The Executioner, part 2

The second day

The drums thump throughout the city square. Priest loves his damned drama. The executioner, Lothair Morani, was already standing near the block. He took care to sharpen the axe for the better part of the day. He needs to get it done in a single hack, or it takes forever. The last executioner, ten years ago, became infamous for how long it took some of his victims to die. Lothair isn't like that. Death shouldn't be too unpleasant, in his opinion. Torture doesn't belong anywhere in the world. He feels his teeth against his shroud, through his torn cheek. He would know.
The priest has started his usual spiel. A damned shame he didn't become an actor, the man could carry a crowd. The usual bits were there, of course, about how a corrupted soul can never be cleansed (the holy books don't agree, but who the hell reads the books in this backwater of a city?), how death is only a temporary mercy, and how her head will serve as a warning for all other monsters here to prey on our children, rape our men and corrupt our women.
The executioner snorts behind his mask. Disrespecting the priest isn't a very clever thing to do, but his shroud covers his face almost entirely, other than his single remaining eye. He gets good mileage out of that eye. Nobody endures his stares. He wishes he was allowed to wear a shirt during these executions, though. He has a massive, well-muscled body, to be sure, but he's not nearly as proud over the hideous scars. People start talking when they see them, and he does everything in his power not to hear it.
Sometimes he succeeds.

He sighs when he hears the prisoner coming out of the dungeon. A very young drider, Sydney Aestinus. He wishes he hadn't heard her damned name. Now instead of a drider, she's *Sydney*. Something with a name, something that had hope for a future, something that doesn't want to die. They bound her legs together, forcing her to a crawl. She still does everything in her power to escape, but it's no use at this stage. She was to be left hungry, to stop her from fighting. Nothing but water, and the occasional bit of bread. The executioner gave her a last meal in secret, however. As said, death shouldn't be too unpleasant. He only hopes she liked chicken.
Sydney's hair flicks around, and she still struggles and screams. Pleads for mercy, promises to never return, sometimes just screaming. It took some doing to get her up the stairs, but she's very young. Probably not even out of her teens. When she looks at the executioner, she falls silent. Words don't come to her any more, fear swallowing up any last bit she had to say. The executioner took a deep breath as she was forced to the block. She's been crying all day, but the tears don't come any more. He hated those the most. Some death row prisoners just give up, accept their fate and do it all with a stoic expression and calm body language. Some are left laughing, thinking they'll wake up any moment, hardly even aware. Some find the time to mock the priest, the people, the executioner. They bring in some pretty good zingers, and the executioner doesn't stop himself from laughing. A clown deserves a captive final audience. Even if the audience coughs and wheezes after every laugh.
But this drider is the worst type. Not only do they know what's coming, they aren't ready for it. They're still hoping some hero is going to burst through the wall to save them, or that they'll escape using some quick trickery they'll think of any moment now. They don't know how to get out of this, and the truth of the matter is that they know they won't.

Her head is on the block, now, and she stops struggling entirely. The executioner has to wait for the drums to stop, or else the priest will get angry. He raises the axe above his shoulders, and begins aiming at the neck. His legs begin to shake from the weight of his own body and the axe.
Stop drumrolling, damn it.
Then, silence. A gasp of breath.

And the crowd goes wild.

People seem smaller when they're dead. And not just because of the missing pieces. Just... in general. Like something very important about their appearance just up and left. The basket is covered with a blanket, as to not offend the more precious spectators of an execution. The body, however, is carried off by the two guards that brought Sydney in. The executioner would carry it himself, if it wasn't for the fact he's shaking as is, even with the axe as something to lean on.
His body hurts. It's always bad after an execution. He has to stand proud, after all. And pride is so damned tiring.
He hated going down the stairs. Going up was, surprisingly, easier. It took more exertion, sure, but his step just has to go up. When you go down, he needs to be careful, and if his ruined ankles make a bad turn, he's down before he knows it. After a few months of suffering, he eventually found the best way to go down was sideways, like a crab. Step by step, using his "walking stick" as support. It's still quite scary, but it gets him down. He sits down in his chair, exhausted. Not even a minute passes before he hears that high-pitched voice coming from the undead girl opposite to him. He didn't come back down after storming out yesterday, but it was late, regardless.
"Are you alright?" She asks.
A single dark eye looks at her. Silence. After a few more seconds, she finally smiles at him. There's this unbecoming sort of pity with it
"Guess not. She seemed... young."
"Not even in her twenties." The executioner says. He never got a chance to talk about his executions. Not that he talks much to begin with, but you can not talk and still have something you want to talk about.
"Did you know her name?"
"Sydney. They had her name. Marriage contract. Husband-to-be was hanged about two weeks ago. Assorting with monster *Hhh* girls in an indecent manner"
Talking's becoming less painful. Like riding a bike, you only need a few minutes to get the hang of it again. But damn, his lungs burn.
"Doesn't sound like you agree."
"I don't. Your kind *hhh* ...can do as they damn well like as long as they keep us out of it." The executioner takes a moment to cough again. "I've got a bitch just a few cells over that has more kills and torture on her name than any of the poor s-sa*KGhhh*"
He takes a moment to collect himself. Shouldn't be talking this much.
"Any of the poor saps I killed." he finishes.

"That bad, huh?" she says, tilting her head
"Priest runs the show. Nobody speaks out. Why do you think he likes me so much?"
"You don't talk?"
He stops talking after that. A little joke, in a way. It also stops him from getting more attached to the girl. He only hopes she doesn't ask about his face again. He can't deal with that again. She's too cute for her own good.
No no no.
Stupid.
She's a monster you need to kill in six days.
"So are they going to decapitate me as well?"
The executioner just taps his walking stick, still a little slick with the drider's blood. It reminds him that he should be cleaning it, before it smells or rusts. He takes the rag on the table and starts cleaning, taking care to get some oil too. Can't let this axe go bad.
"I think that'll be very difficult, though." She says, with some clear smarm present. Why would she be so sure about that?
When her head suddenly pops off like a wine cork, the executioner yelps (well, grunts) and jumps up in surprise. When a small blue flame comes out of the stump, and the head starts laughing at the reaction, do the pieces come together.
"A Dullahan? Thought you were just a zombie..."
"Nope! Harbinger of death, right here. You wouldn't guess from how cute I am, huh?"
"Cuteness doesn't factor in dangers ever since monster girls."
"Ahhh! You didn't deny my cuteness. One win for me!"
The executioner laughs. A wheezy, almost pained laugh, but a laugh.
"A victory, then. Good for you" He says.

"Can I ask for a prize?"
The executioner just continues waxing the blade of the axe. He's listening, all right.
"Can you show me all those wounds? I wanna know if I can help."
No healer could ever hope to help. What could some inmate do? Unless...
"No magic here. Too much death, stone sucks it right out."
"Well, fine. Let me have a look regardless. If nothing else, so I can appreciate that bod you've got!"
Raunchy. but...

Her hand was cold, but there was a strange heat as she continued moving over the scars and skin. Like she warmed up. She's clearly enamoured, to say the least. Lothair is happy for the ego boost, to say the least.
"Wow, you've kept on working out, even now?" sh
"Carefully. Axe is heavy enough to keep me in shape. I miss leg day, though."
"But these scars..."
He doesn't say anything, he only tenses up. hideous, he knows. God does he know.
The shroud itches again.
"They're kinda cool."
What? Lothair remains quiet, looking back a little to show his confusion.
"Shows the world you can take a beating. Think about it, most people with these injuries woulda just quit. You didn't."
"Not much choice."
"You're still working."
"Better than dying."
"Still a good state of mind, no?"
He snorts.
"Well, it's true I can't do much to help you with those scars, but I think I know something against the pain."
Before the executioner can do anything, he feels something soft and wet against the hammer blow that ruined his lungs. He jumps forward, and when he looks back he sees the dullahan holding her own head. She doesn't even need to crouch down to...
"Kiss to make it better, no?"

He didn't know how to feel. It's occuring to him that this was the first time he had physical contact with anything, and it was with a monster! If the priest knew about this...
Hm.
Good thing he doesn't, then.
"I... I'm going on patrol."
He leaves again, the axe making it's echoing hits to the floor as he goes through the prisoners. The dullahan lies back, her head resting on her stomach, using her breasts as a makeshift pillow.
He liked that. He liked it a lot. She knows he won't be speaking to her again, what he just did was a massive risk. But most likely they both think it was well worth it.

Somehow, his body didn't hurt when he went to sleep. For the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to tomorrow.