Black Angus – Chapter 1

This is a working draft and not a final product.

Content Warnings:
Gore, Death by Hanging, Mutilation of a Corpse, Genital Mutilation, Eating People

In which Angus is executed by hanging.

Midgate

A light rain fell through the stone slit of the embrasure window onto a chartreuse patch of lichen on the floor the prison cell. It was the fourth week of the year’s 9th moon-cycle —Angus and his cellmate Leslie were scheduled to be executed that afternoon.

Rain was a common enough sight in Ériusíde, being a small island with plenty of coast-side to be found in if one wandered for a week in any direction. The land was lush and beautiful, but full of difficult stone which made it so that the country had little to offer to the mainlands, and was just far off enough away to have left it mostly unmolested for the better part of the past two centuries. And yet -due to a long-ago failed invasion by a Tedesch commander in service to the now-disolved Vitule Empire, who had been bested by the wit of the infamous She-Bitch, Iníontíre- Ériusíde was a surprisingly diverse land, many of its population being descendants of war slaves. Its general welcomeness towards foreign faces -and its popularity amongst Boreastican merchants as a retirement destination- made Ériusíde an attractive place to the various diaspora from around the central continent.

Angus rose from his spot near the iron door. His flat, pointed shoes made little noise as he crossed the cool dirt floor to the embrasure on the other side of the cell —where Leslie always was. He hesitated, then stuck two of his short, thin fingers through the slit. Angus turned his hand ponderously through the outside air as raindrops flecked his skin. The water droplets were freezing cold, but it was the light in the air which they fell through that he paid attention to —How little he seemed to feel it.

“Just our luck, isn’t it?” Leslie whinged, unaware of the partial truth in his words. His luck remained the same, but Angus could very nearly begin believing in miracles -perhaps even gods- for even the most cunning of little neighbors couldn’t pull off this kind of favor.

In a moment of weakness, Angus considered sharing his luck. He’d grown partially familiar with the man over the past 6 days, but Leslie didn’t deserve such a thing. Angus buried his teeth hard into his salivating tongue, fighting off the intrusive thoughts that tried to reason against him. His gut coiled inside him like a snake crushing a helpless mouse. Ignoring Leslie, he wiped the wet palm of his hand on his herringbone trousers, then slunk back to his corner of the cell to wait for their execution.

Perhaps the rain would not be enough, but if that was so, it would be no matter. His life, with all of its cruelties, would finally be done. At least, he would never see Ulvenkeep Manor again. To return would be worse than death, or any jail cell —freezing, filthy, and starving despite having a perfectly decent meal available to him. If he ate now, it would surely be his last meal. There’d be no hope for him then, with or without rain.

Instead, Angus clutched his aching sides and rolled his head back against the ashlar wall. He tried as best as he could to conjure just a single pleasant memory to comfort him in these final hours, but he had already seen behind the stage curtain. All that Angus had thought he had known had become tainted in in cruel, deceitful blood. He’d been waiting for this day longer than he’d realized. Something had to change.

One at a time, Leslie, Angus, and two prisoners from an adjacent cell were summoned out to the hallway, where their ankles were cuffed to a conjoined iron chain. The four were escorted out of Midgate Prison to an overcast yard laid with trampled craters of mud and scant grass stems. Strewn about were pedestrians who jeered as they passed. The bleak weather had kept the crowd’s size to a minimum, but in turn had sifted only the most vitriolic malcontents through. Endless rude names and foul acts were delineated towards them, and one man got close enough to spit in Angus’s hair before a guard shoved him away.

The prisoners halted at the base of the gallows. The scene all about them was tinted in dim gray, but Angus’s skin prickled nonetheless, pulling tight over his frame where the air stung; the distress only momentarily relieved by the light drops of rain. One at a time again, each prisoner was uncuffed to ascend the platform, their name and charge announced to the audience, and their neck secured in a loop of rope.

“Angus Barghest — Attempted Murder.”

A small number of uninspired insults were shouted from the crowd below, their voices weighty with venom. In his muddied shoes, Angus scaled the steps onto the platform obediently. But regardless, the hangman handled him roughly, digging his blunt fingers deep into Angus’s arms as he positioned him on the stage. A thick hempen rope was forced over Angus’s crown as the callused and unkind hands continued to grip his collar and throat.

“Gods, you’re cold. Getting ahead of us, are you? A-ha, you’re not dead yet, son.”

Angus simmered with loathing for the man, biting into his chapped lip as he tried to maintain a cool expression. Instead of giving his executioner the satisfaction, he tried to memorize as much as he could about him. His nostrils flared as he took in the man’s musk; his hazel eyes; the shade of his leathery skin; the grit of his voice; his stout build; his heavy gait —an awful man who mocks his victims before he kills them.

The floor fell out from under the prisoners’ feet with a ‘thunk’. Angus’s neck cracked, the horrible noise splitting nettles through his ears. The sound was almost worse than the pain, shocking torment along his spinal column, whipping down to the back of his knees and ankles, swelling his tongue, and his eyes threatening to rupture from their sockets. He could feel the entire weight of his body suspended by only his jaw. The voracious sound of the audience’s roar was indistinguishable from the blood pounding in his ears, but one could imagine the excitement he might have caused with his pathetic spasms as Angus willed his body to play its part. He wanted so feverishly to grasp the rope, to rip at the cord with his thin nails and release himself, but what was to come next would be the most punishing of all.

The bodies would be left to hang until dawn the next day. The icy rain that continued to soak Angus’s clothes sent the leerers home early, but there were still the guards, workers taking late walks home, and privileged folks riding into town to drink and dine at a selection of Midgate’s exclusive clubs. Angus would have to wait until dark for the yard to empty itself of witnesses. Leslie and the others had met their deaths quickly, but he had to patiently continue hanging by that thick, swaying rope.

Waves of consciousness radiated through Angus, his suffering too intense to stay present, and too vivid to ignore. Angus stared off into the rippling puddles that formed in thick patches of mud, anguish blooming through his brain, outward with the ringlets of each raindrop that disrupted their surface. The puddles reflected contorted images of the three dead men beside him, twisting their limbs so they looked like gnarled branches and their faces shaping masks of agony. Angus was thankful he could not see himself. At one point, a starving black hound wandered over to them, sniffed at his shoes, then departed with its curiosity sated.

Over three hours, the muted gray light of the afternoon desaturated into near complete darkness. A distinct stillness crept around him, in a manner so unannounced it could have easily gone missed by anyone not enduring the tortures of the damned as they anticipated its arrival.

Cautiously, Angus lifted his tense hand to paw at the rope suspending him. His second hand met his first, and then -bracing himself- Angus gave a determined tug. His chin caught the edge of the rope. He suppressed a yelp as a shiver of fresh pain lanced his neck. Angus stilled, letting the sharpness of his fumble run its course over his tender nerves. Then, with renewed focus, he braced the rope again and slowly lifted his body until he could tilt his head back ever-so to free himself from the noose. Angus fell limply, back-first, inches-deep into the mud. Once again, the aching soreness sprang out over his frame, but Angus let it run through him completely this time. He laid in the mud as if it were a feather mattress, and released an elongated, weary moan —the only vocalization he’d allowed himself in several hours.

Anything from ten minutes to an hour passed by. Eventually, the rest stopped feeling like rest, and more like Angus was supine on the freezing ground, staring at the underside of a wooden stage that cut off the view of the night sky. Perhaps it was good, even with the persistent storm clouds, that he did not have clear sight of celestial dome above him. He feared the stars. They always made him feel small. Helpless. Weak. His fingers fluttered, then he drew his knees closer to his abdomen. Angus wasn’t sure whether his neck could support the weight of his head —a task that had seemed so trivial before; so he considered his alternatives. Maybe he could find the strength to crawl to safety. Or he could wait out the night to die pointlessly in the morning.

Finding the willpower to lift himself off the ground was far easier than it had been to hoist himself from the noose a second time. Angus pressed his flat palms into the slick clay, tensing his abdomen as he counterweighted his knees down in the direction of his shoes to raise his head and torso —almost as if he could complete the motion without having to think about it. The moisture of his clothes released with a soft ‘pop’ where the deepest laying parts of him had been sucked into the earth. There was mud in his dark curls, inside and behind his ears, down his back, ass, and thighs, and completely saturating his hands, socks, and shoes. His head hung to the side a bit awkwardly, and it ached along with his neck down most of his spine, but overall his condition was far better off than he’d anticipated. In an odd way, it was a relief to have the capacity to feel disgusted at his state, to be well enough to care about trivial discomforts and soiled clothes.

Preserving his energy, he crawled to the other bodies. Angus didn’t know about the other two, but having spent six full days and nights with the man, he knew Leslie was guilty of his charge. A unique opportunity presented itself to Angus in the form of forbidden arts, and though it risked what precious little time was available to him, he had to take advantage of any edge he could seize hold of.

Grabbing at the body’s knees for support, Angus climbed Leslie’s corpse to stand somewhat upright. Tucking his left arm under Leslie’s right, and resting his head on the chest of the corpse like one might hold a lover, Angus relaxed against the hanging body, causing it to tilt diagonally against his weight in the air. With his right hand, Angus lifted Leslie’s left to his face. He winced at the smell of already decaying flesh, then Angus bit down on the corpse’s wrist as hard as he could, with the intent of breaking bone.

Spitting out rancid and congealed fluid in-between every few lashes, Angus violently gnashed at the arm of his former cell-mate. He severed the soft flesh and tendons quickly, but only fractured the radius. Exposed without its precious padding, Angus felt confident that he could turn to blunter tools. A number of sizable stones had been unearthed in the rain puddles. Picking one of them up, Angus wiped his mouth, replacing the sticky corpse rot with a streak of mud, then bashed at the pair of bones until they splintered. Balancing himself carefully, Angus snapped the destroyed arm over his kneecap, releasing the hand from its owner.

Panting, he checked his surroundings. His violence had not yet attracted any curiosity, but he likely couldn’t afford much more movement in the center of the still yard. Pocketing Leslie’s hand, Angus reached up to the corpse’s head and gave a yank —it was tougher than expected. Snarling, Angus gripped firmly at the roots again and pulled again, harder. A lock of hair came free, with plenty of ragged, unseemly scalp still attached. Angus pocketed the lock with the hand, and moved quickly away from the exposed open area.

Navigating his way back to the Midgate Prison, Angus pressed his back along the rain-slicked stone walls, blotting out lanterns wherever he could get away with it, and surveying the doorways. Predictably, most spots were manned by at least two guards each. But guards were still human, and they functioned with the same sloppy weaknesses that humans do.

Sticking to dark areas, Angus crept around the perimeter until he found an area touched by nature. He slipped into the brush, keeping the light of the building within view as he trailed deeper into the plant growth, until a spot revealed itself. Intuition from long forgotten habits drew him there, but his suspicions were shortly confirmed by the feint scent of ammonia concentrated around a large and well-aged tree. Angus found an obscured space about ten feet away, with clear view of the tree where he crouched low to the ground, dense leaves and mulch collapsing around his ankles.

Eight days. Eight days had passed since Angus had been imprisoned; since he had fed. Six days since he was sentenced and confined to wait for his justice with Leslie. He never pretended around Leslie; there were just things he did without explanation that his companion didn’t ever bother to question. Leslie never turned down the extra portions. He likely assumed Angus had given up or was punishing himself. —Angus could have given up. All he’d have to do was join Leslie where he had stood every damn day, looking longingly out the embrasure window at the world which he’d never freely walk in again. Giving up would have been an easier end than starving from one day to the next until it was time for them to hang, but Angus had held onto a feeling that an opportunity would present itself. And then, dark gray storm clouds pulled in, blocking out the entire sky.

Eight days had passed since Angus had betrayed Mikael. He recalled his charge. He remembered the first time he’d heard it: Attempted Murder. Mikael was still alive.

Angus’s mark announced himself loudly. Small animals in the distance scattered away. The drunken guard plodded gracelessly to the exact spot Angus suspected, but he observed a factor he hadn’t yet considered. The problem ought to have been obvious, and Angus cursed himself for not anticipating the likelihood of the issue earlier. The middle-aged man was well covered in leather and mail, helm, and pads of armor. Angus understood the only truly viable option for his next move. Though the guard had pawned away his honor in choosing to serve the wealthy through the subjugation of the poor, and deserved no sympathy, Angus -being a man himself- could not help feeling some amount of pity for the fellow. The guard stepped into a familiar, wide stance, relaxed his shoulders, revealed himself, and Angus pounced at the only area of flesh the man had exposed.

“OH GODS, MY COCK! YOU’VE TORN MY COCK OFF! WHAT HELLS IS THIS!?”

The noise was certainly a problem, but Angus couldn’t possibly be bothered by such truths in a moment like this. His face was buried deep in the man’s thigh, finding his femoral artery and filling himself with warm mouthfuls of his spirit, his lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back in his head. Conveniently, the faster he fed, the sooner he’d take the man’s life and shut him up nicely. The guard passed out and stopped screaming after a number of seconds and was dead in less than a minute. His wails would inevitably draw attention, but there’d be enough time for the important tasks.

With his strength renewed -and the poor bastard’s severed member still in hand- Angus seized the dead man’s ankles and dragged him deeper into the brambles, kicking the carmine spill into scattered, dead leaves. Anyone who bothered to observe the area would see the the flecked color amongst the grass and fallen leaves, and the clear trail of disrupted earth leading away, but it was less conspicuous than the mess he’d made, and Angus was working with limited time.

He pulled the body to a thick shrub and placed its mangled member almost sentimentally back between its legs. Angus removed the guard’s already loosened belt, which was attached with the dead man’s purse, key chain, sword, and utility knife —and secured it around his own waist.

Suddenly remembering his own body, Angus’s hands vaulted for his neck. His stubby fingers massaged up either side of his collar to his jaw, the nagging pain loosening to a dull but still present ache. His hands worked methodically, as if he were chalking the head of a billiard cue or -more appropriately- refastening the head on the peg of a toy doll.

Feeling out the odd distribution of weight, Angus undid the baldric securing the sword and laid the weapon between the dead man’s legs, almost apologetically. He made a quick job of covering the body with fallen brush, just in time for a distant torchlight to catch the reflective green tapetum of his brown eyes.

“Andrew?” the guard’s partner whispered into the dark, “Are you there? What happened?”

Angus stilled, obfuscated by the shrub further into the overgrowth. His hand wrapped around a stone nestled in the damp mulch, and waited as the second guard wandered closer, far closer still to the tree he’d left soaked in blood and urine. Silence broke as Angus flung the stone at a young tree, angled diagonally between the piss tree and the shrub hiding the body. The second guard’s torch swung in the stone’s direction.

“Andrew?” she hissed, voice trembling.

The foolish guard trailed in the stone’s direction. Crouched low, Angus tried to match the woman’s steps with painful attention as he crept to the same spot. About 30 feet away, Angus cracked a twig beneath his shoe, causing him to anxiously press himself flush a small tree. The light of the guard’s torch turned his way, again flaring the tapetum of Angus’s eyes, but the guard did not investigate further. Turning back in the direction the piss-tree, the guard kept walking, with Angus still matching his steps. Angus grew more aware of himself as he got closer to filling the gap between them. The second guard’s awareness grew as well, her posture straightening as if she were straining to listen.

Angus sensed the woman’s shift in movement. Any further stalking would risk revealing himself. Pausing meant losing the proximity gained, perhaps even being faced head on. Angus took one leap diagonally to the guard’s left —and before the woman could fully turn to glance over her shoulder, Angus lunged to her right, knife in hand, slitting her throat in a full stroke. The only sound the guard had time to make was an inhuman croak, her vocal cords desperate to announce her anguish as death took her. Angus cradled the guard’s head back tenderly as the woman’s life sprayed down her chest. He inhaled the metallic scent, pressing his tongue into the gash to drink away the warm remains as they both collapsed to their knees. Angus’s hand grasped the knife against the woman’s abdomen, embracing her tightly. His nose and jaw dripped with a thick maw of spirit as he tilted his head back, pupils blown, panting heavily, being taken over fully by the fleeting satisfaction.

Angus emptied the second guard’s purse, then disposed of her body in the same spot as the other. No doubt, they’d be easily found in the morning, but Angus would be gone by then —and the night was still incredibly young.

All the same, he retraced his steps, working to make the trail less blatant before slinking back to the edge of the tree line with Andrew’s key ring in hand. Keeping inside the brush, Angus carefully treaded back near the perimeter of the small prison building to scout out the unmanned threshold that the guards had left behind. Nestling himself in the doorway, Angus released the oaken door with the first key he tried —the largest, of course.

Slipping inside, he considered his dirty shoes. Then, observing the plentiful mud trails already laid across the floor, he decided they weren’t much of a problem. Angus remembered this corridor. Down different stretches of the hall, he could detect soft indications of life —all the better for him to blend into. Glancing down corners, stepping softly past sleeping prisoners, waiting for men making their rounds ambling from one point to the next, Angus maneuvered his way to the receiving room. Here, the only guard posted slumbered in a wooden chair.

Angus carefully eyed the man as he tested two keys, then a third; clicking the door free gently, without stirring the fellow from his deep slumber. In the office he found most of his less valuable belongings in a simple pine-wood chest. He procured a burlap sack, a lambswool shirt, and some mismatched socks which had belonged to some other inmates. They were at least a size too large, but clean and dry all the same. Most importantly, Angus found an indistinct pouch containing a handful of earth. He pressed it close to his chest before pocketing it. Tucked away more discreetly, but still easily located, was a sturdy strongbox which Angus unlocked using the smallest key, containing a scant handful of prisoner’s seized family heirlooms. Everything went into the burlap sack.

Angus had what he needed. He could depart now, though a familiar musk wafted from an unfamiliar corridor, beyond the office’s side door. Angus pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, pondering the foolishness of the choice. Cursing himself, he pressed a key into the lock, feeling it pop free in his hands.

Illuminated through a pair of glass windows by cool, blue moonlight, four men slept in the scattered cots in a quaint dormitory. Angus strode across the room to the cot at the furthest side and stared at the man sleeping below him where he stood. The cracked window beside him let in a crisp breeze. Angus’s small hand grasped the man’s nose and mouth, waking him instantly. Wide eyes stared back at Angus’s wretched face, still coated thick with wet earth and blood. The man made no sound. Angus leaned down to his ear.

“Why have you stop breathing?” Angus whispered against his unshaved cheek, “—You’re not dead yet.”

The hangman gurgled blood into Angus’s clasped hand as he slid the knife into his jowls. Angus flicked his hand as if to dry it, flecking the bedded corpse and the sheets with a spatter of blood. He slid the cracked window open a touch further, then vanished into the night.