Days of Revolution Issue 1, to be released in instalments.
Forum Home > Public : Stories > Days of Revolution Issue 1, to be released in instalments.Page: 1
Days of Revolution: Issue 1
In a world much like Earth’s 17th and 18th centuries, it is a time of political upheaval, of republican uprisings and monarchist restoration, of sham democracy and the dictatorship of the mob. These are the stories of those who fall foul of those mobs and the revolutionary spirit of denunciation that drives them.
Bestalle Prison, the former Kingdom of Ghastione, now the Peasant Republic of Ghastione, year 1685 PA.
It was midmorning when the official entered the condemned cell. Standing at the top of the steps leading into the vault-like space. Sunlight streamed into the near-cavern, as several prisoners stood to await the call of their names. As always, perhaps two hundred were crowded into the cells, a mix of nobles deposed by the new Revolutionary government, middle class men and women suspected of supporting the royalist cause or otherwise taking advantage of the people, and peasants who unfortunate enough to fall foul of the People’s Commission. Some had been taken weeks ago, charged and found guilty within a day, and thus had had time to prepare themselves for death. They were dressed in the customary collarless shirt or chemise smock, their hair cropped short for the blade. Others had been brought here only a few days past, still wearing the clothes in which they had been arrested. For them, only the hasty removal of any obstructing material around their collars and the putting up of hair had been possible. The official, a Justiciar of the Republican Police, sneered at them. There had been organised uprisings against the state before, both in Ghastione and neighbouring countries, some of which had even succeeded in taking control of the government for a few short years. The Seven Years Revolt of 1436, the 1550 Nichtargen Revolution. But in the end, the forces of tyranny and absolutism returned and the oppression of the people began anew. This time would be different, they had the army, the borders were secure, the Secret Police had defected and even now rooted out anti-revolutionists, and they had Matron Guillotine. A far cry from the crude ‘falling axe’ that had claimed the heads of the Divine Emperor of Nichtargen and his court, this efficient machine could manage hundreds of executions a day if needed. And if todays ‘case load’ became the norm, it may have to. The power of the masses would sweep away the old order like the advance of the Great Beasts, ushering in a new age of Liberty, Justice, and Comradeship.
The jailer stood from his desk by the iron gate that led into the cell. “How many today, Justiciar?”. The official turned to him. “Forty-five, good sir. The People’s Commission gives Matron Guillotine extra fodder today”. It was true. Previously only fifteen to twenty-four people, a mere two or three carts worth of prisoners, had met the blade every third day or so. But with the latest series of arrests and new conspiracies discovered, the number of heads per day, as well as the frequency of executions, would increase dramatically. He cleared his throat. Before him, men and women stood on shaking legs. Some tried to appear composed, others wept openly. Some gripped spouses and lovers, parents gripped their children. The official looked out on the crowd. “Citizens! The tumbrels await! When your name is called, proceed out and into the antechamber for preparation, and then into the carts!” Among the people, someone sobbed. His eyes went to the list he gripped before him.
“The Viscount vei Maillion" A young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a shirt and breeches, stepped from the crowd. His skin, pale with fear, matched the mass of powdered hair atop his head, the same style popular at the royal court until a few months ago.
“Lord vis Rocfocat” An older man emerged from the crowd, dressed in the typical coat of the aristocrats, his hair worn long and uncut. He would be visiting the barber’s stool before taking his place in the tumbrel.
“The Viscount vei Bolenz” A middle-aged man in everyday dress for the nobility, his powdered hair still fashionably arranged.
“Frances va Mantley. Anna and Elizibet va Colm. Felicitey va Marrinan.” A woman in her late thirties stood from one of the benches that lined the walls and approached the gate. She was accompanied by three teenage girls, two of them clearly sisters with the same blonde hair and strong features, the other red-haired. All four wore the simple dresses of the middle-classes, their head covered with frilled caps.
“The Baroness vei Pallone and children” An older woman and three teenagers, two girls and a boy, sullenly trooped up the steps. The Baroness and her daughters wore the smock-like chemise that was now being issued to all condemned women, the lady’s hair powdered and piled high, the girls’ covered by caps. Her son wore breeches, shirt and waistcoat, his hair unpowdered but still arranged as if for the royal court.
“The Duke vei Tannast” This one was elderly, his grey hair cropped short and his shirt offering no obstacle to the blade.
“The Viscount vei Erade” A man of middling years, with powdered hair and an embroidered waistcoat over his shirt. On any other day, the Justiciars’ duties would be nearly finished, but there were still many more to go. Even with so many, the prison population would be topped up by the afternoon, as at least thirty more condemned and fifty persons awaiting trial were expected to arrive.
“The Duchess vei Rishailau” The woman who mounted the steps was in her thirties, her hair worn in the poofing near-spherical style that had become popular outside the country and had reached the court a handful of years ago, her dress oddly plain for someone of her rank but still with the hips held out by panniers.
“The Duke and Duchess vei Gremalde” A couple in their fifties, walking while gripping each other in a vain attempt at comfort. Both wore powdered hair in the latest style and what for the nobility was everyday clothing.
“The Bishop of Almest” A man of at least sixty, his priests tonsure suiting the plain prisoners smock he wore. Divested of his usual embroidered robes and tall hat, he was oddly pathetic.
“The Marquis vei Pourone” About thirty, his hair already cropped short, a simple shirt and breeches covering his trembling form. Fear or the cold, who could say?
“The Count vei Beolaw and family” A man and woman in their thirties, a teenage boy held between them. Father and son wore the typical noblemen’s suit, the man with powdered hair, the boys’ cropped short. The Countess wore a simple day dress, her chestnut hair piled tall on her head.
“The Marquis vei Terreille” Forties, his hair cropped, a plain shirt worn with the collar roughly shorn off. He had to be dragged out by the guards, fighting every step of the way, protesting his innocence.
“Emille va Fontass” A young woman in her twenties, with long blond hair running down the back of her chemise. The Justiciar had seen her trial, and recalled that she was a seamstress accused of hiding both weapons and spies for the royalist forces.
“The Marquis vei Satevmos” Another man in his forties, his black hair cropped and the remainder worn up, with a plain suit reminiscent of a lawyers.
“The Marquis vei Cettaste” Yet another nobleman, middle-aged. His powdered hair and tight shirt gave him a disgustingly heroic air as he proudly stepped forward. No matter, he would likely piss himself after watching twenty-three of his fellows lose their heads.
“Diedre va Biboret” A composed woman in her forties, hair kept up by a mop cap, a simple peasants chemise covering the rest of her.
“The Duke vei Prast and family” An older man, still wearing his court suit and hair powder, shuffled towards the gate. Stumbling behind him came two teenage girls, both in chemises and with their brown hair piled up.
“The widow va Bribour” The woman must have been in her fifties, with a peasant dress and mop cap. Her husband had lost his head a few months before for slandering the Revolution. It had been no surprise when royalist materials had been found in her house. Such as shame that so many of the common people still revered their oppressors.
“Helen va Bestan and daughter” The thirty-something woman and teenage girl walked up the steps with resignation. Their chemises clung to their bodies as they moved, and their caps framed their pale, tear-streaked faces.
“Janet vei Bauherne” Another woman in her thirties, yet clearly an aristocrat, in a dress that would not have looked out of place at court and powdered hair making her a foot taller than her actual height.
“Andre va Chanone” A plain featured man of middle-class stock, easily in his forties, in shirt and cropped hair like so many others this day. It was good, seeing the traitors to the people go to their deaths without their royalist garb and pomp.
“John va Falcane” Early thirties, his hair arranged in the style of the aristocrat oppressor, yet his shirt displayed his bourgeoise origins.
“Lucy va Denmole” Yet another commoner who should have known better than to back the royalists. With chemise and cropped hair, she would meet the blade humbled before the people.
“The Viscout vei Lennite” A man of vaguely military bearing in his forties, his powdered hair the only indicator of his previous rank. His shirt and breeches were so covered in dirt that they looked more suitable for a farmer.
“The Duke vei Challas” About fifty years old, in a suit of moderate quality, his hair cut to the level of his ears. Humbled before the people, yet not enough, in the Justiciar’s opinion.
“Alan va Satjas” A young man in his twenties, hair cropped short, approached the steps to the antechamber, shivering in his shirt.
“The Duchess vei Lenoz and daughters” A woman in her forties stood along with five girls ranging in age from their teens to early twenties. All wore the typical dress of noblewomen before the Revolution, the Duchess’ hair powdered and her daughters’ arranged in the same piled style. Three of the five were red-haired, with the youngest and middle having dark brown. His duty finished, the Justiciar rolled up his list and headed to the guard room for a drink.
In the antechamber, a macabre production line took place. First a guard would seize a prisoner and force their hands behind their back while another tied their hands into position. Then, if any hair covered their neck or a collar rose too high, they would be led to a stool and a man with a pair of shears would crop the offending substance. Once satisfied, the prisoner would be forced out of the main doors and into the prison courtyard, where the tumbrels waited. Each could have held perhaps six adults comfortably, but the People’s Commission cared little for the comfort of its enemies. Up to twelve people were being herded into each cart like sheep, making for five in all. Once a cart was full, the driver would shake the reins and the tumbrel would convey the unfortunates to their fate.
Felicitey sobbed as she was pressed down onto the barbers stool and the guard roughly cut the locks of hair escaping from her cap. Her parents, along with Mr and Mrs va Colm had been arrested barely a week before and guillotined two days later. She and the va Colm sisters had been hiding with their etiquette teacher. The news had barely reached them when an informant had seen them through the window and informed the Justiciars. And now, all four of them would lose their heads. Next to her, Emille va Fontass endured similar treatment.
Annette vei Rishailau was driven forward by her fellow prisoners and the shoves of the guards. If only she had fled the country when the Revolution began, but she had thought it merely the typical peasant nonsense. Now, all that was left was to make a good show of her death. Perhaps she would ask the executioner to hold up her head for the masses. As the only prisoner wearing the ‘hedgehog’ style, it would surely be memorable.
Genivere vei Prast looked on as her stepmother was lifted onto the tumbrel. The stupid girl, barely three months older than herself, had married her arrogant fop of a father just as the Revolution was gaining power. Both had thought their lives of aristocratic privilege would continue unabated. Had they not seen that the forces of upheaval had grown into a storm worthy of one of the Great Beasts, that the world was in the process of being renewed? The worst part, Genivere thought, was that her last sight in this life could well be that wretched trollops’ face looking at her from the basket. The cart lurched forward, and the girl prepared to meet her fate with dignity.
As the carts left the prison, crowds lined the street. At the sight of the prisoners, they began to jeer and hurl abuse at the unfortunate men and women. “Long live the Revolution!” “Death to the aristocrats!” “Kill the traitors!” “Serves you right, you aristo bitch!” The occupants of the first cart huddled together, the five girls desperately trying to seek comfort from the adults around them. “Stay strong girls” Frances va Mantley declared. “Do not let them see you weep”. Henri vei Maillion stared ahead vacantly. As the first onto the cart, he would be the last to die, after having watched each of his fellows part company with their heads. But that would not happen, would it? He was too young to die. How could mere peasants drag down a line that had reigned over their squalid villages for three hundred years? Behind them, in the second cart, the Bishop of Alemest muttered prayers under his breath. “Oh mighty Orukon, rain your wrath upon them… Thalara, may your floods wash away this iniquity… Drakos, fill the loyal with your vengeance… Oh Gallos and Sanos, twins in war… Bagrank, may you tear down this city of sin… Kumatonga, may your children feast upon the unrighteous… Maliktan, sweep your plague over these heathens…”. The Countess vei Beolaw stood to his rear at the end of the cart, trembling with fear. Why was this happening to her family? Surely her husband’s criticism of the People’s Commission could not have resulted in this, how could pointing out their departure from the ideals of the Revolution be treason? She had simply nodded at his drunken declarations around the supper tables, she had not done anything. And her son was too young to die!
The third cart followed on. Emille va Fontass shook with fear. Her blond hair had been cropped to just past her chin, and the position of her pinioned hands thrust her breasts out against the fabric of her thin prisoner’s chemise. Several of the crowd waving their fists at the condemned leered at her. Next to her, the Marquis vei Satevmos encouraged her to look upon him and nothing else, so as to maintain her composure. She only hoped that the executioners would dispatch them quickly. Behind her, Diedre va Biboret was mouthing prayers to herself. All her life, she had lived by the laws, had honoured those providence had placed above the peasantry. And now, she was to lose her life, simply to telling these idiot children to stop disrupting the natural order of things? In the fourth cart Helen va Bestan huddled next to her daughter, trying to offer what comfort she could. The girl looked up at her, her heart-shaped face streaked with tears. Her dear Collete, so beautiful. Many of the local boys had looked on her with amorous eyes, and Helen had expected them to try courting her soon. But instead, they stood in a rickety cart, waiting to be hauled onto a scaffold and murdered in a most gruesome manner. From her position in the rearmost cart Sara vei Lenoz watched the crowd, attempting to dodge the mud and fruit being thrown at she and her fellow prisoners. Her mother was trying to get her family organised into some sort of order. Cecile, the youngest of her daughters, would likely go first, to spare her the horror of watching her family’s heads fall. Would those heads be displayed to the crowd? Sara expected that she and her older sister Emelia would most likely be abused in such fashion, as the most beautiful of the Lenoz sisters.
And then there it was before them: Matron Guillotine. Standing on a platform six-foot above the ground, its two uprights towered over the assembled crowd. They seethed around the scaffold, at least two hundred unwashed peasants. If not for the soldiers of the People’s Guard, they would likely have leapt upon the carts and torn the occupants apart in their impatience. Seeing the approach of the tumbrels, the executioner and his assistants got to work. The blade was hoisted up to the top of the twin posts and the lever slotted into position. One assistant carried a large rectangular basket up the stairs and placed it directly in front of the lunette, now opened to accommodate the first victim of the day. The bascule was brought upright, and the leather straps tested to ensure they could hold a struggling person. As the tumbrels approached, the occupants of the first cart could not help but see the large cart drawn up alongside the left-hand side of the scaffold, and the ten or so baskets and bundles of straw on the ground near the right-hand side. Their bodies would go one way, their heads another, a dozen per cartload and five in each basket.
In a world much like Earth’s 17th and 18th centuries, it is a time of political upheaval, of republican uprisings and monarchist restoration, of sham democracy and the dictatorship of the mob. These are the stories of those who fall foul of those mobs and the revolutionary spirit of denunciation that drives them.
Bestalle Prison, the former Kingdom of Ghastione, now the Peasant Republic of Ghastione, year 1685 PA.
It was midmorning when the official entered the condemned cell. Standing at the top of the steps leading into the vault-like space. Sunlight streamed into the near-cavern, as several prisoners stood to await the call of their names. As always, perhaps two hundred were crowded into the cells, a mix of nobles deposed by the new Revolutionary government, middle class men and women suspected of supporting the royalist cause or otherwise taking advantage of the people, and peasants who unfortunate enough to fall foul of the People’s Commission. Some had been taken weeks ago, charged and found guilty within a day, and thus had had time to prepare themselves for death. They were dressed in the customary collarless shirt or chemise smock, their hair cropped short for the blade. Others had been brought here only a few days past, still wearing the clothes in which they had been arrested. For them, only the hasty removal of any obstructing material around their collars and the putting up of hair had been possible. The official, a Justiciar of the Republican Police, sneered at them. There had been organised uprisings against the state before, both in Ghastione and neighbouring countries, some of which had even succeeded in taking control of the government for a few short years. The Seven Years Revolt of 1436, the 1550 Nichtargen Revolution. But in the end, the forces of tyranny and absolutism returned and the oppression of the people began anew. This time would be different, they had the army, the borders were secure, the Secret Police had defected and even now rooted out anti-revolutionists, and they had Matron Guillotine. A far cry from the crude ‘falling axe’ that had claimed the heads of the Divine Emperor of Nichtargen and his court, this efficient machine could manage hundreds of executions a day if needed. And if todays ‘case load’ became the norm, it may have to. The power of the masses would sweep away the old order like the advance of the Great Beasts, ushering in a new age of Liberty, Justice, and Comradeship.
The jailer stood from his desk by the iron gate that led into the cell. “How many today, Justiciar?”. The official turned to him. “Forty-five, good sir. The People’s Commission gives Matron Guillotine extra fodder today”. It was true. Previously only fifteen to twenty-four people, a mere two or three carts worth of prisoners, had met the blade every third day or so. But with the latest series of arrests and new conspiracies discovered, the number of heads per day, as well as the frequency of executions, would increase dramatically. He cleared his throat. Before him, men and women stood on shaking legs. Some tried to appear composed, others wept openly. Some gripped spouses and lovers, parents gripped their children. The official looked out on the crowd. “Citizens! The tumbrels await! When your name is called, proceed out and into the antechamber for preparation, and then into the carts!” Among the people, someone sobbed. His eyes went to the list he gripped before him.
“The Viscount vei Maillion" A young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a shirt and breeches, stepped from the crowd. His skin, pale with fear, matched the mass of powdered hair atop his head, the same style popular at the royal court until a few months ago.
“Lord vis Rocfocat” An older man emerged from the crowd, dressed in the typical coat of the aristocrats, his hair worn long and uncut. He would be visiting the barber’s stool before taking his place in the tumbrel.
“The Viscount vei Bolenz” A middle-aged man in everyday dress for the nobility, his powdered hair still fashionably arranged.
“Frances va Mantley. Anna and Elizibet va Colm. Felicitey va Marrinan.” A woman in her late thirties stood from one of the benches that lined the walls and approached the gate. She was accompanied by three teenage girls, two of them clearly sisters with the same blonde hair and strong features, the other red-haired. All four wore the simple dresses of the middle-classes, their head covered with frilled caps.
“The Baroness vei Pallone and children” An older woman and three teenagers, two girls and a boy, sullenly trooped up the steps. The Baroness and her daughters wore the smock-like chemise that was now being issued to all condemned women, the lady’s hair powdered and piled high, the girls’ covered by caps. Her son wore breeches, shirt and waistcoat, his hair unpowdered but still arranged as if for the royal court.
“The Duke vei Tannast” This one was elderly, his grey hair cropped short and his shirt offering no obstacle to the blade.
“The Viscount vei Erade” A man of middling years, with powdered hair and an embroidered waistcoat over his shirt. On any other day, the Justiciars’ duties would be nearly finished, but there were still many more to go. Even with so many, the prison population would be topped up by the afternoon, as at least thirty more condemned and fifty persons awaiting trial were expected to arrive.
“The Duchess vei Rishailau” The woman who mounted the steps was in her thirties, her hair worn in the poofing near-spherical style that had become popular outside the country and had reached the court a handful of years ago, her dress oddly plain for someone of her rank but still with the hips held out by panniers.
“The Duke and Duchess vei Gremalde” A couple in their fifties, walking while gripping each other in a vain attempt at comfort. Both wore powdered hair in the latest style and what for the nobility was everyday clothing.
“The Bishop of Almest” A man of at least sixty, his priests tonsure suiting the plain prisoners smock he wore. Divested of his usual embroidered robes and tall hat, he was oddly pathetic.
“The Marquis vei Pourone” About thirty, his hair already cropped short, a simple shirt and breeches covering his trembling form. Fear or the cold, who could say?
“The Count vei Beolaw and family” A man and woman in their thirties, a teenage boy held between them. Father and son wore the typical noblemen’s suit, the man with powdered hair, the boys’ cropped short. The Countess wore a simple day dress, her chestnut hair piled tall on her head.
“The Marquis vei Terreille” Forties, his hair cropped, a plain shirt worn with the collar roughly shorn off. He had to be dragged out by the guards, fighting every step of the way, protesting his innocence.
“Emille va Fontass” A young woman in her twenties, with long blond hair running down the back of her chemise. The Justiciar had seen her trial, and recalled that she was a seamstress accused of hiding both weapons and spies for the royalist forces.
“The Marquis vei Satevmos” Another man in his forties, his black hair cropped and the remainder worn up, with a plain suit reminiscent of a lawyers.
“The Marquis vei Cettaste” Yet another nobleman, middle-aged. His powdered hair and tight shirt gave him a disgustingly heroic air as he proudly stepped forward. No matter, he would likely piss himself after watching twenty-three of his fellows lose their heads.
“Diedre va Biboret” A composed woman in her forties, hair kept up by a mop cap, a simple peasants chemise covering the rest of her.
“The Duke vei Prast and family” An older man, still wearing his court suit and hair powder, shuffled towards the gate. Stumbling behind him came two teenage girls, both in chemises and with their brown hair piled up.
“The widow va Bribour” The woman must have been in her fifties, with a peasant dress and mop cap. Her husband had lost his head a few months before for slandering the Revolution. It had been no surprise when royalist materials had been found in her house. Such as shame that so many of the common people still revered their oppressors.
“Helen va Bestan and daughter” The thirty-something woman and teenage girl walked up the steps with resignation. Their chemises clung to their bodies as they moved, and their caps framed their pale, tear-streaked faces.
“Janet vei Bauherne” Another woman in her thirties, yet clearly an aristocrat, in a dress that would not have looked out of place at court and powdered hair making her a foot taller than her actual height.
“Andre va Chanone” A plain featured man of middle-class stock, easily in his forties, in shirt and cropped hair like so many others this day. It was good, seeing the traitors to the people go to their deaths without their royalist garb and pomp.
“John va Falcane” Early thirties, his hair arranged in the style of the aristocrat oppressor, yet his shirt displayed his bourgeoise origins.
“Lucy va Denmole” Yet another commoner who should have known better than to back the royalists. With chemise and cropped hair, she would meet the blade humbled before the people.
“The Viscout vei Lennite” A man of vaguely military bearing in his forties, his powdered hair the only indicator of his previous rank. His shirt and breeches were so covered in dirt that they looked more suitable for a farmer.
“The Duke vei Challas” About fifty years old, in a suit of moderate quality, his hair cut to the level of his ears. Humbled before the people, yet not enough, in the Justiciar’s opinion.
“Alan va Satjas” A young man in his twenties, hair cropped short, approached the steps to the antechamber, shivering in his shirt.
“The Duchess vei Lenoz and daughters” A woman in her forties stood along with five girls ranging in age from their teens to early twenties. All wore the typical dress of noblewomen before the Revolution, the Duchess’ hair powdered and her daughters’ arranged in the same piled style. Three of the five were red-haired, with the youngest and middle having dark brown. His duty finished, the Justiciar rolled up his list and headed to the guard room for a drink.
In the antechamber, a macabre production line took place. First a guard would seize a prisoner and force their hands behind their back while another tied their hands into position. Then, if any hair covered their neck or a collar rose too high, they would be led to a stool and a man with a pair of shears would crop the offending substance. Once satisfied, the prisoner would be forced out of the main doors and into the prison courtyard, where the tumbrels waited. Each could have held perhaps six adults comfortably, but the People’s Commission cared little for the comfort of its enemies. Up to twelve people were being herded into each cart like sheep, making for five in all. Once a cart was full, the driver would shake the reins and the tumbrel would convey the unfortunates to their fate.
Felicitey sobbed as she was pressed down onto the barbers stool and the guard roughly cut the locks of hair escaping from her cap. Her parents, along with Mr and Mrs va Colm had been arrested barely a week before and guillotined two days later. She and the va Colm sisters had been hiding with their etiquette teacher. The news had barely reached them when an informant had seen them through the window and informed the Justiciars. And now, all four of them would lose their heads. Next to her, Emille va Fontass endured similar treatment.
Annette vei Rishailau was driven forward by her fellow prisoners and the shoves of the guards. If only she had fled the country when the Revolution began, but she had thought it merely the typical peasant nonsense. Now, all that was left was to make a good show of her death. Perhaps she would ask the executioner to hold up her head for the masses. As the only prisoner wearing the ‘hedgehog’ style, it would surely be memorable.
Genivere vei Prast looked on as her stepmother was lifted onto the tumbrel. The stupid girl, barely three months older than herself, had married her arrogant fop of a father just as the Revolution was gaining power. Both had thought their lives of aristocratic privilege would continue unabated. Had they not seen that the forces of upheaval had grown into a storm worthy of one of the Great Beasts, that the world was in the process of being renewed? The worst part, Genivere thought, was that her last sight in this life could well be that wretched trollops’ face looking at her from the basket. The cart lurched forward, and the girl prepared to meet her fate with dignity.
As the carts left the prison, crowds lined the street. At the sight of the prisoners, they began to jeer and hurl abuse at the unfortunate men and women. “Long live the Revolution!” “Death to the aristocrats!” “Kill the traitors!” “Serves you right, you aristo bitch!” The occupants of the first cart huddled together, the five girls desperately trying to seek comfort from the adults around them. “Stay strong girls” Frances va Mantley declared. “Do not let them see you weep”. Henri vei Maillion stared ahead vacantly. As the first onto the cart, he would be the last to die, after having watched each of his fellows part company with their heads. But that would not happen, would it? He was too young to die. How could mere peasants drag down a line that had reigned over their squalid villages for three hundred years? Behind them, in the second cart, the Bishop of Alemest muttered prayers under his breath. “Oh mighty Orukon, rain your wrath upon them… Thalara, may your floods wash away this iniquity… Drakos, fill the loyal with your vengeance… Oh Gallos and Sanos, twins in war… Bagrank, may you tear down this city of sin… Kumatonga, may your children feast upon the unrighteous… Maliktan, sweep your plague over these heathens…”. The Countess vei Beolaw stood to his rear at the end of the cart, trembling with fear. Why was this happening to her family? Surely her husband’s criticism of the People’s Commission could not have resulted in this, how could pointing out their departure from the ideals of the Revolution be treason? She had simply nodded at his drunken declarations around the supper tables, she had not done anything. And her son was too young to die!
The third cart followed on. Emille va Fontass shook with fear. Her blond hair had been cropped to just past her chin, and the position of her pinioned hands thrust her breasts out against the fabric of her thin prisoner’s chemise. Several of the crowd waving their fists at the condemned leered at her. Next to her, the Marquis vei Satevmos encouraged her to look upon him and nothing else, so as to maintain her composure. She only hoped that the executioners would dispatch them quickly. Behind her, Diedre va Biboret was mouthing prayers to herself. All her life, she had lived by the laws, had honoured those providence had placed above the peasantry. And now, she was to lose her life, simply to telling these idiot children to stop disrupting the natural order of things? In the fourth cart Helen va Bestan huddled next to her daughter, trying to offer what comfort she could. The girl looked up at her, her heart-shaped face streaked with tears. Her dear Collete, so beautiful. Many of the local boys had looked on her with amorous eyes, and Helen had expected them to try courting her soon. But instead, they stood in a rickety cart, waiting to be hauled onto a scaffold and murdered in a most gruesome manner. From her position in the rearmost cart Sara vei Lenoz watched the crowd, attempting to dodge the mud and fruit being thrown at she and her fellow prisoners. Her mother was trying to get her family organised into some sort of order. Cecile, the youngest of her daughters, would likely go first, to spare her the horror of watching her family’s heads fall. Would those heads be displayed to the crowd? Sara expected that she and her older sister Emelia would most likely be abused in such fashion, as the most beautiful of the Lenoz sisters.
And then there it was before them: Matron Guillotine. Standing on a platform six-foot above the ground, its two uprights towered over the assembled crowd. They seethed around the scaffold, at least two hundred unwashed peasants. If not for the soldiers of the People’s Guard, they would likely have leapt upon the carts and torn the occupants apart in their impatience. Seeing the approach of the tumbrels, the executioner and his assistants got to work. The blade was hoisted up to the top of the twin posts and the lever slotted into position. One assistant carried a large rectangular basket up the stairs and placed it directly in front of the lunette, now opened to accommodate the first victim of the day. The bascule was brought upright, and the leather straps tested to ensure they could hold a struggling person. As the tumbrels approached, the occupants of the first cart could not help but see the large cart drawn up alongside the left-hand side of the scaffold, and the ten or so baskets and bundles of straw on the ground near the right-hand side. Their bodies would go one way, their heads another, a dozen per cartload and five in each basket.
The first cart came to a stop at the foot of the scaffold, and four of the soldiers standing guard stepped forward to unload it. The Baroness vei Pallone and her daughters were first off the cart, her son and the Viscount vei Bolenz following close behind. The soldiers immediately seized the Baroness and pushed her up the steps that led up to the guillotine, where the executioners’ assistants took hold of her shoulders. Below, her children wept. Marching her forwards, the assistants brought the Baroness to the upright bascule and began fastening the straps. The lengths of leather went across her shoulders and waist, securing the noblewoman in place. She gave a cry of alarm as the assistants tilted the bascule down, laying her flat in front of the lunette. With a push, they slid the Baroness forward until her coifed head protruded from the hole in the open brace. The executioner slammed the top half down, securing the Baroness’ head in place. The crowd waited with bated breath as the doomed woman muttered prayers under her breath, her grey-white hair bobbing as her lips moved. The executioner pulled the lever and the blade fell. In a burst of red, the Baroness’ head dropped into the basket, leaving the blade splashed with crimson. On the bascule, her lower body convulsed, rising up before dropping back down. The hands twitched spasmodically before relaxing. A small amount of blood leaked from the back of the lunette, staining the corpses’ chemise. The executioner reached into the basket, and withdrew the Baroness’ severed head, gripping the powdered hair in his fist. “Death to the traitors!” he cried. As the crowd cheered the first of the days’ executions, he showed his grisly trophy to the three sides of the scaffold. The Baroness’ face was slack, her eyes closed. With a dismissive gesture, he dropped the head back in the basket, while his assistants undid the straps and carried the body to the waiting wagon, tossing it in as they would a bundle of laundry.
Below, the Baroness’ youngest daughter Paulene collapsed at the sight of the blade falling and her mothers’ body being deposited in the cart. A guard pulled the sobbing girl to her feet and dragged her to the stairs, where she was seized by the assistants. Stumbling forward, she was strapped to the bascule, tears streaming from her face. The assistants brought the bascule to vertical, sliding it forward until Paulene was looking down at the basket containing her mothers’ head. With a pull of the lever, the blade fell. The mop-capped head leapt down and out into the basket, as the girl’s rear half leapt up as far as the straps would allow. Her hands, though bound, clawed at the air, before going slack. The assistants drew back the bascule, allowing a stream of blood to splash back against the lunette. The executioner reached down, and, placing his fingers under the cap and into the hair beneath, lifted the head up for the crowd to see. Paulenes’ face was perfectly still, tear tracks marking her cheeks. Her eyes were slightly open, her mouth clenched shut. After the cries of revolutionary fervour died down, the head was dropped back in the basket, and a second body was added to the cart.
The eldest daughter, Benice, ascended the steps. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the blood of her mother and sister staining the lunette, and the trail leading to the body cart. Steeling herself, she marched forward with as much dignity as her bound hands and virtually peasant-like dress would allow. On the straps went around her shoulders and waist. The bascule tilted, the lunette closed. Looking down at the basket in which two severed heads already lay, one might have expected Benice to scream and cry, had her eyes not been closed. The blade fell for a third time and more blood leaked out the back of the lunette. To the crowd, Benices’ head had simply dropped straight down, the back of her mop cap know spotted with red. The girls’ hands clenched into fists, her legs bent upwards before dropping back. As her head was lifted from the basket, the executioner noticed that her face was perfectly calm. The crowds’ reaction was more subdued, they preferred it when the traitors screamed and wailed, and when the expressions on their severed heads were less… dignified.
Armand vei Pallone followed his sister to the scaffold. He climbed the steps, the blade fell, his legs kicked, the crowd roared. Once his remains had been disposed of, the Viscount vei Bolenz was next, his legs kicking upwards as the blade sheared off his head. After brandishing his powdered head, the executioner tossed it back in the basket and his assistants moved it to the side. They replaced it with an empty basket, and the guillotine was prepared for its’ next victim.
It was Frances va Mantley who ascended the steps, the thicker peach and cream dress she wore, with its small panniers and multiple layers, hindering her movements more than the chemises of the first three women. The cut of the bodice exaggerated her breasts, pushing them up. With a shove, she was pressed to the wood of the bascule, compressing her cleavage as the straps went across. The assistants tilted Frances forward, and slid it forward until her lace-capped head was enclosed by the lunette. She looked out at the baying crowd, crying out for blood, and thought of her charges. Those poor girls’ parents had entrusted her to teach their daughters how to be young ladies. They had done nothing against the Republic, but their adherence to the ‘aristocrat’ affectations of polite society had earned them all death sentences. And now, all she could do was give one final lesson, and show the girls an example of how to die well. A yank of the lever, and the blade whistled down. Frances’ head fell like a stone as her feet kicked upward. More blood trickled from between the lunette and the blade. Gripping the head by its chestnut hair, the linen cap now slightly loose, the executioner paraded it around the scaffold. The dead woman had given her charges an example of dignified death, in her comportment, but her final expression left something to be desired. For while her face was mostly calm, the very tip of her tongue protruded from her lips.
The first of Frances’ charges to follow her to the guillotine was Anna va Colm. The young woman had stepped forward the moment she saw the blade fall on Mrs va Mantley, both to avoid the disgrace of being dragged to the bascule and to spare herself the sight of Elizibet dying first. Pressed to the bascule, her tender young breasts flattened against the wood, she prayed that her death would be quick. As the strap went across her waist, it caused the fabric of her pink day-dress to bunch up around her hips. The lunette was closed, and the lever pulled. The blade struck and Annas’ head leapt into the basket. Her legs spastically jerked up at the knees, before thumping back down. The head was lifted up and shown to the crowd, who took a morbid delight in the slack expression on her face. Annas’ eyes were still halfway open, her mouth hanging slack with her tongue partially out. Blood covered part of her cap, as well as a handful of blonde curls that had escaped from its confines. It was returned to the basket, and the headless body of Anna va Colm was tossed into the waiting cart.
Once her sister had been shortened by a head, Elizibet mounted the scaffold. In a state of dazed whimpering, she barely responded to the assistants as they strapped her to the bascule. A near mirror copy of her older sister, save for her straighter hair and blue dress, Elizibet only snapped out of her catatonia once she was staring down at the two heads that already occupied the basket directly beneath her face. Whimpering and mumbling, she seemed on the brink of bursting into tears. The executioner, in an unexpected moment of pity, pulled the lever before Elizibet could disgrace herself in that manner. The blade sheared off her head instantly, and another gush of blood soaked into the boards of the scaffold. Her body convulsed as the blade hit, jerking in several directions as once, her hands flapping like bird wings. The crowd cheered particularly loud as the head was held up, her teeth clenched and eyes wide and staring. As the body was unstrapped and carried to the body cart, one of the assistants saw that the girls bladder had emptied as her head fell, a large damp spot covering the front of her skirt.
Felicitey looked on as Lord vis Rocfocat climbed the scaffold, struggling against the assistants’ grip on his coat. She watched as the blade fell and the stockinged legs kicked up into view for a few seconds. It was time. Her parents and friends lay dead, her life was over, all that remained for her head to be parted from her body. Two of the guards took hold of the collar of her yellow dress and hauled her forward to the scaffold. Climbing the steps with her hands tied behind her back was difficult, but the rough hands of the executioners’ assistants dragged Felicitey up onto the platform. On went the straps, the bascule tilted forward, and there she was looking down at the heads of her friends. Anna and Elizibet looked terrified, while Mrs Frances appeared to be almost sleeping. Would it hurt, would she fe… The blade crashed down and her head dropped, lying in the basket with her eyes pointed at the red stump of Frances’ head. Her body twitched slightly as her head fell, but otherwise lay still. As the last of the blood trickled from the lunette, the executioner reached into the basket and took hold of what hair showed outside the confines of the lace cap. Her pretty young face had a look of surprised sleepiness, her eyes partially open, her lips parted. The Viscount vei Maillion was mounting the steps as Feliciteys’ head was held up for the roading crowd. At the sight, he stumbled, further disordering his high, powdered hair. The assistants hauled him back to his feet, and in less than a minute, another head joined the four women in the basket.
Below, the Baroness’ youngest daughter Paulene collapsed at the sight of the blade falling and her mothers’ body being deposited in the cart. A guard pulled the sobbing girl to her feet and dragged her to the stairs, where she was seized by the assistants. Stumbling forward, she was strapped to the bascule, tears streaming from her face. The assistants brought the bascule to vertical, sliding it forward until Paulene was looking down at the basket containing her mothers’ head. With a pull of the lever, the blade fell. The mop-capped head leapt down and out into the basket, as the girl’s rear half leapt up as far as the straps would allow. Her hands, though bound, clawed at the air, before going slack. The assistants drew back the bascule, allowing a stream of blood to splash back against the lunette. The executioner reached down, and, placing his fingers under the cap and into the hair beneath, lifted the head up for the crowd to see. Paulenes’ face was perfectly still, tear tracks marking her cheeks. Her eyes were slightly open, her mouth clenched shut. After the cries of revolutionary fervour died down, the head was dropped back in the basket, and a second body was added to the cart.
The eldest daughter, Benice, ascended the steps. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the blood of her mother and sister staining the lunette, and the trail leading to the body cart. Steeling herself, she marched forward with as much dignity as her bound hands and virtually peasant-like dress would allow. On the straps went around her shoulders and waist. The bascule tilted, the lunette closed. Looking down at the basket in which two severed heads already lay, one might have expected Benice to scream and cry, had her eyes not been closed. The blade fell for a third time and more blood leaked out the back of the lunette. To the crowd, Benices’ head had simply dropped straight down, the back of her mop cap know spotted with red. The girls’ hands clenched into fists, her legs bent upwards before dropping back. As her head was lifted from the basket, the executioner noticed that her face was perfectly calm. The crowds’ reaction was more subdued, they preferred it when the traitors screamed and wailed, and when the expressions on their severed heads were less… dignified.
Armand vei Pallone followed his sister to the scaffold. He climbed the steps, the blade fell, his legs kicked, the crowd roared. Once his remains had been disposed of, the Viscount vei Bolenz was next, his legs kicking upwards as the blade sheared off his head. After brandishing his powdered head, the executioner tossed it back in the basket and his assistants moved it to the side. They replaced it with an empty basket, and the guillotine was prepared for its’ next victim.
It was Frances va Mantley who ascended the steps, the thicker peach and cream dress she wore, with its small panniers and multiple layers, hindering her movements more than the chemises of the first three women. The cut of the bodice exaggerated her breasts, pushing them up. With a shove, she was pressed to the wood of the bascule, compressing her cleavage as the straps went across. The assistants tilted Frances forward, and slid it forward until her lace-capped head was enclosed by the lunette. She looked out at the baying crowd, crying out for blood, and thought of her charges. Those poor girls’ parents had entrusted her to teach their daughters how to be young ladies. They had done nothing against the Republic, but their adherence to the ‘aristocrat’ affectations of polite society had earned them all death sentences. And now, all she could do was give one final lesson, and show the girls an example of how to die well. A yank of the lever, and the blade whistled down. Frances’ head fell like a stone as her feet kicked upward. More blood trickled from between the lunette and the blade. Gripping the head by its chestnut hair, the linen cap now slightly loose, the executioner paraded it around the scaffold. The dead woman had given her charges an example of dignified death, in her comportment, but her final expression left something to be desired. For while her face was mostly calm, the very tip of her tongue protruded from her lips.
The first of Frances’ charges to follow her to the guillotine was Anna va Colm. The young woman had stepped forward the moment she saw the blade fall on Mrs va Mantley, both to avoid the disgrace of being dragged to the bascule and to spare herself the sight of Elizibet dying first. Pressed to the bascule, her tender young breasts flattened against the wood, she prayed that her death would be quick. As the strap went across her waist, it caused the fabric of her pink day-dress to bunch up around her hips. The lunette was closed, and the lever pulled. The blade struck and Annas’ head leapt into the basket. Her legs spastically jerked up at the knees, before thumping back down. The head was lifted up and shown to the crowd, who took a morbid delight in the slack expression on her face. Annas’ eyes were still halfway open, her mouth hanging slack with her tongue partially out. Blood covered part of her cap, as well as a handful of blonde curls that had escaped from its confines. It was returned to the basket, and the headless body of Anna va Colm was tossed into the waiting cart.
Once her sister had been shortened by a head, Elizibet mounted the scaffold. In a state of dazed whimpering, she barely responded to the assistants as they strapped her to the bascule. A near mirror copy of her older sister, save for her straighter hair and blue dress, Elizibet only snapped out of her catatonia once she was staring down at the two heads that already occupied the basket directly beneath her face. Whimpering and mumbling, she seemed on the brink of bursting into tears. The executioner, in an unexpected moment of pity, pulled the lever before Elizibet could disgrace herself in that manner. The blade sheared off her head instantly, and another gush of blood soaked into the boards of the scaffold. Her body convulsed as the blade hit, jerking in several directions as once, her hands flapping like bird wings. The crowd cheered particularly loud as the head was held up, her teeth clenched and eyes wide and staring. As the body was unstrapped and carried to the body cart, one of the assistants saw that the girls bladder had emptied as her head fell, a large damp spot covering the front of her skirt.
Felicitey looked on as Lord vis Rocfocat climbed the scaffold, struggling against the assistants’ grip on his coat. She watched as the blade fell and the stockinged legs kicked up into view for a few seconds. It was time. Her parents and friends lay dead, her life was over, all that remained for her head to be parted from her body. Two of the guards took hold of the collar of her yellow dress and hauled her forward to the scaffold. Climbing the steps with her hands tied behind her back was difficult, but the rough hands of the executioners’ assistants dragged Felicitey up onto the platform. On went the straps, the bascule tilted forward, and there she was looking down at the heads of her friends. Anna and Elizibet looked terrified, while Mrs Frances appeared to be almost sleeping. Would it hurt, would she fe… The blade crashed down and her head dropped, lying in the basket with her eyes pointed at the red stump of Frances’ head. Her body twitched slightly as her head fell, but otherwise lay still. As the last of the blood trickled from the lunette, the executioner reached into the basket and took hold of what hair showed outside the confines of the lace cap. Her pretty young face had a look of surprised sleepiness, her eyes partially open, her lips parted. The Viscount vei Maillion was mounting the steps as Feliciteys’ head was held up for the roading crowd. At the sight, he stumbled, further disordering his high, powdered hair. The assistants hauled him back to his feet, and in less than a minute, another head joined the four women in the basket.
And so the executions begin...
I like how you've given a peek into some of the victims' personalities and backstories, making the efficiency of the guillotine all the more haunting.
I wonder how Helen and her daughter Collette will fare when their turn comes.
I like how you've given a peek into some of the victims' personalities and backstories, making the efficiency of the guillotine all the more haunting.
I wonder how Helen and her daughter Collette will fare when their turn comes.
Wonderful again! It would be nice some pictures, but it's already perfect :-)
The second cart had arrived just in time to see Elizibets’ head being shown to the crowd, and to watch as the final three victims from the first cart mounted the scaffold and lost their heads. The guards were turning their focus to this latest batch of traitors even as the Viscount vei Maillion was being strapped to the bascule. The Count vei Beolaw followed him up the steps, grimacing in horror at the blood already pooling around the death dealing machine. His fellow prisoners watched as he was strapped into place, tilted forward, and beheaded. His son was next, barely holding back tears as the blade fell. Finally, the Countess vei Beolaw mounted the scaffold. The blade, already wet with the blood of her husband and son, loomed menacingly above her. The assistants pressed her to the bascule, and tightened the straps across her body. How had it come to this? Her family had done nothing to harm the revolution, simply because they had not given it their wholehearted support did not make them traitors. In one smooth motion, the bascule was moved into position, leaving the Countess’ head, with its pile of brown hair, sticking from the lunette, looking down at the basket that already held seven heads. Ordinarily, the assistants would have replaced the basket after the Viscount vei Maillion, but the small size of the heads belonging to the va Colm sisters and Miss va Marrinan meant that there was plenty of room left. The Countess was beginning to whimper at the sight of her families’ heads, when the blade fell. Her head tumbled into the basket, landing with a dull thump, while her legs violently bent at the knees before dropping. A tug of the bascule, the splash of blood against the lunette, and then the headless body was tossed into the cart. With a snap of the reins, the driver moved on, carrying his cargo of fourteen bodies to the mass graves outside the city. Meanwhile, the executioner gripped the Countess’ piled hair and raised the severed head before the crowd. Her eyes still moved, flicking around in their sockets, before rolling up as the lids drooped. Her lips, however, remained pressed together throughout. With a toss, the bodiless cranium was deposited back in the now full basket, which was then removed and placed beneath the scaffold.
One the basket had been replaced, the Marquis vei Pourone was pushed up the steps and put beneath the blade. Once his head was off, it was discovered that his hair had been cropped too short to offer a good grip. With a shrug, the executioner directed his assistants to place the body in the newly arrived body cart, before turning his attention to the next prisoner. The Duchess vei Gremalde sullenly climbed the steps, her powdered hair expensive dress making her former rank clear. Fear filled her eyes. How had the peasants done this to her? They were lower than dirt, vulgar people who grubbed for food in the fields. Her ancestors had been elevated to power by providence and the Will of the Great Beasts when they renewed the world four-hundred years ago, how could they be overthrown? She closed her eyes and bit her lips to avoid weeping as she was pressed to the bascule. The straps tightened, the bascule tilted, the lunette closed, and the blade fell. The Duchess’ head shot forward and down, her body going ridged while her hands spasmed. As the assistants removed the body, the head was shown to the howling mob. The Duchess’ eyes and mouth were still closed, blood trickling from the stump. The executioner noticed that the edges of the cut flesh were ragged, likely the result of the blade not being changed for the last few ‘case-loads’ of prisoners.
Annette, Duchess vei Rishailau, looked on as the Duke vei Gremalde followed his wife to the guillotine. The blade fell, yet another headless body was tossed into the corpse cart, and a noble line dating back four centuries was reduced to two grown sons and three granddaughters who would be rounded up within a year. The Bishop of Almest was next, screaming curses and damnation at the guards, the crowd, and the world as a whole as he was dragged up the stairs. He was consigning the entire People’s Republic to Godjras’ divine fire and Royvas’ burning whirlwind when the blade dropped, cutting off his words along with his head. A guard grabbed Annette by the arm and hustled her towards the scaffold. Once she had climbed the steps, the assistants dragged her forward until she was standing before the raised bascule, her breasts pressed flat against the wood. Abruptly, she fell forward and was pushed forward. The bushy, near spherical shape of her hair hindered the movement a little, catching on the uprights and upper half of the lunette, but almost immediately Annette was looking down into the basket. The prisoners who had preceded her looked half stunned, half asleep. Would it hurt when the blade fell? Steeling her nerve, the Duchess vei Rishailau raised her head as far as possible and, speaking as clearly as her fear would allow, declared: “Hold my head high, good sir, t’will be worth a sight.” The lever was pulled and a torrent of blood doused the lunette. Her head dropped like a stone as her body went rigid, every limb locking into place like a soldier at attention. As the executioner lifted up the severed head, he noted that the pale face, with its wide staring eyes and slack expression, surrounded by a circle of brown hair and smeared with crimson at the bottom, did indeed make quite the sight.
The Duke vei Tannast stumbled up to the guillotine, mouthing prayers that ended abruptly as his head was cut off. The basket, now full, was swiftly replaced. Following the elderly duke was the Viscount vei Erade, meeting his death with a quiet dignity most aristocrats had not managed in the past few weeks. Best not to show his head, the executioner thought. Traitors to the people were supposed to meet their fates whimpering in fear, crying over their lost prestige, not calmly and dignified, without so much as a tremor from the truncated torso. Still, this latest head had the same ragged edges to its stump as the last few victims. Calling his assistants forward, he took advantage of the lull to undo the bolts securing blade to weight. Placing it under the scaffold, the assistants produced a new blade and screwed in the bolts just as the Duchess vei Prast was dragged from the third cart, which had arrived just as the Viscount vei Erade was being tossed into the corpse cart.
Susanne vei Prast screamed as the filthy peasants hauled her up the steps. Why was this happening to her? She had been a good girl, she’d only had the servants flogged when they’d not done their duties properly, she’d given the temple money to pray for the souls of the vulgar classes. Had she not suffered enough. Her parents had married her to the smelly old Duke, and her smug stepdaughter had refused to talk about the latest fashions or gossip like a normal woman. She didn’t even gamble! With a sudden shock, Susanne realised the peasants were strapping her to the bascule. Oh by the Golden One, they were going to cut off her head! She fell forward and before she knew it, she was looking down at a wicker basket filled with...were those heads? Their faces were horrifying, and the blood, oh… The blade dropped and the crowd saw her head, with its piled brown hair, drop into the basket as yet more red splattered the scaffold. Her shortened body shuddered as her leg kicked up slightly, less so than most that day. The executioner took hold of the hair and lifted it from the basket. He noted that despite the fall, the hair was still coifed and styled in a manner suited for the court. Say what you will, the aristocratic styles required little maintenance. The young woman’s face still twitched, her eyelids flickering and lips twitching as if she was whispering under her breath. A few seconds later the eyes finally closed and the mouth dropped open. With a grunt of effort, the assistants dumped Susanne’s’ decapitated corpse into the cart. The crowd roared their approval, as yet another aristo bitch paid the price for her inhumanity.
Genivere vei Prast watched her father climb the steps, his characteristic swagger still present even after all that he had lost. By all the Great Beasts, he had just seen the girl he’d been ploughing for the last five months lose her head, how could he still act like king? Then Genivere heard her fathers’ voice over the screams of the crowd, pleading for mercy. “No, no, please, I don’t want to die!” The thud of the blade snipping through his neck ended his cries. A guard seized her and she was pulled up the steps. This was it, her life had come to an end. Despite her progressive ideas, despite her distaste for the excesses of the noble class, the people had decreed her death. As the straps went across her back, Genivere realised that, had she been given a choice, she would have fled the second the People’s Commission took power. The mob was always going to destroy the noble classes, there was never going to be any peaceful reform. As her head was pushed through the lunette, she kept her eyes facing forward, looking out at the seething mass of peasants. By the Golden One, they really did stink, didn’t they? The executioner pulled the lever, and Genivere vei Prast parted company with her head, legs kicking upwards. Blood gushed from the stump of her neck, staining the lunette. Reaching into the basket, the executioner brandished the head as he marched across the scaffold. The girls’ eyes stared sightlessly, her lips pressed tight.
The guards took hold of the Marquis vei Cerraste and shoved him up the stairs. Standing atop the scaffold, he tried to make some sort of rousing speech about fate and nobility, but was drowned out by the shouts of the crowd. A few seconds later, his body convulsed as his head joined the vei Prasts in the basket, which was taken away and placed under the scaffold with those containing the heads of the previous victims. His cousin, the Marquis vei Terreile, collapsed to the ground, sobbing like a girl. As he was dragged onto the scaffold, he begged for them to let him go. They did not. From her position at the foot of the steps, Diedre va Biboret could only shake her head. One nobleman had been heckled and his dignity demeaned, the other had lost it through his own actions. Where these the elevated personages she had spent her life revering? Hands seized her collar, and she was pulled on to the scaffold. As the assistants tied her to the bascule, she mumbled the words to a song. Something from when she was a child, and the world was so much simpler. A sudden tilt forward, wood passing in front of her face, and she was looking out over the crowd. The blade dropped and her mob-capped head fell into the basket. Blood splattered against the metal that now closed off the lunette. A shudder ran through the truncated corpse lying on the bascule, hands spasming. Diedres’ head was lifted from the basket, a look of surprise on her face, eyes wide open and seemingly still alert. A spasm passed across her features, and her expression went slack, eyes closing.
The final two occupants of the third cart huddled together, waiting to be pulled up onto the scaffold and parted from their heads. Emille va Fontass trembled as the cold seeped through her thin chemise. She was a seamstress, one of the people. She knew nothing about spies or plots, why was this happening? The dammed marquis beside her kept spouting platitudes about courage and meeting death with dignity, typical aristo ideals that were of no use to the people starving in the streets. His pointless talking ended when the guards took hold of him and hauled him up to the bascule. Emille listened as the empty extolling came to an end with the crash of the blade falling. And now it was her turn. Oh Matatho receive my soul… She was practically carried up the steps, staring ahead at the bloodstained wood of the guillotine. The straps were tightened across her back, and the assistants tilted her forward. Her head with its cropped blonde hair emerged from the lunette, looking down at the heads of the three prisoners who had preceded her. The blade fell with a thud and the young seamstress’ head dropped like a stone. Fresh blood splashed against the blade as the headless body convulsed. As the assistants unstrapped the corpse and tossed it into the cart, they noticed that her bladder had emptied when her head fell. Gripping the pruned hair, the executioner held the head up for the crowd to see. The face was gaunt and pale, eyes half-open, mouth hanging open. He returned it to the basket, and readied the blade for the next cartload.
One the basket had been replaced, the Marquis vei Pourone was pushed up the steps and put beneath the blade. Once his head was off, it was discovered that his hair had been cropped too short to offer a good grip. With a shrug, the executioner directed his assistants to place the body in the newly arrived body cart, before turning his attention to the next prisoner. The Duchess vei Gremalde sullenly climbed the steps, her powdered hair expensive dress making her former rank clear. Fear filled her eyes. How had the peasants done this to her? They were lower than dirt, vulgar people who grubbed for food in the fields. Her ancestors had been elevated to power by providence and the Will of the Great Beasts when they renewed the world four-hundred years ago, how could they be overthrown? She closed her eyes and bit her lips to avoid weeping as she was pressed to the bascule. The straps tightened, the bascule tilted, the lunette closed, and the blade fell. The Duchess’ head shot forward and down, her body going ridged while her hands spasmed. As the assistants removed the body, the head was shown to the howling mob. The Duchess’ eyes and mouth were still closed, blood trickling from the stump. The executioner noticed that the edges of the cut flesh were ragged, likely the result of the blade not being changed for the last few ‘case-loads’ of prisoners.
Annette, Duchess vei Rishailau, looked on as the Duke vei Gremalde followed his wife to the guillotine. The blade fell, yet another headless body was tossed into the corpse cart, and a noble line dating back four centuries was reduced to two grown sons and three granddaughters who would be rounded up within a year. The Bishop of Almest was next, screaming curses and damnation at the guards, the crowd, and the world as a whole as he was dragged up the stairs. He was consigning the entire People’s Republic to Godjras’ divine fire and Royvas’ burning whirlwind when the blade dropped, cutting off his words along with his head. A guard grabbed Annette by the arm and hustled her towards the scaffold. Once she had climbed the steps, the assistants dragged her forward until she was standing before the raised bascule, her breasts pressed flat against the wood. Abruptly, she fell forward and was pushed forward. The bushy, near spherical shape of her hair hindered the movement a little, catching on the uprights and upper half of the lunette, but almost immediately Annette was looking down into the basket. The prisoners who had preceded her looked half stunned, half asleep. Would it hurt when the blade fell? Steeling her nerve, the Duchess vei Rishailau raised her head as far as possible and, speaking as clearly as her fear would allow, declared: “Hold my head high, good sir, t’will be worth a sight.” The lever was pulled and a torrent of blood doused the lunette. Her head dropped like a stone as her body went rigid, every limb locking into place like a soldier at attention. As the executioner lifted up the severed head, he noted that the pale face, with its wide staring eyes and slack expression, surrounded by a circle of brown hair and smeared with crimson at the bottom, did indeed make quite the sight.
The Duke vei Tannast stumbled up to the guillotine, mouthing prayers that ended abruptly as his head was cut off. The basket, now full, was swiftly replaced. Following the elderly duke was the Viscount vei Erade, meeting his death with a quiet dignity most aristocrats had not managed in the past few weeks. Best not to show his head, the executioner thought. Traitors to the people were supposed to meet their fates whimpering in fear, crying over their lost prestige, not calmly and dignified, without so much as a tremor from the truncated torso. Still, this latest head had the same ragged edges to its stump as the last few victims. Calling his assistants forward, he took advantage of the lull to undo the bolts securing blade to weight. Placing it under the scaffold, the assistants produced a new blade and screwed in the bolts just as the Duchess vei Prast was dragged from the third cart, which had arrived just as the Viscount vei Erade was being tossed into the corpse cart.
Susanne vei Prast screamed as the filthy peasants hauled her up the steps. Why was this happening to her? She had been a good girl, she’d only had the servants flogged when they’d not done their duties properly, she’d given the temple money to pray for the souls of the vulgar classes. Had she not suffered enough. Her parents had married her to the smelly old Duke, and her smug stepdaughter had refused to talk about the latest fashions or gossip like a normal woman. She didn’t even gamble! With a sudden shock, Susanne realised the peasants were strapping her to the bascule. Oh by the Golden One, they were going to cut off her head! She fell forward and before she knew it, she was looking down at a wicker basket filled with...were those heads? Their faces were horrifying, and the blood, oh… The blade dropped and the crowd saw her head, with its piled brown hair, drop into the basket as yet more red splattered the scaffold. Her shortened body shuddered as her leg kicked up slightly, less so than most that day. The executioner took hold of the hair and lifted it from the basket. He noted that despite the fall, the hair was still coifed and styled in a manner suited for the court. Say what you will, the aristocratic styles required little maintenance. The young woman’s face still twitched, her eyelids flickering and lips twitching as if she was whispering under her breath. A few seconds later the eyes finally closed and the mouth dropped open. With a grunt of effort, the assistants dumped Susanne’s’ decapitated corpse into the cart. The crowd roared their approval, as yet another aristo bitch paid the price for her inhumanity.
Genivere vei Prast watched her father climb the steps, his characteristic swagger still present even after all that he had lost. By all the Great Beasts, he had just seen the girl he’d been ploughing for the last five months lose her head, how could he still act like king? Then Genivere heard her fathers’ voice over the screams of the crowd, pleading for mercy. “No, no, please, I don’t want to die!” The thud of the blade snipping through his neck ended his cries. A guard seized her and she was pulled up the steps. This was it, her life had come to an end. Despite her progressive ideas, despite her distaste for the excesses of the noble class, the people had decreed her death. As the straps went across her back, Genivere realised that, had she been given a choice, she would have fled the second the People’s Commission took power. The mob was always going to destroy the noble classes, there was never going to be any peaceful reform. As her head was pushed through the lunette, she kept her eyes facing forward, looking out at the seething mass of peasants. By the Golden One, they really did stink, didn’t they? The executioner pulled the lever, and Genivere vei Prast parted company with her head, legs kicking upwards. Blood gushed from the stump of her neck, staining the lunette. Reaching into the basket, the executioner brandished the head as he marched across the scaffold. The girls’ eyes stared sightlessly, her lips pressed tight.
The guards took hold of the Marquis vei Cerraste and shoved him up the stairs. Standing atop the scaffold, he tried to make some sort of rousing speech about fate and nobility, but was drowned out by the shouts of the crowd. A few seconds later, his body convulsed as his head joined the vei Prasts in the basket, which was taken away and placed under the scaffold with those containing the heads of the previous victims. His cousin, the Marquis vei Terreile, collapsed to the ground, sobbing like a girl. As he was dragged onto the scaffold, he begged for them to let him go. They did not. From her position at the foot of the steps, Diedre va Biboret could only shake her head. One nobleman had been heckled and his dignity demeaned, the other had lost it through his own actions. Where these the elevated personages she had spent her life revering? Hands seized her collar, and she was pulled on to the scaffold. As the assistants tied her to the bascule, she mumbled the words to a song. Something from when she was a child, and the world was so much simpler. A sudden tilt forward, wood passing in front of her face, and she was looking out over the crowd. The blade dropped and her mob-capped head fell into the basket. Blood splattered against the metal that now closed off the lunette. A shudder ran through the truncated corpse lying on the bascule, hands spasming. Diedres’ head was lifted from the basket, a look of surprise on her face, eyes wide open and seemingly still alert. A spasm passed across her features, and her expression went slack, eyes closing.
The final two occupants of the third cart huddled together, waiting to be pulled up onto the scaffold and parted from their heads. Emille va Fontass trembled as the cold seeped through her thin chemise. She was a seamstress, one of the people. She knew nothing about spies or plots, why was this happening? The dammed marquis beside her kept spouting platitudes about courage and meeting death with dignity, typical aristo ideals that were of no use to the people starving in the streets. His pointless talking ended when the guards took hold of him and hauled him up to the bascule. Emille listened as the empty extolling came to an end with the crash of the blade falling. And now it was her turn. Oh Matatho receive my soul… She was practically carried up the steps, staring ahead at the bloodstained wood of the guillotine. The straps were tightened across her back, and the assistants tilted her forward. Her head with its cropped blonde hair emerged from the lunette, looking down at the heads of the three prisoners who had preceded her. The blade fell with a thud and the young seamstress’ head dropped like a stone. Fresh blood splashed against the blade as the headless body convulsed. As the assistants unstrapped the corpse and tossed it into the cart, they noticed that her bladder had emptied when her head fell. Gripping the pruned hair, the executioner held the head up for the crowd to see. The face was gaunt and pale, eyes half-open, mouth hanging open. He returned it to the basket, and readied the blade for the next cartload.
Once again, the guillotine operates at a terrifying speed, snuffing out unique individuals within seconds. I both look forward to and dread the conclusion of this story.
So, how many of these people deserve what is happening? Is the Revolution justified? Do you have any questions about the wider worldbuilding? Just two more carts to go...
Seriously, do you have any feedback/advice regarding the story? I'm open to any comments or ideas.
Close enough. The clothing is a bit more risqué than I imagined in the story, but the hairstyle of the redhead is pretty much what I was going for with the 'powdered/piled' hair.
Some like Susanne vei Prast probably deserve their fate, but others like Genivere, Emille va Fontass, and many of the children definitely don't. That said, I can't speak for the characters whose backstories you haven't elaborated upon.
In regards to the Revolution, my assumption is that it had legitimate beginnings, but has since devolved into pure violence and tyranny like many others in history.
It's clear that revolutionary France is the main inspiration for your fictional country, so I'm wondering about the naming conventions of its citizens. The characters' names sound French, but there also seem to be original elements that you've incorporated.
Lastly, what sort of religion does this society follow? I assume the Golden One is one of their main deities.
Thank you, I was really trying to capture the horror and tragedy of the French Revolution in my writing. I did try do give the names a French feel, but substituted 'du' and 'de' for 'vei' in the case of nobility and 'va' for commoners. I mean, if you're going to write a sorry, you should let your imagination run wild, right?
The story is (technically) set in a more...mainstream world building project of mine (which really only exists in my head and Pages docs on my laptop). Basically, historical cultures/periods isolated from each other by 'walls' + a particular class/style of gods. The cultures are 'extended/stretched' across 3,000 years each. In this case, Western Europe 1680-1860, which means that the changes in culture/technology/fashion/society that happened in 1 year IRL takes 16.66666667 years in this one. Which means that the period indistinguishable from the 1770s takes 166 years rather than 10. I've basically 'scheduled' a revolution every 150 years, somewhere in the world, which I plan to show in later issues.
As for the religion, my policy was to give more advanced cultures/eras less powerful gods. Which left me in a bit of a bind for a gunpowder using, early modern, 'will have steam engines by the end of the 3,000 years' culture. If I had to sum these peoples' gods up, think naturalistic/primeval meets eldritch. You see, I needed something that was powerful enough to be 'divine' but was not all powerful. Take a look at the names and 'depictions' again. I think 'Godjra' would be a good starting point...
Thank you for your feedback, I aimed for realistic brutality. Is there anything you would like to see in the next/last chapter? I am completely open to any constructive criticism you may have, if you have any suggestions or requests, please tell me.
I would have worn my most beautiful satin dress and “tipped” the executioners before the blade fell and removed my coiffured head
The occupants of the fourth cart had dismounted and were huddled around the steps, waiting to be dragged up to meet their fate. As she watched the guillotine blade fall on the young seamstress, Lucy va Denmole thought back on the series of events that had brought her here. Her husband had been a fervent believer in the Revolution, and had brought her round to the same conclusion: that the endless excesses of the nobility and inept handling of the kingdoms’ finances was only bringing needless suffering to the commoners who supported them. Something had to change. That was why she had helped to distribute pamphlets calling for reform, even though it would have meant death by fire or the wheel if discovered. She had proudly stood by her husband as the Peoples Republic was declared, and shared in his joy. But the tides of politics had turned against the moderates, as the mob demanded the blood of all aristocrats. Thus had come the allegations of Royalist sympathies. And now, she waited for her appointment with the guillotine, as her husband had barely a week before. Away went the now-full corpse cart, only to be replaced by another nearly five seconds later. John va Falcane was the first from her cartload to climb the steps, a fellow moderate and frequent visitor to her house. Lucy waited for the famous wit to deliver one of his speeches, a final gift to the world that had forsaken him. But the blade fell without that last valediction being spoken. The now-full basket was replaced and the blade rose back into position. Then the Viscount vei Lennite marched forward, his bearing martial and fearless. Lucy watched as he tried to voice some final exhortation, likely damming the revolutionaries to Shrougans’ burning torment, only to be drowned out by the howling of the crowd. A thud as the blade fell, the sight of two feet kicking into view, and it was over.
And now it was Lucy’s’ turn. Hands took hold of her shoulders and shoved against her back, forcing her to step forwards and place her foot on the first step, then the next, and then the one after that. Soon she stood at the top, looking at the great machine of death that stood before her. Was this all the Revolution had come to? A device that was meant to grant quick, sudden death, in keeping with the humanitarian ideals of the philosophers who had called for reform. But instead, it had allowed the lunatics who now held the reins of power to butcher more people in a day than the Royalists could in a month. Lucy stepped forward, standing against the bascule as the straps were tightened across her back. A shove and she was lying down, then all of a sudden she was looking down at a wicker basket. The rush of air, a thud, and her head tumbled into the basket as blood spurted around the blade and from the back of the lunette, staining her chemise. As the crowd roared their affirmation, the executioner took hold of her cropped hair and brandished the head to the three sides of the scaffold. Members of the howling mob noted that the eyelids still fluttered, rapidly going from open to half closed, while the paling lips moved as if whispering. After a few more spasms of movement, the face of Lucy va Denmole froze in an expression of slack tiredness, eyes half-lidded and mouth about a quarter open. The executioner dropped the lifeless flesh back into the basket, and then turned his attention to the noblewoman now climbing the steps.
Seeing the bloodstained blade looming above her, Janet vei Bauherne stumbled back in fear. That fear soon turned to anger as she thought of how her idiot husband had got himself involved in a Royalist plot, and then dragged her down with him. Both he and his slattern of a mistress had been guillotined a few days ago, but even the Peoples’ Commission had had trouble finding proof of Janets’ guilt. Eventually, the jury had convicted her entirely on guilt by association. The assistants dragged her forward, and soon the straps were being tightened across her back. Taking hold of the bascule, the assistants slid her forward until the mass of powdered hair atop her head was visible to the baying crowd. The condemned woman had only enough time to look down at the bloodstained heads in the waiting basket and give a single whimper of fear, before the blade sheared through her neck. The head fell, trailing blood as the truncated body convulsed. The crowd jeered the death of another aristocrat as the disembodied head was lifted up by its powdered coiffured adornment, crimson still dripping from the stump of neck. The face was pale, the eyes twitching in their sockets. After a handful of moments, the eyes settled to stare out at the crowd, and Janets’ face assumed an almost dignified look of resignation.
The truncated remains of Janet vei Bauherne were tossed into the waiting cart, and guards turned their attention to Andre va Chanone. Collete va Bestan could only watch as the obnoxious man was practically lifted up the steps and tied to the bascule. The large plank was pushed down, the blade fell, and the crowd roared. As she waited for the guards to take hold of her, Collete could not help but think how this was her fault. The People’s Commission may have convicted her mother for (allegedly) spying for the monarchists and spreading anti-Revolutionary lies, and herself for either helping or not denouncing her own mother, but she knew their impending deaths were a punishment from the Great Beasts for her sins. She had taken Gregorie va Hesline behind the house to kiss, and ended up rutting with him like a dog. And then there had been Bertrame va Selone, so funny, and the way Henri va Drivei smiled at her as she passed him in the street… Collete was jerked from her thoughts by the guards seizing her mother and dragging her to the steps. “Please, take my daughter instead!” Helen cried. “Do not force her to see me die!”. The guards ignored her pleas, and within a handful of seconds, Helen va Bestan stood before the upright bascule. Drawing close the scraps of her courage, she stepped forward and pressed herself against the bascule. The assistants tightened the straps, and then tipped her forward. The cold reached through her chemise, making Helen shiver. With a shove, her mop-capped head was through the lunette, and she was staring down at the slack, vacant expressions of the four people who had gone before her. Ohhh Blessed Matatho… The blade struck like a lightning bolt and the head, its’ linen cap still attached, leaped out and down, landing in the basket with a muffled thud. The entire lower half of her body convulsed, rising as high as the straps would permit. Blood leaked from between the lunette and blade, further staining the wood of the scaffold. The crowd cheered as Helen’s head was lifted up. Her face wore an expression of mortification, the very tip of her tongue flicking out between her lips. The eyes rolled up in their sockets as the lids closed, and the lips parted slightly. The executioner tossed the head back into the basket, and the bascule was brought back to its’ upright position just as the daughter of the truncated woman reached the top of the scaffold.
The sight of her mother’s body, the collar of the chemise stained with blood, being dumped into the corpse cart had brought Collete to her knees. Rough hands gripped her bound arms and forced her to stand. Whimpering, the girl was pushed up the stairs, to find herself looking at the raised plank of the bascule, fresh blood coating the upper end. The assistants took hold of her and shoved her against the wood. Short for her age, her chin did not reach over the lip of the bascule. An assistant brought forth a block of wood, perhaps half a foot high, and placed it under her feet. And now, Collete was staring out over the crowd. Her young breasts, which the local boys had caressed so tenderly, were now pressed flat in preparation for the removal of her head. On went the straps, and Collete fell forward, finding herself looking into the head basket. Tears pricked her eyes, and she let out a sob. Ohh mother, forgive me for bringing us to this… The lever was pulled, the blade fell, and Collete’s head dropped into the basket as blood spurted from the stump of her neck. Her lower body convulsed, backside jerking upwards for a moment. Once still, the assistants took the headless corpse from the bascule and deposited it in the cart. The executioner gripped Collete’s hair through her cap, and lifted the dripping burden up. The poor girl’s face was pale, tear-tracks lining her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, but her lips still trembled, the jaw seeming to move slightly. The head was dropped back into the basket, which was immediately replaced by yet another, taking its’ place below the scaffold with the others
The fifth and final cart had come into view just in time to see the blade fall upon Helen, was close enough for its’ occupants to see Collete’s expression as her head was displayed, and was being emptied of said occupants as Margarite, ‘the widow va Bribour’, was tied to the bascule. The older woman faced her end with resignation. Her clandestine activities, spreading pamphlets calling for the restoration of order, could only have ended one way, but after they guillotined her husband, she had to do something! All he had done was point out the excesses of the People’s Commission, and they had cut off his head on this very scaffold. Soon, she would see him again. Staring down at the unfortunates whose heads filled the basket, Margarite found herself wondering if they too had tried to change things, or if they were simply innocent like her husband. The block of wood, with its’ angled blade, dropped. Her hands twitched as the blade snipped through her spine, and her head followed its’ predecessors into the basket. Yet more blood, more brandishing of the severed appendage. Her face was slack, eyes shut and mouth pressed closed.
Marie, Duchess vei Lenoz, stood with her five daughters. She had tried to get them to organise themselves, so as to not disgrace their final moments. But given the size of the cart and the panniers the six of them wore under their dresses, there had been no opportunity to move beyond where they stood once the peasant thugs had herded them into position. She had hoped that dear Cecile, the youngest, might be able to go first, in order to shield her from witnessing the horror of the guillotine. But instead they had all been forced to watch two persons, one not older than Cecile, die upon that dreadful machine! Even now, the revolutionaries displayed their cruelty, as they seized a man, Alan va Satjas she believed, and pulled him up the stairs to his death. They watched as he was tied into position, his neck enclosed by the lunette, and then the blade struck. At least two of her daughters screamed at the sight of more blood drenching the wood, and poor sweet Louise fell to her knees at the sight of the head being shown to the mob. The Duke vei Challas was next, his bearing one of a defeated man. Once, Marie had thought of arranging a marriage to him for her daughter Sara, but the overthrow of the king and the arrests that followed had put an end to that. Another thud, a crash, and the crowd roared. The guards approached her, hands reaching. “I beg your mercy, sirs, spare my youngest the sight of our deaths! Let her die first, do not torment her so…” The guard put a hand over her mouth and dragged her to the scaffold. Onwards, up the steps, and forward to the bloodstained bascule. She was tipped forward, and pushed until her neck was through the lunette. This was then closed with a jolt, and Marie realised that her time was nigh. Oh, how did it come to this? Had her late husband, hanged but a week ago by his ungrateful servants, been too soft in hanging poachers over fifteen years old and flogging only those who were children? Had that allowed the commoners to rise up? Or was it that such harsh justice that had somehow anger the peasantry, riling them up until they turned on their rightful masters? Oh by the Golden One, there were heads in that basket… The blade dropped, shearing off Marie’s head instantly. Her restrained body shuddered, hands clenching in reflex. Taking hold of the mound of powdered hair atop the head, the executioner lifted it up for the crowd to jeer at. The late Duchess’ face was pale, the blood draining out of the head to drip onto the scaffold. The eyes were half-closed, with mostly the whites showing, while the jaw was slack and open, the lips beginning to turn purple. The crowd cheered, seeming to shake the very air.
Standing at the foot of the scaffold, Cecile vei Lenoz could only watch as her mother’s head was paraded around the scaffold. What had she done to deserve this, she hadn’t hurt anyone. All she had done was play spiroza with her sisters and their friends, and ask for dresses. Was that the reason the peasants would cut off her head? Yes, the harvests had been bad and the peasants were poor and starving, but her family were not. So what was wrong with gambling if you could afford it, or having nice things. She was entitled to them! Hands gripped her, and she found herself being shoved up the steps. Oh Merciful Royvas, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Her eyes fell on the dread device. So much blood… Pulled forward by the assistants, she was strapped to the bascule. To the crowd, her plain young face, its’ piled hair less substantial than most, seemed to freeze there for a moment, fear writ upon it. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be biting her lips, which trembled slightly. Then the bascule was lowered, and the noble girl was secured in place with the lunette. Moved by what little pity he still had, the executioner immediately pulled the lever. Down came the blade, and the head, with its’ updo of brown curls, dropped into the basket with a spurt of red. As the executioner stooped to take hold of it, he noticed that it had come to rest with its’ nose under the chin of Alan va Satjas. Holding it up by the short curls, he displayed this latest victim to the crowd. The girl’s eyes were still clenched shut and her lips firmly pressed together. Much of the blood released by her decapitation coated the underside of her chin and ears. The overall impression was one of dignified calm.
With the youngest of the vei Lenoz sisters dispatched, the guards turned their attentions to the eldest. Carolina was grabbed by the elbows by two of the Guardsmen and marched up the stairs. At the sight of the blade, she turned her gaze to the side. This couldn’t be happening! They were nobles, surely the Great Beasts would never allow… Her eyes fell on the cart positioned along the left-side of the scaffold. Within were bodies of the twelve people who had preceded her. Carolina recognised the dresses of poor Mama and Cecile on the two topmost corpses. The blood… that was her mother and sister… at that she nearly fainted, only to be yanked to her feet by the assistants. Within moments, she was pinioned against the bascule. The mob howled as the auburn pile of hair atop her head appeared through the lunette. Carolina looked out at the crowd, the mass of people baying for her blood. Why, what had she done, other than spend a few hundred rineaus at a gambling table? Then she looked down. That was Mama’s head, oh, she was going to pu… The blade sliced through her neck instantly, cutting short the young noblewoman’s horror and life. Her arms jolted upwards, hands clenching in reflex. As her head was shown to the crowd, the vacant eyes squinted spasmodically, before settling into fully open. This expression of shock was compounded by her open mouth, which gaped wide. The executioner tossed the head back into the basket and the blade was raised once more.
A dozen seconds later, Emelia vei Lenoz was standing atop the scaffold. This really was a mockery of justice she thought. When she had orchestrated the hanging of that servant girl, she had not done so out of cruelty. She had hand nothing against the girl, peasant that she was. But her father had been seduced, tempted into dallying with the maid, a clear insult to Emelia’s mother. So, when stolen jewels had happened to be found in the girl’s pocket, justice had been served. But these filthy rebels did not see it that way. And now she would die for nothing more than being noble-bred and upholding the honour of her family. The straps were tightened across her back and waist, and the bascule slid down in a smooth arc. Once lowered, the assistants pushed the wooden plank forward until Emelia’s head poked out from the open lunette. The lever was pulled, the blade hit home with a wet thud, and Emelia’s severed head dropped into the waiting basket, trailing blood. Her posterior jerked upwards, legs kicking wildly. Then, the decapitated corpse went slack, blood trickling from the stump of the neck. As his assistants untied the body and deposited it in the cart, the executioner gripped the piled red hair and paraded the head around the scaffold. The pale face held a thoroughly undignified expression, eyes closed and tongue sticking out from the parted lips. The mob cheered, glorying at the sight of an aristocrat falling to the People’s Justice.
From her position at the foot of the steps, Louise vei Lenoz, the plain-faced homely middle-child amongst her prettier sisters, could only tremble and sob at the sound of the blade taking yet another of her sisters. She was to have been married by now, to the dashing young Marquis vei Holonse, who had charmed her so at the ball last year. But the brave young nobleman had been seized by the revolutionaries and guillotined barely a week ago. Louise did not believe the scandalous rumours, that he had given up the hiding place of her family in order to save himself, the Marquis was a gentleman! Mustering what dignity remained to her, she climbed the steps to the guillotine unprompted, as best she could while wearing a pannier dress and with her hands tied behind her back. As the straps were tightened across her back, Louise found herself thinking as to the cause of all this death. Had the nobility indeed fallen into decadence, obsessed with their own magnificence? Was that not why the Great Beasts existed, to remind mankind of its’ insignificance? The assistants slid her forward, and now Louise was looking out at the roaring crowd. She hoped it would be quick…The razor edge of the blade cleaved through her neck, separating her coiffured head from her gowned body. Said body shuddered, and then lay still. Another few seconds, and the head had been removed from the basket, held up high for the crowd to jeer at. The skin was rapidly paling from loss of blood, the half open eyes gazing out at the crowd as if stunned. The half-open mouth, the very tip of the tongue slowing, completed the appearance of shock and surprise. Looking around at the head-basket and body-cart, the executioner considered if they were perhaps a bit too full. Ah, well, they could hold another head and truncated corpse each, couldn’t they?
And now at last, it was the turn of Sara vei Lenoz to face the People’s Justice. As she was led to the scaffold and the bloody fate that awaited her, she struggled. Attempting to resist the inexorable march forward, to pull herself away from the hands of the soldiers. To think that until a few months ago her life had been a splendour of luxury. She had come of marriageable age a year ago, and her parents had begun compiling lists of acceptable suitors. Her elder sisters had each been well on the way to making fine matches of their own. But then had come the revolution. And now here she stood, the last of her family, waiting for her head to be separated from her body. Up the steps, onto the bascule, straps on, and lunette closed. How rapidly, Sara thought, I go from a privileged lady to a condemned prisoner, from life to death, from breathing and heart-beating to cold bleeding meat… The executioner pulled the lever, and the blade of the guillotine fell for the last time that day. It sliced through the flesh of Sara’s neck in an instant, and the pale head with its mound of red hair tumbled into the wicker basket. Reaching in, the executioner withdrew the bleeding object that had once been a living woman. Her eyes were closed, lips parted in a slack, stunned manner. The eyelids seemed to twitch a little, but then went still.
And with that, the executions were done. The crowd dispersed, returning to their daily lives. The executioner and his assistants turned their attention to cleaning the guillotine, wiping away the blood with water and cloth, while the guards removed the last of the bodies. The baskets full of heads were placed on yet another cart, to be taken to a public square somewhere in the city, or to one of the gates. There, they would be mounted on pikes and displayed to the public, a warning to all who would challenge the revolution. Within half an hour, little trace remained of the forty-five people whose lives had been snuffed out in under fifty minutes.
And now it was Lucy’s’ turn. Hands took hold of her shoulders and shoved against her back, forcing her to step forwards and place her foot on the first step, then the next, and then the one after that. Soon she stood at the top, looking at the great machine of death that stood before her. Was this all the Revolution had come to? A device that was meant to grant quick, sudden death, in keeping with the humanitarian ideals of the philosophers who had called for reform. But instead, it had allowed the lunatics who now held the reins of power to butcher more people in a day than the Royalists could in a month. Lucy stepped forward, standing against the bascule as the straps were tightened across her back. A shove and she was lying down, then all of a sudden she was looking down at a wicker basket. The rush of air, a thud, and her head tumbled into the basket as blood spurted around the blade and from the back of the lunette, staining her chemise. As the crowd roared their affirmation, the executioner took hold of her cropped hair and brandished the head to the three sides of the scaffold. Members of the howling mob noted that the eyelids still fluttered, rapidly going from open to half closed, while the paling lips moved as if whispering. After a few more spasms of movement, the face of Lucy va Denmole froze in an expression of slack tiredness, eyes half-lidded and mouth about a quarter open. The executioner dropped the lifeless flesh back into the basket, and then turned his attention to the noblewoman now climbing the steps.
Seeing the bloodstained blade looming above her, Janet vei Bauherne stumbled back in fear. That fear soon turned to anger as she thought of how her idiot husband had got himself involved in a Royalist plot, and then dragged her down with him. Both he and his slattern of a mistress had been guillotined a few days ago, but even the Peoples’ Commission had had trouble finding proof of Janets’ guilt. Eventually, the jury had convicted her entirely on guilt by association. The assistants dragged her forward, and soon the straps were being tightened across her back. Taking hold of the bascule, the assistants slid her forward until the mass of powdered hair atop her head was visible to the baying crowd. The condemned woman had only enough time to look down at the bloodstained heads in the waiting basket and give a single whimper of fear, before the blade sheared through her neck. The head fell, trailing blood as the truncated body convulsed. The crowd jeered the death of another aristocrat as the disembodied head was lifted up by its powdered coiffured adornment, crimson still dripping from the stump of neck. The face was pale, the eyes twitching in their sockets. After a handful of moments, the eyes settled to stare out at the crowd, and Janets’ face assumed an almost dignified look of resignation.
The truncated remains of Janet vei Bauherne were tossed into the waiting cart, and guards turned their attention to Andre va Chanone. Collete va Bestan could only watch as the obnoxious man was practically lifted up the steps and tied to the bascule. The large plank was pushed down, the blade fell, and the crowd roared. As she waited for the guards to take hold of her, Collete could not help but think how this was her fault. The People’s Commission may have convicted her mother for (allegedly) spying for the monarchists and spreading anti-Revolutionary lies, and herself for either helping or not denouncing her own mother, but she knew their impending deaths were a punishment from the Great Beasts for her sins. She had taken Gregorie va Hesline behind the house to kiss, and ended up rutting with him like a dog. And then there had been Bertrame va Selone, so funny, and the way Henri va Drivei smiled at her as she passed him in the street… Collete was jerked from her thoughts by the guards seizing her mother and dragging her to the steps. “Please, take my daughter instead!” Helen cried. “Do not force her to see me die!”. The guards ignored her pleas, and within a handful of seconds, Helen va Bestan stood before the upright bascule. Drawing close the scraps of her courage, she stepped forward and pressed herself against the bascule. The assistants tightened the straps, and then tipped her forward. The cold reached through her chemise, making Helen shiver. With a shove, her mop-capped head was through the lunette, and she was staring down at the slack, vacant expressions of the four people who had gone before her. Ohhh Blessed Matatho… The blade struck like a lightning bolt and the head, its’ linen cap still attached, leaped out and down, landing in the basket with a muffled thud. The entire lower half of her body convulsed, rising as high as the straps would permit. Blood leaked from between the lunette and blade, further staining the wood of the scaffold. The crowd cheered as Helen’s head was lifted up. Her face wore an expression of mortification, the very tip of her tongue flicking out between her lips. The eyes rolled up in their sockets as the lids closed, and the lips parted slightly. The executioner tossed the head back into the basket, and the bascule was brought back to its’ upright position just as the daughter of the truncated woman reached the top of the scaffold.
The sight of her mother’s body, the collar of the chemise stained with blood, being dumped into the corpse cart had brought Collete to her knees. Rough hands gripped her bound arms and forced her to stand. Whimpering, the girl was pushed up the stairs, to find herself looking at the raised plank of the bascule, fresh blood coating the upper end. The assistants took hold of her and shoved her against the wood. Short for her age, her chin did not reach over the lip of the bascule. An assistant brought forth a block of wood, perhaps half a foot high, and placed it under her feet. And now, Collete was staring out over the crowd. Her young breasts, which the local boys had caressed so tenderly, were now pressed flat in preparation for the removal of her head. On went the straps, and Collete fell forward, finding herself looking into the head basket. Tears pricked her eyes, and she let out a sob. Ohh mother, forgive me for bringing us to this… The lever was pulled, the blade fell, and Collete’s head dropped into the basket as blood spurted from the stump of her neck. Her lower body convulsed, backside jerking upwards for a moment. Once still, the assistants took the headless corpse from the bascule and deposited it in the cart. The executioner gripped Collete’s hair through her cap, and lifted the dripping burden up. The poor girl’s face was pale, tear-tracks lining her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, but her lips still trembled, the jaw seeming to move slightly. The head was dropped back into the basket, which was immediately replaced by yet another, taking its’ place below the scaffold with the others
The fifth and final cart had come into view just in time to see the blade fall upon Helen, was close enough for its’ occupants to see Collete’s expression as her head was displayed, and was being emptied of said occupants as Margarite, ‘the widow va Bribour’, was tied to the bascule. The older woman faced her end with resignation. Her clandestine activities, spreading pamphlets calling for the restoration of order, could only have ended one way, but after they guillotined her husband, she had to do something! All he had done was point out the excesses of the People’s Commission, and they had cut off his head on this very scaffold. Soon, she would see him again. Staring down at the unfortunates whose heads filled the basket, Margarite found herself wondering if they too had tried to change things, or if they were simply innocent like her husband. The block of wood, with its’ angled blade, dropped. Her hands twitched as the blade snipped through her spine, and her head followed its’ predecessors into the basket. Yet more blood, more brandishing of the severed appendage. Her face was slack, eyes shut and mouth pressed closed.
Marie, Duchess vei Lenoz, stood with her five daughters. She had tried to get them to organise themselves, so as to not disgrace their final moments. But given the size of the cart and the panniers the six of them wore under their dresses, there had been no opportunity to move beyond where they stood once the peasant thugs had herded them into position. She had hoped that dear Cecile, the youngest, might be able to go first, in order to shield her from witnessing the horror of the guillotine. But instead they had all been forced to watch two persons, one not older than Cecile, die upon that dreadful machine! Even now, the revolutionaries displayed their cruelty, as they seized a man, Alan va Satjas she believed, and pulled him up the stairs to his death. They watched as he was tied into position, his neck enclosed by the lunette, and then the blade struck. At least two of her daughters screamed at the sight of more blood drenching the wood, and poor sweet Louise fell to her knees at the sight of the head being shown to the mob. The Duke vei Challas was next, his bearing one of a defeated man. Once, Marie had thought of arranging a marriage to him for her daughter Sara, but the overthrow of the king and the arrests that followed had put an end to that. Another thud, a crash, and the crowd roared. The guards approached her, hands reaching. “I beg your mercy, sirs, spare my youngest the sight of our deaths! Let her die first, do not torment her so…” The guard put a hand over her mouth and dragged her to the scaffold. Onwards, up the steps, and forward to the bloodstained bascule. She was tipped forward, and pushed until her neck was through the lunette. This was then closed with a jolt, and Marie realised that her time was nigh. Oh, how did it come to this? Had her late husband, hanged but a week ago by his ungrateful servants, been too soft in hanging poachers over fifteen years old and flogging only those who were children? Had that allowed the commoners to rise up? Or was it that such harsh justice that had somehow anger the peasantry, riling them up until they turned on their rightful masters? Oh by the Golden One, there were heads in that basket… The blade dropped, shearing off Marie’s head instantly. Her restrained body shuddered, hands clenching in reflex. Taking hold of the mound of powdered hair atop the head, the executioner lifted it up for the crowd to jeer at. The late Duchess’ face was pale, the blood draining out of the head to drip onto the scaffold. The eyes were half-closed, with mostly the whites showing, while the jaw was slack and open, the lips beginning to turn purple. The crowd cheered, seeming to shake the very air.
Standing at the foot of the scaffold, Cecile vei Lenoz could only watch as her mother’s head was paraded around the scaffold. What had she done to deserve this, she hadn’t hurt anyone. All she had done was play spiroza with her sisters and their friends, and ask for dresses. Was that the reason the peasants would cut off her head? Yes, the harvests had been bad and the peasants were poor and starving, but her family were not. So what was wrong with gambling if you could afford it, or having nice things. She was entitled to them! Hands gripped her, and she found herself being shoved up the steps. Oh Merciful Royvas, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Her eyes fell on the dread device. So much blood… Pulled forward by the assistants, she was strapped to the bascule. To the crowd, her plain young face, its’ piled hair less substantial than most, seemed to freeze there for a moment, fear writ upon it. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be biting her lips, which trembled slightly. Then the bascule was lowered, and the noble girl was secured in place with the lunette. Moved by what little pity he still had, the executioner immediately pulled the lever. Down came the blade, and the head, with its’ updo of brown curls, dropped into the basket with a spurt of red. As the executioner stooped to take hold of it, he noticed that it had come to rest with its’ nose under the chin of Alan va Satjas. Holding it up by the short curls, he displayed this latest victim to the crowd. The girl’s eyes were still clenched shut and her lips firmly pressed together. Much of the blood released by her decapitation coated the underside of her chin and ears. The overall impression was one of dignified calm.
With the youngest of the vei Lenoz sisters dispatched, the guards turned their attentions to the eldest. Carolina was grabbed by the elbows by two of the Guardsmen and marched up the stairs. At the sight of the blade, she turned her gaze to the side. This couldn’t be happening! They were nobles, surely the Great Beasts would never allow… Her eyes fell on the cart positioned along the left-side of the scaffold. Within were bodies of the twelve people who had preceded her. Carolina recognised the dresses of poor Mama and Cecile on the two topmost corpses. The blood… that was her mother and sister… at that she nearly fainted, only to be yanked to her feet by the assistants. Within moments, she was pinioned against the bascule. The mob howled as the auburn pile of hair atop her head appeared through the lunette. Carolina looked out at the crowd, the mass of people baying for her blood. Why, what had she done, other than spend a few hundred rineaus at a gambling table? Then she looked down. That was Mama’s head, oh, she was going to pu… The blade sliced through her neck instantly, cutting short the young noblewoman’s horror and life. Her arms jolted upwards, hands clenching in reflex. As her head was shown to the crowd, the vacant eyes squinted spasmodically, before settling into fully open. This expression of shock was compounded by her open mouth, which gaped wide. The executioner tossed the head back into the basket and the blade was raised once more.
A dozen seconds later, Emelia vei Lenoz was standing atop the scaffold. This really was a mockery of justice she thought. When she had orchestrated the hanging of that servant girl, she had not done so out of cruelty. She had hand nothing against the girl, peasant that she was. But her father had been seduced, tempted into dallying with the maid, a clear insult to Emelia’s mother. So, when stolen jewels had happened to be found in the girl’s pocket, justice had been served. But these filthy rebels did not see it that way. And now she would die for nothing more than being noble-bred and upholding the honour of her family. The straps were tightened across her back and waist, and the bascule slid down in a smooth arc. Once lowered, the assistants pushed the wooden plank forward until Emelia’s head poked out from the open lunette. The lever was pulled, the blade hit home with a wet thud, and Emelia’s severed head dropped into the waiting basket, trailing blood. Her posterior jerked upwards, legs kicking wildly. Then, the decapitated corpse went slack, blood trickling from the stump of the neck. As his assistants untied the body and deposited it in the cart, the executioner gripped the piled red hair and paraded the head around the scaffold. The pale face held a thoroughly undignified expression, eyes closed and tongue sticking out from the parted lips. The mob cheered, glorying at the sight of an aristocrat falling to the People’s Justice.
From her position at the foot of the steps, Louise vei Lenoz, the plain-faced homely middle-child amongst her prettier sisters, could only tremble and sob at the sound of the blade taking yet another of her sisters. She was to have been married by now, to the dashing young Marquis vei Holonse, who had charmed her so at the ball last year. But the brave young nobleman had been seized by the revolutionaries and guillotined barely a week ago. Louise did not believe the scandalous rumours, that he had given up the hiding place of her family in order to save himself, the Marquis was a gentleman! Mustering what dignity remained to her, she climbed the steps to the guillotine unprompted, as best she could while wearing a pannier dress and with her hands tied behind her back. As the straps were tightened across her back, Louise found herself thinking as to the cause of all this death. Had the nobility indeed fallen into decadence, obsessed with their own magnificence? Was that not why the Great Beasts existed, to remind mankind of its’ insignificance? The assistants slid her forward, and now Louise was looking out at the roaring crowd. She hoped it would be quick…The razor edge of the blade cleaved through her neck, separating her coiffured head from her gowned body. Said body shuddered, and then lay still. Another few seconds, and the head had been removed from the basket, held up high for the crowd to jeer at. The skin was rapidly paling from loss of blood, the half open eyes gazing out at the crowd as if stunned. The half-open mouth, the very tip of the tongue slowing, completed the appearance of shock and surprise. Looking around at the head-basket and body-cart, the executioner considered if they were perhaps a bit too full. Ah, well, they could hold another head and truncated corpse each, couldn’t they?
And now at last, it was the turn of Sara vei Lenoz to face the People’s Justice. As she was led to the scaffold and the bloody fate that awaited her, she struggled. Attempting to resist the inexorable march forward, to pull herself away from the hands of the soldiers. To think that until a few months ago her life had been a splendour of luxury. She had come of marriageable age a year ago, and her parents had begun compiling lists of acceptable suitors. Her elder sisters had each been well on the way to making fine matches of their own. But then had come the revolution. And now here she stood, the last of her family, waiting for her head to be separated from her body. Up the steps, onto the bascule, straps on, and lunette closed. How rapidly, Sara thought, I go from a privileged lady to a condemned prisoner, from life to death, from breathing and heart-beating to cold bleeding meat… The executioner pulled the lever, and the blade of the guillotine fell for the last time that day. It sliced through the flesh of Sara’s neck in an instant, and the pale head with its mound of red hair tumbled into the wicker basket. Reaching in, the executioner withdrew the bleeding object that had once been a living woman. Her eyes were closed, lips parted in a slack, stunned manner. The eyelids seemed to twitch a little, but then went still.
And with that, the executions were done. The crowd dispersed, returning to their daily lives. The executioner and his assistants turned their attention to cleaning the guillotine, wiping away the blood with water and cloth, while the guards removed the last of the bodies. The baskets full of heads were placed on yet another cart, to be taken to a public square somewhere in the city, or to one of the gates. There, they would be mounted on pikes and displayed to the public, a warning to all who would challenge the revolution. Within half an hour, little trace remained of the forty-five people whose lives had been snuffed out in under fifty minutes.
So, I'm assuming that you've read the conclusion of the story. What did you think?
So, I'm assuming that you've read the conclusion of the story. What did you think?
So, I'm assuming that you've read the conclusion of the story. What did you think?
Page: 1
Forum > Public / Stories > Days of Revolution Issue 1, to be released in instalments.