#oc lioret

The village folk woke with the rooster's cry. The liveliest of them—dogs and children—came swirling around Lioret first. Then women began arriving for water. Some expressed surprise that he was bound, others that he was still there. Soon after the morning meal, the villagers gathered in the communal hut, the large building at the far end of the square.

Yesterday's redhead and the leader of the night gang came for the prince. He stood to meet them, not wanting to be yanked by his arms.

"Who?" both asked, each meaning something different. Who tied and beat you? Who let you off the noose?

"Couldn't see in the dark," he replied to them both—a blatant lie, and he didn't even bother pretending otherwise.

As they escorted him to the trial, he stole glances to either side, searching for Marienne. She was nowhere to be found. Understandable... He wouldn't want to look at a hated face either.

Inside the communal hut—rows of chairs and benches, clearly fetched from every home. The whole building was packed so tightly there was barely room to breathe. At the far end of the long hall stood the judge's bench, with the village headman seated upon it, duty etched into his face. Lioret was escorted to the empty space between the audience and the judge. No one bothered to untie his wrists.

Waiting for the moment silence settled over the crowd, he asked, "May I have a word first?"

The clamor broke out, cut short by the headman's meaty palm. "You may."

The prince gave a grateful nod, drew a deep breath, and spoke loudly and firmly:

"I plead guilty."

The crowd murmured. As Lioret continued, it took increasing willpower not to stumble, to keep his voice steady—more courage for each horrible word to come out firmly, to come out at all. He didn't grant himself the mercy of a single pause. In the thickened silence, the words fell heavily, like gravestones.

"Yesterday at dusk I was at the river. A girl came there. Marienne. She came to swim alone; she didn't see me. I failed to control myself. I raped her. And I am sorry. I do not ask for forgiveness. Nor for leniency. I will accept whatever punishment you choose for me. And if Marienne wishes to decide my fate herself, I humbly ask the court to grant her that."

Silence fogged the hall.

"Hang the bastard!" The first cry came, cracking the electrified air, and the whole hut exploded with voices.

Lioret stood shaking from having to put what he did into words, head down, listening to his future being shaped. They argued over how to execute him. Whether to execute him at all. Then again—how? Hang him? Drown him? Quarter him? Or maybe castrate him, chain him, and put him to work plowing the fields. The debates wouldn't settle.

The door creaked open, letting in sunlight, fresh air... and Marienne's mother. Lioret turned to her and barely managed to lift his eyes. The prince looked at her with the bitter, guilty gaze of a beaten dog, and her look was the most terrifying thing he'd seen in the past two days.

She walked up and backhanded him without pause. His head jerked to the side; he turned it back and met her gaze again.

"How dare you look me in the eye, you monster?"

"I figured I must," he said quietly. "And it's not easy."

“Oh, not easy, is it? And how was it for my daughter, huh? Did you think of that?” Another slap. He met her eyes once more.  

“Back then, no, I didn’t. I was only thinking about myself. Now—all the time.” He decided to give straight answers.  

Malika’s hand rose again—and fell. Lioret didn’t flinch. She had put too much of herself into those two strikes. And only then did he allow himself to look away.  

She stepped toward the judge, and the prince turned to the court bench as well. “May I have a word?” she asked.  

“You may,” the headman replied quickly.  

“My daughter doesn’t wish to see this wretch, but she sent her word. She wants him to live a long and tormenting life, so that every moment of his existence reminds him of what he’s done. She leaves the details to the court.”  

After another round of debates, they settled on Lioret’s punishment. He was to be whipped, his hands broken and cut off, his feet broken and cut off, his tongue cut out as well, his eyes burned out. No castration—may the desire remain, only to never be fulfilled.  

“May I have a word?” the prince asked.  

“You may,” the judge allowed reluctantly.  

“If I survive this, I must face my father and confess to him too. I won’t be able to speak or write. Will anybody write him a letter from my dictation, or fix my shoulder so that I could write it myself?”  

“Request denied!” the headman announced, to the mob’s approving buzz.  

Lioret lowered his head silently, accepting their decision.  

“I’ll bring him to his father,” came old Tod’s voice. “Let’s have a look at the man who raised such a son.”  

The prince turned around and gave him a deep bow. “I thank you,” he said, and both knew it meant more than it appeared to.  

Then they walked him out to the square, to a small scaffold already half-built.  

Lioret was compliant, deep in his thoughts. Facing the trial, he had found clarity, and now he tried to imagine what awaited him. Could he endure it without screaming? Could he at least not beg for mercy? What would the king say?  

Would Marienne live a proper life?  

Would he endure?  

Can he?  

Soon the scaffold was ready, the night gang leader waiting for him, now openly taking on the hangman’s role. Lioret didn’t care whose hand was to torture him. Near him stood a table, tools laid out on it. Whip. Hammer. Axe. Knife. Pliers. Each carrying his fate.  

The prince took a deep breath and walked up the scaffold, not waiting to be told.

...

For two or three hours, Lioret focused on staying awake and alert. He couldn't afford to black out—not with a noose around his neck. Every so often, he'd hold his breath and let his head drop for a brief moment, stealing what rest he could.

In the darkest hour before sunrise, he heard footsteps again—just one person this time. He raised his head, exhausted.

Old Tod, the girl's father, wore a strange expression. Doubt. Hesitation. Even confusion.

"Don't be sorry," Lioret muttered hoarsely. "I deserve this. And I accept it."

"No, I just—" The man rubbed his chin, then pulled a silver coin from his pocket.

A cold shiver of instant realization flooded Lioret's body.

"Gold ones have the king's profile, right? And..."

"Yes," the young man confirmed, his voice sad and hollow.

Tod's face crumbled with turmoil. Rage, hatred, confusion, awe—and anger at himself for that awe. But strongest of all was the deep, irreparable disappointment. Bruised and bloodied, covered in dust, forever branded by his unworthy deed, choking on a rope before Tod—was his prince. On impulse, the old man untied the loop from Lioret's neck. The prince landed face-down in the dusty ground, hands still bound. He pulled his legs beneath him and managed to stand. Marienne's father looked at him, trembling, torn between smashing the villain's throat and helping his crown prince.

The first thing Lioret did was walk back to the spot he'd been dragged from. Then he turned to Tod, who still stood by the well. "You didn't have to do that. I thank you," he said quietly.

"But... what about—"

The prince lowered his head with a sigh. "My father doesn't know. If I die tomorrow, the blacksmith will go to the capital, meet him, tell him the truth, and give him my letter. You won't be prosecuted, no matter what becomes of me. If I live, I will face him myself. I don't believe I'm worthy of the throne anymore... and I don't know what my father will decide. But here's what I do know: one word from Marienne, and your family will never need anything in your lives. Perhaps she wouldn't want me to give her anything. I hope the decision will be hers. As for now..."

He paused and looked up at Tod, who had approached him in silent disbelief.

"I have no right to ask you for anything, and yet I ask. Don't tell them. I don't want to cast a shadow on my father. He is a man of honor, and I failed him. Let the trial be just, as it would be for any street scum. And let my father take care of the realm's future."

Lioret knelt before Marienne's father and met his eyes. "Please," he whispered.

"You can't just put such a burden on me!" Tod spat angrily, beginning to pace before the prince, his mind a visible mess.

"I can not. I should not. And I'll understand if you decide to tell. But I beg you."

"Damn you!" old Tod yelled. He grabbed the well's bucket and slammed it into Lioret—once, twice, again, with no aim, just raw emotion in every strike.

Lioret took it all resignedly, not turning his face away, not making a sound, trying not even to flinch. Finally, the old man threw the bucket aside with a dull clang, looked down at the prince—boiling mixture of feelings in his eyes—and rushed away without an answer.

He met the villagers halfway to the woods. They walked fueled by rage, their faces grim. Many carried axes, scythes, hay pitchforks. A sight that sent a chill down Lioret's neck—those forks were meant for his teacher.

"Going to the blacksmith's?" he asked as they approached.

"Mind your business!" their leader said. He was a redhead, sun-kissed. Like her. Could this be her brother?

Lioret exhaled sharply, dug deep for courage, and said, "It wasn't him."

The redhead paused mid-step. "What?"

"It's not the blacksmith you need. It wasn't him who did this."

The villager stopped. "Who, then?"

Lioret closed his eyes for a moment. Scythe or fork? Which would pierce him first? Or would it be an axe? He silenced his reflexes. Do not fight back.

"I. It was I." He turned to face the crowd. His eyes met the redhead's—blazing with fury—with his own, dark with guilt. He thought it right to meet each of their gazes.

A heavy fist slammed into Lioret's face, sending him stumbling back a few feet. He took it without resistance. A second punch—to the stomach—folded him in half. A third—to the ear—threw him to the ground. The others closed in, showering him with kicks and punches. Lioret tried not to cover up, though he couldn't be sure he managed.

Someone grabbed him by the collar, yanked him up, and slammed his back against a tree, a pitchfork pressing into his stomach. The villageman holding it must never have killed anyone—he froze, hesitating.

Lioret instinctively reached for the fork, then forced his hands down, pressing them against the tree. He relaxed his tense stomach, and the pitchfork pressed harder, almost breaking the skin. He looked the villager in the eye.

Fork it is, then. A quick trial...

"Wait," the redhead said reluctantly. "I think ol’ Tod and Malika should see him."

"Her parents?" Lioret asked quietly, and was immediately punched in the face for it.

"You've got no right to talk about them!"

The pitchfork pulled back, though.

"Anyone got a rope?"

"I've got my belt..."

"Won't be necessary. I'll walk myself." Lioret said firmly, stepping away from the tree and toward the redhead. "Lead the way."

And that was how he entered the village—a pitchfork prodding at his back. Unnecessary, but the villagers couldn't hold their rage.

They reached the central square by the well, a crowd buzzing around them.

Death.

That was the sound of it, waiting for Lioret. They wouldn't spare him—that much was certain. For what he'd done, he wouldn't spare himself either, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. Still, he kept walking, never letting fear slow his steps.

He spotted another redhead—a middle-aged man, standing apart in the shadow of a wooden house. He wasn't joining the crowd. That had to be Marienne's father.

"I have to face him," Lioret said to his escort, his heart growing heavier. They let him go.

He walked to the doorstep, flowers blooming all around him, and felt like he didn't belong in this beautiful place. He had played this moment in his mind a hundred times, and still, he couldn't find a single word.

So he just met his eyes.

A woman stepped out of the doorway—dry as a mummy, her hair grey. Lioret turned to look at her, and that was harder than taking the pitchfork without resistance. Her eyes—two burning coals, brimming with absolute hatred—seared a pitch-black wound into his soul. He dropped his head, his eyes stinging. Then bowed, then knelt, then went down on all fours, and lower still—until his forehead touched the ground. And then he wept silently.

There was nothing to say. He didn't ask for forgiveness, because he didn't seek it, and because he couldn't even bring himself to imagine Marienne's parents finding it in their hearts to grant him any. He had returned to this village seeking justice, not absolution.

"I curse you," the woman's voice came, lifeless. "However long you have yet to live, may it never be easy, and may it never be happy."

Two pairs of footsteps retreated into the house. The door closed softly.