#Executed

[frut1ger-aero]

pulling more yaoi out of our asses i see

this is VERY vague it is heavily advised you read the context paragraph before reading the actual story

context paragraph below

༉‧₊˚.

Succinctly, Dark Cacao is an immortal executioner and Pure Vanilla is a religious figure to be executed. Dark Cacao is drawn to him cause they’re destined (or doomed) to be together in every universe cause I said so and it dredges up memories of the past of when he had to execute his own son (we all know who that tragic little fucker is) in order to prove he was worthy. Everything else is ambiguous. Is Pure Vanilla truly the son of God in this? It’s up to interpretation. Certainly not my best work but alas.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Does the executioner feel the weight of his axe? Does the shame of taking lives prey on his conscience, or is that precisely what fuels his ambition, what pushes him to drive his axe through the defenceless necks of the innocent?

Innocent or guilty, the executioner kills nonetheless. To him, it is an art. To be the anonymous deliverer of justice, to be the one to topple supreme men, to bring them to their knees and silence their mewling cries for ‘justice’.

Justice. Folly.

Render them indistinguishable from a rotting peasant on streets lined with filth.

Lift their severed heads to crowds below, who will either fall to their knees, and whose laments will be heard from dawn to dusk, or roar in patriotic victory, celebrate the satiation of their blood-lust. To know, that he, he brought about this fateful reckoning, and, oh how the people scorn him. But how they adore him too, with his silent neutrality. Some demand that he rebel, indignant at the death of a saint or a well-loved king.

Yet he is death incarnate. Death falters before No man nor king.

There was something holy about the way his presence compelled the mob into silence. They waited, wide eyed with bated breath. These were people who knew that Death haunted the hallowed grounds upon which they clustered. They all understood, however, that this was more than death. It was a sacred ritual, a purging of sin and a precedent to the era of purity. Which, inevitably, would soon be broken, for another sinner would be chosen and led to death. Depending on who it was, reactions varied from blinding fury to burning euphoria. Nevertheless, the words and decisions of the Church could never be absolved, at least not by something so insignificant as the lower-class.

Conforming to the endless cycle of the death of nighttime and the rebirth of day, the sun rose once more to take its place at the pinnacle of the sky.

The executioner knew that he too, was subject to a kind of cycle, however inconsistent. The cycle of execution.

It didn’t happen every day. No matter how sanctimonious the heads of the Church’s order were, even they knew constant slaughter would eventually lose its gravity, if done before the public too many times.

Today, though, it would happen.

He did not need to steel himself. He was silent as he ascended the wooden steps to the platform where the chopping block, marred with the blood of uncountable past peoples, waited. If anyone were to strip him of his mask and the hood casting shadows over his face, they would find features so eerily stoic, it was as though they were a waxen mask and not skin.

Those who did not cast their eyes to the heavens in hopes of divine intervention scrutinised him, blatantly staring as he proceeded higher and higher.

Did any of them notice that the instrument of murder on his back was held in place by his hands and not straps? Did they see him buckle slightly under it’s weight, hear the sigh escape his lips as it was dropped into the wood atop the platform?

They did not, for at this moment in time they had changed the subject of their attention and were now gazing expectantly at the double doors, for the execution site was adjacent to a great cathedral, which would open and reveal the traitor. After some time, open they did, albeit laboriously.

Based on the way cries of gratitude penetrated the silence, this was someone whose death instilled relief.

Maybe it was the fact that it was the first execution in a long time, but he found himself turning his head to watch the doors of the church. The victims were prayed for. Blessed with holy water, so that in death they could be what they were not—pure.

Yet the man who stepped out into the sunshine looked like a martyr. Painfully beautiful. His flaxen hair fell down to his back, obscuring the sides of his face as his head was bowed. A graceful form, interlocked fingers.

The innocence of a lamb. Already purer than holy water could make a person. He felt strange. Drawn to him, somehow.

Unlike his hundreds of predecessors, who were stripped of their finery and forced into rags, wisps of white cloth fluttered from his robed frame. He seemed to radiate compassion and glory. Was he a priest, as his attire suggested? That was likely why he didn’t wear a blindfold.

When the two guards flanking him pushed him forwards, and he tripped, groping at air, the executioner realised he was blind. The guards stood back.

Somehow, to his deep shame, he found himself stepping forward. Before hundreds of people, who watched so intently that No detail would be missed, he stepped forward to allow the blind man a place to grip on to.

Through the slits of his mask, he saw one of the two guards tense, but remained staring impassively into the crowd.

He understood that. It was not his place to interact in any way with whomever was to die that day, and he had never done so. Let the victim writhe and flail. His intervention was needed the second heads were brought to the block, No sooner.

Only it seemed that philosophy had crumbled in a mere moment, a moment of devotion.

As he took in the figure holding onto him, he was surprised to see eyes of contrasting shades blink at him. One was a shatteringly clear blue, the other as soft and as golden as the sun. Were they really boring into his own, or was he getting paranoid?

Of course they weren’t. But that didn’t help shake the feeling that his layers of black cloth were pierced.

When the man turned his face up, he saw a row of harsh red scars peeking out from under his blonde hair, angry against his smooth tanned skin. The miniature slashes seemed to travel all around his forehead, and it sparked an unfamiliar curiosity in regard to what exactly they did within the walls of that church.

He shifted, trying to get a better look at the almost-angel who clung like a lover to his over-garment. To his dismay, he felt him loosen his hold. He must have taken his movement as an indicator of wanting to be released, but it was the furthest thing from. He was still in awe, so he did not speak.

From where he looked down at the man, the holes at the centre of each of his palms were evident, ringed with dried blood.

“Oh, I do apologise,” the man said breathlessly, unbunching the folds of clothing wrapped in his fist.

No response came, but it was not for the sole reason of disagreeability, but rather that the powerful executioner found himself entranced by whoever this man was. Something tightened in his chest in that second when he clutched the front of his cloak, his touch was soft, his movements gentle even minutes away from death. And when he spoke—oh his voice. The desire to hear it again, even if just for a second, was absolute. Four words had floated past his lips, yet they seemed to quiver and tremble with soft, inconceivable melodies laced tightly into each syllable, filling him with an ecstasy he thought had been ground into apathy by time. Even the way the clothes he donned shifted and shimmered in the spring sun as though a celestial seamstress had plucked shafts of light from the heart of the sun itself, and draped them around a mortal, was captivating, such grace and elegance were unmatched.

A growing sense of airy detachment diffused into the air on the platform, and the executioner felt his grip on the axe loosen as his hands grew weak. He feared he would not survive those last words, as he watched the man kneel and clasp his hands together, almost in prayer. Anticipation, for such last words, filled the atmosphere. Silence, however, draped over them all for a tantalising few minutes.

When he opened his mouth to speak, the executioner realised he ached with longing.

“Father, forgive them. For they are lost without your righteous hand to guide them, and they do not know what they do.” With unseeing eyes, he turned to the man he had clung to before. “Know that your bloodstained hands, too, are sacred.”

This man—No, this paragon of righteousness could not be speaking to him. He the unholy temple in which raw sin resided, a thing disgusting and dirtied. Never worthy of the promises, let alone the attention, of a martyr. That voice, those words were the ambrosia he wanted to gorge on, drunken himself through means of and cloud his mind entirely with.

All he could do was watch as the man whose words ensnared his mind parted the flowing currents of gold on his head to reveal a smooth nape, and rested his neck onto the piece of wood.

He knew what he had to do now. What his purpose was, what his sole reason for existence was. Relinquish the Earth of life, spread his essence everywhere like a plague.

So why did the axe weigh heavy in his hands? Why did the alien feeling of guilt begin to fester within him?

Still, he strode to the kneeling man. Still, he raised the axe high above his head, the arising assent of the villeins below burning into his ears. Every ounce of his heart seemed to rail at him to throw the axe down, to grab the punctured hand of the priest and flee. But his brain prevailed, calling him to carve the cutting edge through tender flesh.

Nothing else existed anymore. Only the way in which the instrument of death sliced through the air, heard by all in the reverent silence. The obscene noise that sounded when metal met skin.

Instantaneously, shrieks and calls disrupted the silence, jostling and fists thrown into the air shattered the previously dominant stillness. Songs were uplifted from the people and thrown into the sky, into the ears of anyone who acknowledged it.

The executioner heard none of this. The only thing audible to him was the whistle of the axe as he—him, his abhorrent hands—carried it through the air, and brought it down mercilessly upon a saint. He was numb as he bent down to grip the severed head, sick with shame as he looked upon the bloodstained finery. Blood that stained his hands. Blood that he shed.

As he brandished it for all to see, he was faint with disgust, questioning how he had done this for years and felt nothing almost every time, yet now, because of a few words, he wanted to discard his mantle. Brazenly displaying the head of such a beautiful soul in this manner was deplorable. He was beginning to understand the resent many held for him, as it grew in his own conscience too.

Behind him, he heard the guards shifting, and took this as a sign to drop the head. Strangely, even though he despised how crude it all was, if he were permitted to have it in his own care, away from the primitive perceptions of others and for him alone, he would not mind keeping it. Those eyes, though glazed, were still the most beautiful pair he had ever seen, and he knew this slaughter would haunt him in the way only one other death did.

Unbidden, a face rose up in his mind.

Trying to suppress the memories when they rose up was a useless thing to try. They came in an organised sequence, one hellish recollection after the other, the same every infrequent time.

The rain that pelted Earth on that fateful day, the straggling few, the confusion of seeing a child of his own visage at the grounds of death, dark, short hair disturbed by white, brown skin so like his own, shining with rainwater.

He turned his back on the scene.

Those eyes, sanguine and terrified—

He walked briskly down the steps, entering through the pathway to take him to the catacombs beneath the cathedral.

The desperate thrashing, the cries for help—

He began to run, discarding his axe and fleeing through the winding tunnels.

Father! Father!

He stopped. He stopped running and crumpled to his knees, letting the ghost of those aggrieved screams fill his head and the memory of realising that this was the heavy toll to be extracted in order to prove that he could kill with No remorse choke him. Since then, he had promised never to let his feelings affect him, and his executions had been flawless and smooth.

Today though, today was different. He would weep today, his sobs tainted with loathing at his own vulnerability.

He told himself another day would dawn. Another death. He will have composed himself by then, for he cannot afford to be weak. Not before a single living soul. He was not human. Only the executioner.

Hours passed. Nobody came to hold the executioner close, because to them, that is all he is. A marionette only brought out when nobody is willing to get their hands dirty. He is the one who bears their sins, for he is disposable. They blacken him to preserve the goodness of their precious church. Even so, those in power would never truly understand how deeply he has been damaged. And he too, will never truly understand that either, until ruinous moments like these come about.

But he will never forget the man who seemed to see his sacrilege entirely. Who, in spite of it, pronounced him pure.

Who he laid waste to, regardless.

[prickleestull]

pRAYING BEGGING PLEADING FOR SOMEONE TO WRITE ONE KF THE 141 BOYS DATINF A HORROR AUTHORR

imagine

You: ffs, i can’t get this scene down! what color is blood? how much blood does one person have? why does this sound so unrealistic every time i write it?!

Price, coming home covered in blood: no, no you got it. perfectly realistic, love, wonderfully executed.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Socialist-anarchist conspirators of the Kōtoku Incident who plotted to assassinate the Emperor Meiji in 1910, executed in 1911

Japanese vintage postcard

[mus1g4]

Kansas State Prison (KSP) Death Row Inmates Latham and York

Two AWOL soldiers who committed murder. They are seen wearing KSP denims. Both were hanged at KSP.

[kokosizkitaya]

12.11.2018

The art is called «Executed for the Truth». In the future, I will redraw it more than once.

Yes, the art shows not suicide, but an execution. The background says "death" many times.

This art has a story, but I'm not sure how canonical it is… Still, a lot has changed, and the story of this character too. Maybe I'll write it under one of the next redraws.

[nightqueens-world]

Smdh can we stop blaming the vice president for everything please 🙄🤦🏾‍♀️

[awesomecooperlove]

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1916 – Easter Rising | Edward Daly, Michael O’Hanrahan, William Pearse (brother of Pádraig Pearse) and Joseph Mary Plunkett are executed by firing squad in Kilmainham Gaol.

Execution of 1916 Easter Rebellion Leaders at Stonebreakers’ Yard in Kilmainham Gaol continues. Joseph Mary Plunkett | Born in Dublin into a privileged background, his father was a papal count. He joined the Irish Volunteers in 1913 and the IRB in 1914. Plunkett was Director of Military Operations for the Rising, with overall responsibility for military strategy. Shortly before the rising was to…

[whats-in-a-sentence]

An engraving from 1818 showing electrical stimulation of an executed criminal's corpse – the kind of sensational demonstration which Mary Shelley certainly read about and possibly witnessed.

"Frankenstein's Footsteps: Science, Genetics and Popular Culture" - Jon Turney

[scotianostra]

On June 26th 1574, Gabriel de Lorges was beheaded in Paris for treason.

A wee tenuous one this but it has a couple of links to Scotland so it's enough to make a post about him.

Gabriel, by the time of his death was known as the Comte de Montgomery. Born in Ducey, France, the son of Jacques, Duke of Montgomery, a Scottish nobleman with a sound career supporting the kings of France. (first Scottish link)

By 1559 Gabriel was Captain of the Garde Écossaise, the Scots Guard an elite Scottish military unit tasked as bodyguards of the French monarchy when he killed King Henry II in a jousting accident, Gabriel’s shattered lance somehow found a chink in the king’s visor, managing to strike the King just under his eye, after a week in agony Henry died of his wound. Henry's heir was a young fragile royal, Fransois who became King at just 15, his wife was a young Scots lassie called Mary Stuart (second Scottish link, I did say it was tenuous). Francois died a year later.

Meanwhile Gabriel, although Henry forgave him on his deathbed, could not cope with his "crime" and resigned his commission, throwing himself into a life of religious study, this soon converted him to the Protestant party and he took up arms against the Catholic authorities of France in a movement called The Huguenots, I'm totally out of my depth here so wont go into the history of this and will just concentrate on our erstwhile "Scot" who became a more than able commander of the Protestant faction, to the point that in an infamous event in Paris in 1572, The St. Bartholomew's Day massacre in which during a truce, Catholics began assassinating the Huguenot's hierarchy, lasting several weeks, the massacre expanded outward to other urban centres and the countryside. Modern estimates for the number of dead across France vary widely, from 5,000 to 30,000. Though Montgomery was a specific target for assassination that day, he somehow managed to escape. He gave the Catholics fits for the two years left him, enough that the crown tried to buy him off. (Like most Protestants, he was distrustfully defiant after the horrors of St. Bartholomew’s Day.)

While mounting an insurrection in Normandy, he was finally captured, he was dispatched to Paris, tortured, put on trial and sentenced to death.

Onthis day 1574, as he was about to be beheaded, Montgomery was informed that a royal edict had proclaimed that his property would be confiscated and his children deprived of their titles. In true martyrdom style Gabriel is said to have shouted “tell my children, if they are not able to reclaim their position, I curse them from the grave!”

And then they cut off his head.

If you want to know the complete story there is a great account to be found on the link here

[wisdomfish]

God’s plan to deal with evil

God’s plan to deal with evil is prepared for in creation but executed in redemption. Satan and his forces are already defeated foes with Christ’s first coming as Savior,

Therefore, since the children share in flesh and blood, He Himself likewise also partook of the same, so that through death He might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who through fear of death were subject to slavery all their lives. [Hebrews 2:14-15]

And all evil and human sin will forever be vanquished at Christ’s second coming as Judge and King.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth passed away, and there is no longer any sea. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is among the people, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them, and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.”

And He who sits on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” And He *said, “Write, for these words are faithful and true.” Then He said to me, “It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give water to the one who thirsts from the spring of the water of life, without cost. The one who overcomes will inherit these things, and I will be his God and he will be My son. But for the cowardly, and unbelieving, and abominable, and murderers, and sexually immoral persons, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, their part will be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.���

Then one of the seven angels who had the seven bowls, full of the seven last plagues, came and spoke with me, saying, “Come here, I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb.”

And he carried me away in the Spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me the holy city, Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, having the glory of God. Her brilliance was like a very valuable stone, like a stone of crystal-clear jasper. It had a great and high wall, with twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels; and names were written on the gates, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the sons of Israel. There were three gates on the east, three gates on the north, three gates on the south, and three gates on the west. And the wall of the city had twelve foundation stones, and on them were the twelve names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb.

The one who spoke with me had a gold measuring rod to measure the city, its gates, and its wall. The city is laid out as a square, and its length is as great as the width; and he measured the city with the rod, twelve thousand stadia; its length, width, and height are equal. And he measured its wall, 144 cubits, by human measurements, which are also angelic measurements. The material of the wall was jasper; and the city was pure gold, like clear glass. The foundation stones of the city wall were decorated with every kind of precious stone. The first foundation stone was jasper; the second, sapphire; the third, chalcedony; the fourth, emerald; the fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolite; the eighth, beryl; the ninth, topaz; the tenth, chrysoprase; the eleventh, jacinth; the twelfth, amethyst. And the twelve gates were twelve pearls; each one of the gates was a single pearl. And the street of the city was pure gold, like transparent glass.

I saw no temple in it, for the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb are its temple. And the city has no need of the sun or of the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God has illuminated it, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. In the daytime (for there will be no night there) its gates will never be closed; and they will bring the glory and the honor of the nations into it; and nothing unclean, and no one who practices abomination and lying, shall ever come into it, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb’s book of life. [Revelation 21]

~ Samples, Kenneth Richard. ‘Without a Doubt: Answering the 20 Toughest Faith Questions. p. 250

[dontcallittimetravel]

Happy deathday to John Brown, defendant in the the first trial to be nationally reported and the first person in america to be executed for treason because he was trying to overthrow white supremacists and free slaves

[photographyartgallery]

IRAN. Tehran. February 15th, 1979. The bodies of four generals, executed after a secret trial held at Ayatollah KHOMEINY's headquarters, at the Refa girls' school. . Abbas Attar

[peachdoxie]

I love talking with neurotypical people about my executive dysfunction because I'm like "yeah there's this invisible wall in my head that I'm incapable of getting past no matter what I do and it stops me from doing things" and they're like what the actual fuck

Meanwhile other neurodivergents are like