king demanded their leader. Hazlitt was determined to give him one.
Himself.
The rebellion, small and scattered as it was, was barely large enough to warrant a leader at all. They all considered themselves equals, brothers in the fight against the tyranny of the crown. But they knew that the king would only speak to one he perceived an equal, a ruler like himself. So Lord Trelaw, with a bitter taste in his heart, accepted the "title" in the dim hope that it would spare his brothers and sisters the pain of death that awaited all traitors of the crown.
"Let it be enough", he prayed silently. "Let it be enough that I surrender myself, and let others rise to take my stead."
It wasn't that he did not think of his family; who among them was without family? In that regard, Hazlitt was no more or less deserving of mercy than any of them. No, the truth was that Hazlitt had come to regard his brothers in the rebellion to be another sort of family. He felt deeply responsible for every death with every passing day. He mourned every single loss. He did his best to take care for the families left behind, knowing all the while that their losses could never truly be replaced. And as the months crept on, his heart grew heavier and heavier as their numbers dwindled. What was once an almost grand fighting force was now a straggling, but determined, band of revolutionaries. Their numbers were small, but their spirit was undying.
So, with a silent prayer on his lips and the fire of revolution burning steadily in his heart, Lord Trelaw entered the palace to surrender himself to the king.
"Your Majesty, I present to you Lord Hazlitt Trelaw."
"Lord Trelaw?" The king peered down from his throne. "Whatever is the meaning of this?"
"Your Majesty." Hazlitt bowed deeply, bitterness rising in his throat. He fought back any snide remarks that threatened to escape. "I've come to surrender myself to you."
"Surrender? What on earth are you talking about, boy? Unless-"
"Your Majesty, I am the leader of the rebellion. I am the traitor you have been searching for."
If there had been any color at all in the king's pale painted face, it would have drained out in an instant. His mouth fell open slightly, but he soon regained composure and cleared his throat.
"You. You are the one who's been leading this whole operation? YOU?"
Hazlitt remained stone faced.
"I knew your father, boy, and he was a good man. One of my most trusted advisors, in fact. Shame," he added, "that his only son turned out to be nothing but a coward and a traitor."
Hazlitt again said nothing. His face was strangely calm, despite the swirling anger that brewed in his mind at the king's remarks.
"Guards, take him to the dungeon."
Hazlitt was immediately flanked by two palace guards, who grabbed his arms and wrenched them behind his back.
"Wait!" He needed to know, would the others be all right now? Would they be safe? Would they-
CRACK! One of the guards struck his head with a baton, and the world plunged into darkness.
Hazlitt awoke with a screaming headache. Before he could get his bearings, a voice echoed in the darkness.
"He's awake, Your Majesty."
As his senses slowly returned, Hazlitt tried to move his aching arms to get the blood flowing back to his numb fingertips, but was met with the bite of cold metal. His wrists were shackled to a crude yoke around his shoulders, and another chain held him firmly in place kneeling on the ground. He groaned a little as he raised his body from its bowed position on the floor and tried to look his captor in the eye.
"Well, well, well. You know, as the leader of this little uprising, you've been quite high on my list of wanted criminals. But I never expected you to come willingly."
Hazlitt's joints were now screaming in pain, from kneeling for so long on the cold stone floor of the dungeon. He tried not to let his voice betray his discomfort. "Now that I've surrendered myself, Clarence," he spat, "the slaughter stops. No more. You have me, let that be enough."
King Clarence snapped his fingers, and from behind a sharp blow struck Hazlitt's back.
Another, and another landed on his ribs. As he bowed over in pain, King Clarence approached slowly. He grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced him to meet his eyes.
"To them that have much, more shall be given." He growled mockingly, as his face twisted into a cruel smile.
The guard kicked Hazlitt's side, and a sharp crack sounded. All the breath left his lungs at once and he struggled to find breath again.
"To them who have not, the little they have shall be taken away." Clarence let go of his hair, and Hazlitt dropped to the ground, wheezing, desperately trying to protect his ribs from any more blows.
"You know the royal motto as well as I. To defy me," he declared with a voice dripping with anger, "is to defy God Himself. It is my sacred duty to make an example of all traitors, and you are no exception."
"My king…" Hazlitt groaned around his aching ribs. "I am the only one who deserves your punishment. Let the others go."
"What makes you think I should listen to you?"
"Because I am the one who began this rebellion. I alone defied you. Please, just let the others go."
"All traitors deserve to be punished, young man. Not just the leaders. What kind of king allows treason to breed in the streets just because one man begs him to? I am the king! I am the law! I am justice itself!"
"That's the trouble with you, Clarence. You think only of yourself. You are nothing but a man. Barely even a king."
Another loud crack echoed as the baton struck Hazlitt's left eye.
" Careful what you say, boy. I may be only a man, but you," he leaned in to whisper to the man curled up in pain, "are a failure. You are a criminal. You are NOTHING."
Hazlitt lifted his face, his voice trembling. "I may have failed, Clarence," he smiled bitterly, spitting out blood. "But the Trelaw spirit will never die." He pulled himself upright, kneeling so he was eye level with the man he once called a king. "And one day," he grunted through gritted teeth, "your miserable philosophy will be overthrown. If not by me, then by someone else like me." He spat a mouthful of blood at Clarence's feet and grinned with bloody teeth.
Clarence seemed taken aback at this blatant display of defiance. "Smile all you want, boy, but you won't be smiling for long. Barkilphedro?"
A gravelly voice from behind Hazlitt answered. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
Clarence smiled coldly. "Bring them in."
"Of course, Your Majesty!" the voice gleefully answered, and the door creaked open.
"You see, Hazlitt," Clarence mocked, "all actions have consequences. And when you defy a king, the consequences don't just affect you."
Footsteps sounded behind them, and the door opened again. Hazlitt braced himself, expecting to see one of his revolutionary brothers in chains. He always knew there was a chance one of them could be captured anyway, despite the peace offering.
Instead, he saw his frightened little boy, in the arms of his frightened wife.
Hazlitt's heart leapt into his throat. No, not them! For the love of God, not them!
Gwynplaine was clinging tightly to his mother's arms, his eyes wide like a hunted animal. Hazlitt tried to put on a brave face, but with blood streaming down his cheeks and staining his clothes he knew it was no good.
"My darlings!" he choked out. He could no longer hold his composure. Tossing all pretense of stoicism aside, he begged. "Let them go! They've done nothing wrong!"
Gwynplaine saw him, and let out a small cry. "Papa! You're hurt!"
"It's all right, my boy. I'll be okay. It'll be all right." The assurance was as much for his wife as it was for his son, though he himself doubted every word.
"Please, my king, let them go. They are innocent. I am the only one who deserves your punishment, but for the love of God, spare them!"
The king, satisfied that he'd finally struck the right nerve, only grinned wider. "Too late for that. Barkilphedro?"
The same voice from behind answered again. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Take them to Gallows Grave Hill and hang all three."
Isobel staggered against the wall, still clutching Gwynplaine to her chest. Her sobs reverberated in the cell.
Hazlitt's stomach plunged and he felt sick. "NO! Not my wife, my child-- my king, they've done nothing wrong! Spare them! Kill me if you must, but spare them! He's only a boy!"
"They are both traitors, just as much as you are." Clarence's eyes were full of ice and hatred. "Let's see how long your mighty prophecy lasts with the Trelaw bloodline obliterated!"
Gwynplaine's cries were soon muffled by Hazlitt's own.
Barkilphedro soon appeared again and wrenched the boy from his mother's arms, shackling his tiny wrists in irons meant for bigger men.
"My son, give me my son!" Isobel begged, but her cries were silenced by a sharp crack of the baton.
The three were quickly shackled together and dragged from the cell. Each of them desperately prayed in their own heart, but not a single one had a thought for themselves. It was a final, last-ditch effort that if there was anyone above, if there was any mercy in all of heaven, that God might "take me if you must, but spare them!"
The next few hour was a blur. The walk to the gallows site, flanked by soldiers, seemed to take mere minutes.
Take me, but spare them!
Every time he prayed it, it sounded more and more hollow in his mind. But it was all he had left to cling to, so he kept on praying it.
Take me, but spare them!
As the noose slipped around his neck, tears fell of their own accord. Hazlitt's face was once again oddly peaceful even as he faced his own death. He was ready for this. He was ready.
He looked over at his wife, as she was led to the noose next to his own. She met his eyes, and nodded solemnly. She, too, was ready.
A small sniffling noise brought Hazlitt out of his trance, and he looked down at his son. His only son. Gwynplaine stood in the snow beneath the gallows, looking up at his parents with eyes wide and lips trembling. He was so frightened, and he looked so small and alone below.
Barkilphedro reached for the lever, but was cut off abruptly by Hazlitt's shout. "WAIT!"
He looked the clown in the eyes, almost a challenge. "Give me one last moment with my son."
His voice was so determined that the clown could no nothing but oblige. He stepped away from the lever and folded his hands.
Hazlitt didn't know how he found the words, but they came easily and somehow seemed to be exactly what his little boy needed to hear.
"We Trelaws have always fought for what is right. For what is true." He glanced over at his wife. She met his gaze, and Hazlitt remembered what a beacon of hope she had always been. In a way, she was as guilty of treason as him. If it weren't for her strength, he probably would never have been able to fight as long as he had.
He returned his attention to his son, who seemed calmer now. He was still trembling from the cold, but less so from fear now.
"Imagine the Blade of Bilboa in your hand, boy." Gwynplaine lifted his hand as though it held the blade, his eyes trained on where the end would have been. He knew the way it felt in his hands, the weight and balance of it. Hazlitt's heart swelled with pride, remembering all the practice they'd had together. He calmly ran through the drills one last time with his son, knowing they'd never have another chance to do so together. Gwynplaine calmed more and more as he practiced the moves.
Hazlitt almost laughed a little, overcome with the sense that no matter what happened, his boy would be all right. He'd taught him everything he could, and now… well, he'd see him again soon.
"Stay true to yourself, boy. It's the only thing worth dying-"
The lever cranked with a loud noise, and the world fell away.