Rhythmic Social Execution

Two fighting cattle stance in the castle square. Hand in hand, a bold, intimate display of affection if they were a young couple. But instead they were two men with aging faces, hungry in their own ways. Ábel was not impressed by the odd man's approach to battle. Tackles, kicks, bites, what is new about it? When you have been trying to get killed for thirty-eight years, most pain ceases to amaze you. Even if your sword has been blessed by your god, it is still a sword, and sticking it through flesh is nothing new to Ábel.

The man had a falchion on his right hip, but never drew it. Instead the two wiggled on top, under, side to side. Till one hand slipped around Ábel's waist, the other intertwined in his own. Feet prance, right left, left left, right right, one large swing, and the dragon king felt frozen in the grip. For the first time in years, he felt helpless in battle.

"You made me flail around too much! Already a few seconds in and I couldn't get a grip. I wanted to dance, not fight my lord."

It was overwhelming, consuming, the jaws of the devil were wrapped about him as they jumped and swung in the square. No melody played but the man had rhythm. That man could slice every last head off if he so desired, for Ábel could not find the tension in his body to move out of the grasp. Kill me. Please kill me now. His heart begged the man. How perfect, a death so foreign with hands so earnest. But was it honorable to die from touch, no, for his people's eyes gazed and judged. He felt his throat swell, and dug his claws into the man's hands. The beast was released, cold and hurt, upon his lair's floor. He cannot die in this way, but a man like this could kill him. Hands have held and bashed against his body for years, all filled with desire. But he did not hold the hate of man in his touch. They were equals.

"Cease this dance, I will kill you if you continue. You have fought, but you have not won what you want. Remember you are a stranger in my kingdom. All I know is that you're an odd man. Pitiful. With a head filled with hay. You can stay for the winter, be a servant to the castle, but I cannot make you a guard. So what is it that you are good at?"

"My lord, I've worked all kinds of jobs. Though not long enough to be a master at any. In the winter, I will rest where it is warm. In spring, I go wherever it smells the best. The summertime, is a search for the ripest fruits. Once fall begins, I prepare for winter. I used to work through all four seasons, but that was many years ago. I'm sure my skill would be dull."

"State it."

"The head groom in a small fishing village."

He would laugh at this in his quarters, a foolish way of life. The man lived just like the heroes in his mother's bedtime tales.