#executioner | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

frut1ger-aero · 1 month ago

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pulling more yaoi out of our asses i see

this is VERY vague it is heavily advised you read the context paragraph before reading the actual story

context paragraph below

༉‧₊˚.

Succinctly, Dark Cacao is an immortal executioner and Pure Vanilla is a religious figure to be executed. Dark Cacao is drawn to him cause they’re destined (or doomed) to be together in every universe cause I said so and it dredges up memories of the past of when he had to execute his own son (we all know who that tragic little fucker is) in order to prove he was worthy. Everything else is ambiguous. Is Pure Vanilla truly the son of God in this? It’s up to interpretation. Certainly not my best work but alas.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Does the executioner feel the weight of his axe? Does the shame of taking lives prey on his conscience, or is that precisely what fuels his ambition, what pushes him to drive his axe through the defenceless necks of the innocent?

Innocent or guilty, the executioner kills nonetheless. To him, it is an art. To be the anonymous deliverer of justice, to be the one to topple supreme men, to bring them to their knees and silence their mewling cries for ‘justice’.

Justice. Folly.

Render them indistinguishable from a rotting peasant on streets lined with filth.

Lift their severed heads to crowds below, who will either fall to their knees, and whose laments will be heard from dawn to dusk, or roar in patriotic victory, celebrate the satiation of their blood-lust. To know, that he, he brought about this fateful reckoning, and, oh how the people scorn him. But how they adore him too, with his silent neutrality. Some demand that he rebel, indignant at the death of a saint or a well-loved king.

Yet he is death incarnate. Death falters before No man nor king.

There was something holy about the way his presence compelled the mob into silence. They waited, wide eyed with bated breath. These were people who knew that Death haunted the hallowed grounds upon which they clustered. They all understood, however, that this was more than death. It was a sacred ritual, a purging of sin and a precedent to the era of purity. Which, inevitably, would soon be broken, for another sinner would be chosen and led to death. Depending on who it was, reactions varied from blinding fury to burning euphoria. Nevertheless, the words and decisions of the Church could never be absolved, at least not by something so insignificant as the lower-class.

Conforming to the endless cycle of the death of nighttime and the rebirth of day, the sun rose once more to take its place at the pinnacle of the sky.

The executioner knew that he too, was subject to a kind of cycle, however inconsistent. The cycle of execution.

It didn’t happen every day. No matter how sanctimonious the heads of the Church’s order were, even they knew constant slaughter would eventually lose its gravity, if done before the public too many times.

Today, though, it would happen.

He did not need to steel himself. He was silent as he ascended the wooden steps to the platform where the chopping block, marred with the blood of uncountable past peoples, waited. If anyone were to strip him of his mask and the hood casting shadows over his face, they would find features so eerily stoic, it was as though they were a waxen mask and not skin.

Those who did not cast their eyes to the heavens in hopes of divine intervention scrutinised him, blatantly staring as he proceeded higher and higher.

Did any of them notice that the instrument of murder on his back was held in place by his hands and not straps? Did they see him buckle slightly under it’s weight, hear the sigh escape his lips as it was dropped into the wood atop the platform?

They did not, for at this moment in time they had changed the subject of their attention and were now gazing expectantly at the double doors, for the execution site was adjacent to a great cathedral, which would open and reveal the traitor. After some time, open they did, albeit laboriously.

Based on the way cries of gratitude penetrated the silence, this was someone whose death instilled relief.

Maybe it was the fact that it was the first execution in a long time, but he found himself turning his head to watch the doors of the church. The victims were prayed for. Blessed with holy water, so that in death they could be what they were not—pure.

Yet the man who stepped out into the sunshine looked like a martyr. Painfully beautiful. His flaxen hair fell down to his back, obscuring the sides of his face as his head was bowed. A graceful form, interlocked fingers.

The innocence of a lamb. Already purer than holy water could make a person. He felt strange. Drawn to him, somehow.

Unlike his hundreds of predecessors, who were stripped of their finery and forced into rags, wisps of white cloth fluttered from his robed frame. He seemed to radiate compassion and glory. Was he a priest, as his attire suggested? That was likely why he didn’t wear a blindfold.

When the two guards flanking him pushed him forwards, and he tripped, groping at air, the executioner realised he was blind. The guards stood back.

Somehow, to his deep shame, he found himself stepping forward. Before hundreds of people, who watched so intently that No detail would be missed, he stepped forward to allow the blind man a place to grip on to.

Through the slits of his mask, he saw one of the two guards tense, but remained staring impassively into the crowd.

He understood that. It was not his place to interact in any way with whomever was to die that day, and he had never done so. Let the victim writhe and flail. His intervention was needed the second heads were brought to the block, No sooner.

Only it seemed that philosophy had crumbled in a mere moment, a moment of devotion.

As he took in the figure holding onto him, he was surprised to see eyes of contrasting shades blink at him. One was a shatteringly clear blue, the other as soft and as golden as the sun. Were they really boring into his own, or was he getting paranoid?

Of course they weren’t. But that didn’t help shake the feeling that his layers of black cloth were pierced.

When the man turned his face up, he saw a row of harsh red scars peeking out from under his blonde hair, angry against his smooth tanned skin. The miniature slashes seemed to travel all around his forehead, and it sparked an unfamiliar curiosity in regard to what exactly they did within the walls of that church.

He shifted, trying to get a better look at the almost-angel who clung like a lover to his over-garment. To his dismay, he felt him loosen his hold. He must have taken his movement as an indicator of wanting to be released, but it was the furthest thing from. He was still in awe, so he did not speak.

From where he looked down at the man, the holes at the centre of each of his palms were evident, ringed with dried blood.

“Oh, I do apologise,” the man said breathlessly, unbunching the folds of clothing wrapped in his fist.

No response came, but it was not for the sole reason of disagreeability, but rather that the powerful executioner found himself entranced by whoever this man was. Something tightened in his chest in that second when he clutched the front of his cloak, his touch was soft, his movements gentle even minutes away from death. And when he spoke—oh his voice. The desire to hear it again, even if just for a second, was absolute. Four words had floated past his lips, yet they seemed to quiver and tremble with soft, inconceivable melodies laced tightly into each syllable, filling him with an ecstasy he thought had been ground into apathy by time. Even the way the clothes he donned shifted and shimmered in the spring sun as though a celestial seamstress had plucked shafts of light from the heart of the sun itself, and draped them around a mortal, was captivating, such grace and elegance were unmatched.

A growing sense of airy detachment diffused into the air on the platform, and the executioner felt his grip on the axe loosen as his hands grew weak. He feared he would not survive those last words, as he watched the man kneel and clasp his hands together, almost in prayer. Anticipation, for such last words, filled the atmosphere. Silence, however, draped over them all for a tantalising few minutes.

When he opened his mouth to speak, the executioner realised he ached with longing.

“Father, forgive them. For they are lost without your righteous hand to guide them, and they do not know what they do.” With unseeing eyes, he turned to the man he had clung to before. “Know that your bloodstained hands, too, are sacred.”

This man—No, this paragon of righteousness could not be speaking to him. He the unholy temple in which raw sin resided, a thing disgusting and dirtied. Never worthy of the promises, let alone the attention, of a martyr. That voice, those words were the ambrosia he wanted to gorge on, drunken himself through means of and cloud his mind entirely with.

All he could do was watch as the man whose words ensnared his mind parted the flowing currents of gold on his head to reveal a smooth nape, and rested his neck onto the piece of wood.

He knew what he had to do now. What his purpose was, what his sole reason for existence was. Relinquish the Earth of life, spread his essence everywhere like a plague.

So why did the axe weigh heavy in his hands? Why did the alien feeling of guilt begin to fester within him?

Still, he strode to the kneeling man. Still, he raised the axe high above his head, the arising assent of the villeins below burning into his ears. Every ounce of his heart seemed to rail at him to throw the axe down, to grab the punctured hand of the priest and flee. But his brain prevailed, calling him to carve the cutting edge through tender flesh.

Nothing else existed anymore. Only the way in which the instrument of death sliced through the air, heard by all in the reverent silence. The obscene noise that sounded when metal met skin.

Instantaneously, shrieks and calls disrupted the silence, jostling and fists thrown into the air shattered the previously dominant stillness. Songs were uplifted from the people and thrown into the sky, into the ears of anyone who acknowledged it.

The executioner heard none of this. The only thing audible to him was the whistle of the axe as he—him, his abhorrent hands—carried it through the air, and brought it down mercilessly upon a saint. He was numb as he bent down to grip the severed head, sick with shame as he looked upon the bloodstained finery. Blood that stained his hands. Blood that he shed.

As he brandished it for all to see, he was faint with disgust, questioning how he had done this for years and felt nothing almost every time, yet now, because of a few words, he wanted to discard his mantle. Brazenly displaying the head of such a beautiful soul in this manner was deplorable. He was beginning to understand the resent many held for him, as it grew in his own conscience too.

Behind him, he heard the guards shifting, and took this as a sign to drop the head. Strangely, even though he despised how crude it all was, if he were permitted to have it in his own care, away from the primitive perceptions of others and for him alone, he would not mind keeping it. Those eyes, though glazed, were still the most beautiful pair he had ever seen, and he knew this slaughter would haunt him in the way only one other death did.

Unbidden, a face rose up in his mind.

Trying to suppress the memories when they rose up was a useless thing to try. They came in an organised sequence, one hellish recollection after the other, the same every infrequent time.

The rain that pelted Earth on that fateful day, the straggling few, the confusion of seeing a child of his own visage at the grounds of death, dark, short hair disturbed by white, brown skin so like his own, shining with rainwater.

He turned his back on the scene.

Those eyes, sanguine and terrified—

He walked briskly down the steps, entering through the pathway to take him to the catacombs beneath the cathedral.

The desperate thrashing, the cries for help—

He began to run, discarding his axe and fleeing through the winding tunnels.

Father! Father!

He stopped. He stopped running and crumpled to his knees, letting the ghost of those aggrieved screams fill his head and the memory of realising that this was the heavy toll to be extracted in order to prove that he could kill with No remorse choke him. Since then, he had promised never to let his feelings affect him, and his executions had been flawless and smooth.

Today though, today was different. He would weep today, his sobs tainted with loathing at his own vulnerability.

He told himself another day would dawn. Another death. He will have composed himself by then, for he cannot afford to be weak. Not before a single living soul. He was not human. Only the executioner.

Hours passed. Nobody came to hold the executioner close, because to them, that is all he is. A marionette only brought out when nobody is willing to get their hands dirty. He is the one who bears their sins, for he is disposable. They blacken him to preserve the goodness of their precious church. Even so, those in power would never truly understand how deeply he has been damaged. And he too, will never truly understand that either, until ruinous moments like these come about.

But he will never forget the man who seemed to see his sacrilege entirely. Who, in spite of it, pronounced him pure.

Who he laid waste to, regardless.