Darkleer and the Disciple

She crouched on the ground, shoulders back, eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a snarl full of hate and rage and directed straight at him.

Executor Darkleer took little notice.  Another job, another victim.  Regrettable but necessary.  He had his orders, after all.

He reached back and pulled an arrow out of his quiver.  He was in no hurry, and wanted to make this as clean and efficient as possible.  After all, she couldn't escape.  Even if she tried to run, he could have an arrow through her back before she had gone three paces.

It didn't matter.  It was clear that she had no intention of running.

He didn't even know her name.  Not that it mattered; he often didn't know the names of those that he was sent to kill.  It was usually better this way.  The Grand Highblood ordered executions, and Darkleer, true to his title, carried them out.

Besides, he was doubtful that even the Grand Highblood knew this woman's name.  Few were ever trusted with the personal names of the Signless's little band, and most only knew them by their taken titles.

The woman crouching before him now, all he knew, called herself the Disciple.

And just because he didn't know her name didn't mean that the reverse was true.

"Executor Darkleer," she growled up at him.  "Here to finish the job, I take it?"

He didn't answer her.  Instead, he checked the balance of the arrow.  Perfect, as ever.

"I'm the last one, aren't I?" she continued, her voice bitter and angry.  "The others are dead, or worse, all by your hand."

"Yes," he said curtly.  He still didn't look up at her.

She sat up slowly, sitting back on her heels, and turned to face him.  She held the Righteous Leggings tight to her body.  How exactly she had gotten them, Darkleer wasn't sure, but in a moment it wouldn't matter anyway.

Her glare on him never wavered.

"Get on with it, Executor," one of the surrounding Highbloods snapped.

Darkleer shook his head.  He had wasted enough time.  He nocked the arrow and pulled the bowstring back, feeling the cool, deadly power waiting in the warping wood as he aimed the arrow's point at the woman on the ground.

The Disciple didn't flinch, didn't try to move away.  She followed his movements with slitted eyes, the way a predator follows its prey.  As if she was in charge.  As if she held the power here.

It was... unnerving, almost.

Darkleer had lost count long ago of the number of executions he had performed.  By now, he had seen every reaction that the condemned could give.  Some would plead with him, beg for their lives, attempt to convince him that it was a mistake or bribe him into letting them go.  Some would try to run or fight.  Some walked in meekly and never reacted, their eyes dull and blank as if they were dead already, and they were just waiting for him to make it official.  A few would act with a boldness and bravado that Darkleer had long since come to recognize as false.  It never made any difference to their fate.  If they were to die, then they died.

The Disciple, though, didn't fit into any of the categories that he was used to.  She stared straight at him, mouth set in a hard line, eyes blazing with fire and pride and defiance.

It was the defiance in her look that gave him pause.

It wasn't the hollow, showy swagger of bravery that he sometimes got, from those that were terrified to the core but didn't want to seem weak.  The look in the Disciple's eyes was far more personal; it wasn't a show for him or for anyone, and she didn't care if he saw it or not.  It was there because it was genuine.  

She was a follower of the Signless, possibly the most prominent rebel in Alternian history.  Heresy was the Disciple's cause, rebellion by now second nature to her.  That was why she needed to die.

But the idea wasn't just to kill the rebels.  It was to crush the rebellion.  And the Disciple refused to be crushed.

Defiance of class, defiance of orders, defiance of circumstance, defiance of fate, defiance of him; it was there in her eyes because she would honestly not let anything control her.  It was clear that no one could tell her what to do or what to think, if it disagreed with what she thought was best.  And because of that, she was meeting her death on her own terms, and no one else's.  It wasn't just defiance of worldly structures; it was almost defiance of Death itself.

Darkleer couldn't meet those eyes.  He looked down at his hands instead.

That was the thing... the defiance.  It... it was something that he had always shied away from, in any form, because he didn't know how to deal with the conflicting feelings it gave him.

Naturally, he detested it.  Everything had its place, and rules were in existence for a reason.  The Highbloods, by dint of their noble birth, were in charge; the lowbloods were to follow their laws.  That was the natural order of things.  It kept people in line and it kept society running.  If everyone were to act out of their station, the world would collapse.  Darkleer firmly believed this, and always had.  Rules were for following; orders were for obeying.

And yet...

And yet, those that were truly defiant - who refused to follow laws they called unjust, who refused to let arbitrary rules dictate what they should and shouldn't do and think and feel - they had always elicited from Darkleer... disgust, yes, but also a grudging, secret, almost admiration.  

In the way that one can admire boldness, without agreeing with it - because one has to admire, just a little, the courage and unashamed audacity of the person in question - because they know they could never be brave or bold enough to follow through with something like that, and has to be impressed with anyone who can - in this way, Darkleer viewed the defiance he would never, could never go through with himself.  These people had a kind of strength - a strength perverted by the use it was put to, but strength nonetheless - that he knew he would never have.

The Disciple had this strength of will, this strength of heart, that was part of her very life-force.  It was irrevocably entwined with her spirit, her mind, every energy.  And despite her situation now - kneeling on the ground, seconds away from execution -  it was what put her incontrovertibly in charge.

Because that was the look in her flashing green eyes, a look that clearly said, If you kill me now, I win.

There was nothing Darkleer could do.

He closed his eyes and brought the bow down, unfired, bowstring loose and arrow pointed harmlessly at the ground.

A low, hostile murmur came from the surrounding Highbloods.  Darkleer ducked his head and muttered something about sweaty palms.

Above the muted voices of the bystanders, the Disciple's voice was clear and cold.  "Well?  Aren't you going to kill me, Executor?"

The voices petered out.  He continued to stare down at his hands.

"No," he finally said.

The silence now was sudden and oppressive.

"What?" she asked, sounding as if she hadn't quite heard correctly.

He looked up, and for the first time, met her eyes full-on.

She was frowning at him.  She was suspicious, but confusion temporarily replaced overt hostility in her expression.

"Fire, Executor," hissed a Highblood on his right.

He had to.  Darkleer gripped his bow, prepared to raise it... and couldn't.  He couldn't kill her.

Darkleer shook his head.

"Go," he said to the kneeling woman.  "Just... get out of here.  Go."

She stared at him.  He met her gaze evenly.

Something passed between them - not quite an order, not quite a challenge, certainly not an apology, and nothing even remotely resembling forgiveness - but something.

The Disciple nodded once.  She stood up, still clutching the Righteous Leggings to her chest, and never taking her once again steely glare off of Darkleer.  After a moment's pause, she spun around and scampered away.  And even then there was a grace to her movements, a kind of pride.  Her head was held high, and she was as regal as any empress.

Darkleer watched her go until she disappeared into the trees.

Neither had any illusions for what this meant for their respective futures.  The Disciple was left nothing but a life of solitude, spent in hiding, far from anyone who might know her - far from anyone at all.

And Darkleer knew that he would face punishment for his disobedience.  He half-expected to be executed on the spot by the irate Highbloods surrounding him.

But it accomplished nothing to dwell on these things.  What was done was done.  Even if he had wanted to track down the Disciple, he knew that he would never find her again.  He had made his choice.  He would have to accept the consequences.

After all, rules were rules.