There was only one way to survive. Only one way to avoid the sword. Executioner had a right to pick a convict of his liking to do as he pleased with said individual. Convict would get a year. Year in during which his or her case would be re-evaluated, under watchful eyes of the executioner. If after a year the executioner was pleased and convict showed remorse and had behaved well, there would be a chance of getting free.
She sat at the far end of the cell, tangled, brown and greasy hair hanging over her face and hands curled around her knees when other women in her cell started primping and preening themselves and fighting for the best places at the bars. Many of them went as far as to remove their shirts to reveal their breasts to catch the attention of the executioner, toying with their nipples to get them perk up. She didn’t bother. She really didn’t have breasts to speak of, there was a gap between her front teeth that in her opinion marred her visage beyond ugliness, and she was weak from malnourishment. Executioner would be looking for a woman capable of serving his every need, not a ratty mouse who could barely stand on her own two feet. So when the footsteps approached the cell she curled even further in to the corner she had come to regard as her own during her long stay at the prison and turned her back to the squabbling mob of women blocking the doorway.
“…Hookers and thieves, mostly. And one murderer.”
“Murderer?”
“Killed her husband. Though I can not understand for the life of mine how she managed that.”
“Which one?”
“She’s at the back. You want me to get her for you?”
She could hear them talking. Two men. The guard and the executioner. And they were talking about her. Well, it didn’t matter. Even if the guard called her forth, executioner would most likely pick somebody else after seeing her.
“Bring her to my chambers. I’ll look in to it. If she’s not suitable, bring that one over there. The one with red hair and shirt still on.”
“I’ll do that.”
When the door opened and the guard started to push back the wallowing crowd of half naked women she stood up to avoid getting stepped on. Women were screeching, shouting obscenities and spitting at the guard, but he forced them back.
“Rogue! Get over here!” She pushed through the crowd, wincing when somebody grabbed her hair, and nearly tripped over when somebody stepped on her toes, but she forced her way through. It would be a false hope, executioner would send her back as soon as he laid his eyes on her, but at least she would get out from the cell, even if it were just for a short moment.
She had to stop and lean against the wall when the guard locked the cell door. Struggling through the blockade her cellmates had tried to form had drained every bit of strength from her, and her knees were shivering from the sheer exhaustion.
“Come on now. He’s waiting for you,” the guard urged her and she forced her legs to cooperate.
Walk from the cellblock to executioner’s chambers wasn’t very long, but she was already stumbling, grasping support from the walls and gasping air out of breath when they reached the heavy oak door. The guard was about to knock on the door when he suddenly turned to her. Arranged her tattered clothing, pushed back the greasy mop of hair and wiped her face with a handkerchief.
“No matter what you did, you still deserve a fair chance against those hags…” Man muttered, brushed her shirt and trousers one last time and knocked on the door.
“Leave us. I’ll call you when I have made my decision,” executioner said and waved his hand to the guard.
He just sat there, behind his desk in complete silence, evaluating her. She stood under his scrutiny, trying not to fidget or avoid his gaze, but rather answer it with her own. This gave her a chance to observe him as well. He was tall. She could tell it from the way he sat, slightly hunched, both feet sticking out from under the table. Broad shoulders and strong arms, most likely the end result from wielding the heavy sword that hung behind him on the wall. Long. Black hair tied back, dark shade coloring his jaw. Wide palms crossed in front of him on the table. Hazel eyes scanning every inch of her, as if he could see straight through the ragged clothes she wore.
“Murder?” He spoke with a low, raspy voice, so low that at first she had hard time hearing him, so he had to rephrase his question.
“You killed your husband?”
“Yes.” She forced back the nausea and sadness forming inside of her. She had cried over the matter enough. No more tears over that grave.
“Are you proud of it?”
“No.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you do it?”
“He killed the child I was carrying and made me barren.”
“I see. Were you a good wife?”
“Yes.”
“So he had no reason to believe that the child you were carrying wasn’t his?”
“No. No reason at all.”
“And if I were to question his friends, what would I hear? What was the state of his home under your hand? Was the heath kept warm? Rooms tidy? Linens clean and in order? His clothes in presentable condition?”
“Y…”
“Don’t lie to me. I will ask about these things from the people that knew your husband.”
“I was a good wife. I would have been a good mother hadn’t God decided otherwise.”
She kept her back straight and her head high even when it took all her will not to crouch down and start cursing and spitting at the man sitting in front of her and judging her with his words. What right did he have to question her honesty? She wasn’t a liar. She wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for that fateful night when she had finally gotten enough and in sudden bout of rage buried the poker in to her husband’s chest.
She remembered it all clearly. How she had gotten in to bed early because her back was hurting, whether from the weight of the child, or from the beating Carl had given her earlier she hadn’t known. She had just fallen asleep when Carl had stumbled in to their bedroom, utterly drunk, reeking of booze and cheap perfume she could smell every time she walked past the tavern, coming off in waves from the scantily clad women sitting on the front porch of that establishment.
She still didn’t know what had spurred Carl, what had possessed him to grab her and throw her down the stairs in to the kitchen. But the fall had broken something precious inside of her. She had felt hot gush of blood between her thighs, and suddenly the pain in her back hadn’t been as much of an issue as the pain cramping her stomach had been.
Several months after the miscarriage and no new child in her womb had made Carl angry and bitter. He had started to accuse her of witch’s crafts. That she had somehow made herself barren, unfit for a wife.
It had all come to an end when he had returned home at the early hours of dawn, drunk as a skunk, telling that he was going to get rid of her. Get rid of the filthy, lazy slut he had married out of whim so that he could replace her with a proper wife who was at least able to give him children. He had been approaching her with bare hands. Surely big ox of a man like him was able to subdue and kill fragile creature like her? She had grabbed the first thing she had been able to reach; sharp poker she normally used to crash big charred lumps of wood in the fireplace. She had warned Carl, but he had just laughed and lunged towards her. Poker had pierced his chest, straight through his heart.
“Hmph. It really doesn’t matter if you were a good wife or not. What matters is whether you’re willing to repent your ways or not,” executioner murmured, rubbing his jaw, deep in thought.
“I’m looking for a suitable person to take care of my household. Keep the place tidy and clean, cook for me, carry water and wood… You don’t look strong enough,” he continued.
“I’m strong. I can cook. I can sew. I can even read and write… I can…”
“Reading and writing are not needed in the work I have to offer. And strong? Look at you! You can barely stand on your own!”
She smiled all the way back in to the cell. She hadn’t even expected to be picked out, but at least she had gotten a small reprieve from the crowded, stinking hellhole she was to call her home until her trial and execution.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
This bunny bit me and didn't let go before I wrote it down. This is finished, but I have to brush up later parts for a bit, will post more tomorrow. Somewhat dark story. No mutants in this one, Logan and Marie are both ordinary people, living somewhere around middle ages. No beta or research was used during writing this, all mistakes are mine alone.