Head on a pike

I rub my temples as the memory of what father said crosses my mind. Everything he says brings me a headache. That fool of a man. If only mother was here, she would talk sense into that thick head of his.

Just as I'm about to retreat for my office (with a headache, might I add), the wind carries with it a distinct chatter of soldiers not supposed to do what they're doing. It has an unmistakable sound: it's like listening to a swarm of babbling idiots. What is the meaning of the commotion? Can't you even have a health inspection without looking like a herd of morons?

There's someone standing in the middle of it all. The cause.

It's you. Of course it is. 

It doesn't surprise me to see you there, almost naked, all alone, ready to be fed to the wolves. I knew this would happen. As soon as I saw your little face I knew that you would die. Didn't even bother to kill you myself.

Of course I would've killed you otherwise. It would be a mercy killing, of sorts.

Should I just let you die? It would be easier. You shouldn't be here. You and I both know that you will die here one way or another, sooner or later. 

I could just leave. I could just leave you to die.

So, I turn around. Your head will be on a pike for a couple of weeks to serve as a warning. Barbaric? Perhaps. One gets used to the severed heads. I much prefer them over walking past someone hanging from a cross, dying slowly in agony. A shudder runs through me. At least the heads are dead and gone. One should just kill those who need to die and be done with it, not leave them to suffer needlessly. That's just disgusting.

But as my mind is filled with visions of your severed head, you dangling from a cross, you being fed to the beasts, I take a note of something peculiar: there's something weird happening in my stomach.

I halt my steps and squint at the sensation, trying to make sense of it. There's a knot of sorts. It tightens when the cold wind assaults the skin of my face, knowing fully well that you are shivering because of it.

No. I shake my head. That must be the onion sauce I ate yesterday.

It's the sauce, not the thought of you quivering in this weather. Waiting for them to end you. Like we did to your whole clan. They fought bravely, your father fought like a mighty beast. I imagine you would kill some of the spectators waiting to see you die, perhaps even Zoilus would meet his demise. You would fight like your father.

The reason why I turn around towards you is because I would be bored without you. That's right! 

What else would make my daily life more interesting than someone after my own life?

Exciting! With my step a little lighter I almost run to you. I will save you, you moron.