Don't Let it Go

The desire to follow the others was intense, it like a sun in Aaralons chest.

He could not deny it.

By the time he caught up with the other students they had already carried the screaming and struggling form of Little into one of the interior courtyards. The bright afternoon sun filters down through the cover of the single, ancient tree that grew from the center of the courtyard. The thick roots had long ago pushed the cobblestones of the foot paths out of place, there was a popular rumour that the trees roots underpinned the whole school and that the tree ever got uprooted the whole school would collapse.

It's thick and gnarled trunk had been used by generations of students as a place to carve messages. The odd bald spot marked where something that had been deemed subversive or dangerous had been cut away from the tree. However most of the carving were simply declarations of love, no doubt for one of the ladies of the whore house or simply a joke at the expense of some other student.

The group had already tossed Little down onto the uneven cobbles in front of the tree when Aaralon arrived. The normally welcoming old tree now seemed to loom over the group, somehow threatening to collapse upon them at any moment.

Aaralon moved around the side of the group, watching things play out in silence, feeling at one with the burning hatred of the other students.

Little for his part did not try to beg or threaten once he was on his knees. He shook like a scared dog but still managed to retain some level of dignity in the face of ****.

That vanished as the group parted to reveal his executioner. A tall young man who Aaralon recognised but could not place, stepped forward from the center of the group. Gripped confidently in his broad hands was a heavy Pickaxe.

Now Little tried to run. On shaky legs he tried to shoot off to the sides, only to find himself first faced with a wall of students who shoved him back on one side and then Aaralon on the other. For a moment, as the mad little man shoved and scrabbled to try and get past, Aaralon could smell him. He could smell the stink of fear and overwhelming reek of the Incubus’s corruption.

Then the small man was shoved back into the center of the circle. The executioner, wasting no time, lifted his pickaxe over his head as he stepped forwards. Soon Littles back was pressed against the tree trunk itself, the press of bodies so close he could not even sink to his knees.

Aaralon watched as Little stared, seemingly hypnotised by the pickaxe as it hung in the air. The urge to kill seemed to jump from student to student, echoing and gaining strength with every passing moment. A silent chant that became so loud as to be painful, rising to a screaming crescendo.

Then the axe was falling through the air. The chant paused, holding its breath as the undeniable **** sped towards the paralysed form of Little.

To Littles misfortune, he flinched. His head shifting at the last second out of the path of the pickaxe. Instead of a nearly instant **** as his skull was crushed, the head instead bit down into the meat of his neck.

The **** carried it down into his body, burying itself as deep into him as possible. Little did not cry out. His legs simply gave up and he slid down the tree, only the pickaxe keeping him upright.

The group, as one being, relaxed. Stepping back from the object of hate, the gap left by the hatred suddenly feeling like that left by a tooth, impossible to ignore yet not unpleasant. Aaralon could not tear his eyes away from the slumped figure of Little.

The man seemed to be staring at something that no one else could see, his eyes darting back and forth as he took deep gurgling breaths. There was very little blood to be seen, only the slightest trickle running down his chest.

That was until the executioner pulled the axe head free. Placing one food on Littles shoulder he gripped the haft of the axe tightly and with a straining of muscle and a horrible sucking sound, pulled it free.

Little fell forward, his face smashing into the cobblestones, and the blood finally began to flow. A crimson river that spread out across the ground with surprising speed, forcing Aaralon and many others to suddenly dart back.

A sudden gust of wind sent the branches of the old tree swaying, Aaralon was suddenly extremely aware of the gnarled, creaking mass that loomed over him. Looking at the little man before him he….didn’t know how to feel. The expected rush of **** had not come nor had a stab of regret.

Instead he simply felt…nothing.