Blood Monarch

The Monarch wouldn’t sleep that night, and the following morning would be spent preparing. She’d watch over the ‘stage’ that was being readied in the centre of the town. Torches were placed in symmetrical spots, and the surrounding area was cleaned and cleared meticulously.

She would glance at the uncertain faces that stopped to stare. It must be a shock for them to suddenly lose a King, but whispers of the betrayal travelled fast. Some would shake their heads, while others covered their mouths as they gasped at the news. They had been shamed by their King.

For the most part however, the Monarch focused solely on herself. While servants dressed her accordingly, and painted her face with fitting makeup, the Monarch would flex and ‘exercise’ her right arm. She would perform the ceremony without a sling, and there would be no room for mistake. She was lucky in one sense, as she was comfortably capable of swinging an axe with her left hand. The only part that really concerned her, was whether or not she had the strength to pull back the Kings ribs, one by one.

By nightfall, the stage had been readied, and the torches were set ablaze to dance across the scene and give off a certain atmosphere. The Monarch would be dressed in white, setting her apart from everyone else. Her hair seemed to mimic the flames around her as she made her way to the stage. And there she would wait in stoic silence for the prisoner to be brought out.

The lesser King looked haggard as he’d finally stumble into view. It was obvious he wasn’t accustomed to such rough treatment, and he too had likely had a sleepless night. At first his eyes were wide, as if he were still in disbelief that this was happening. But after some moments, he would take the first step by himself. A Viking must not show fear, even on their execution day. His face was red and tear stained, but he’d hold himself with the pride of a King as he walked down the open stretch to reach the stage. His eyes never met with those around him. Perhaps he was too ashamed to look at his people. Though they wouldn’t be his for much longer.

Drums would beat and echo in the background, but the crowd was deathly silent. Only when the lesser King reached the stage, did he finally turn to view the crowd. He’d remove his upper clothing slowly, as if trying to buy time. But the night was still young, and no amount of stalling would change anything. Almost timidly, he’d turn to see Runa for the first time. Her eyes were piercing, and not once did they stray from his own.

He knew where he needed to stand, and with a nervous posture, he’d slowly shift into position between two pillars and glance towards Runa once more. The Monarch, ever silent, would simply raise a hand and twirl a finger slowly, an indication for him to turn around and face the audience. He would fall to his knees of his own accord, but guards would soon step in to tie his wrists to the pillars. There would be no chance of escape now.

The Monarch would be slow in her movements, taking her time to study his back. A specialised blade rolled in one hand, while the other caressed his skin, as if checking the quality of the canvas. They say that if you do not scream, you can still make it to Valhalla. But the Royal family had already damned them to Hel, and perhaps that was why the lesser King barely even tried to hold back his voice.

The blade would cut like butter. Like a scalpel it would slice and make it all too easy to peel back the man’s skin. Now a time limit had been set. The Monarch wanted him to suffer for as long as possible, to juggle between keeping him alive and performing the ritual perfectly. And once the ribs were exposed, she would turn to an axe. She was methodical and eerily calm. A sight that hadn’t been seen, as she was known for her brutal and savage behaviour on the battlefield. Blood stained her sleeves and bit by bit the white robes would turn red, almost as if it were a metaphor for change.

The man was breathing heavily, but the worst was yet to come. The swing was light and unexpected, and the man shuddered from the impact. The bones break so easily. One by one they crack from a single hit each. Blood sprayed back against the Monarch’s features, but she never faltered. Cries would erupt from the crowd, but not for their dying King. The scene was simply too much to bare. Someone would faint, while others turned away.

In the man’s agony, he’d beg and scream. He’d disgrace himself as a Viking. But the Monarch wouldn’t relent. One rib, two ribs, every rib was pulled back, leaving the lungs exposed. She would watch them as they deflated and filled over and over with every ragged breath the King took. But now the Monarch wasn’t seeing an eagle. Just like the Kings daughter, she envisioned a butterfly whose wings could not break free. She’d handle his lungs delicately as she’d lift them from his ribcage and balance them atop his shoulders. He was no eagle. He was a Blood Monarch.

Blood drooled from his gaping mouth, and after a few strained breaths, the man would suffocate as his airways led to a pair of broken butterfly wings.