It could not be as I have remembered. Did not a shroud obscure my view? Amid shouts and scorn, did my burning eyes not cast downward? Did head and shoulders not droop in pain and fear and shame?
Yet I do see him, calmly, fluidly weaving the din of that feast. The horde, with each chop of the block, with each wash of blood, shaking in new heights of elation, spewing forth a cloud of spittle and sweat and dust, roaring in their cruel, self-riteous climax, unaware of an agent of death and mercy winding through their midst.
And he disappears for a moment. And he is here upon the stage. My knight.
A look of recognition between him and my exocutioner. Question. Denial. Regret. A sudden flash of movement, and a new wash of blood.
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