Having your arms bound behind your back offsets your balance way more than you’d think possible.

Ask me how I know.

The guards hoist me up with curses that should really be mine to spew.

They don’t even bother dusting the wet gravel from my knees, which was a lovely cushion on the cobblestone just a moment ago.

Pretty rude, if you ask me.

Although they’ve repeatedly asserted that my opinion isn’t warranted.

The last thing I’d told them was that it looked like it might rain today.

They impatiently exhaled into the perpetual low gray fog that nestles within the streets, and shoved me in encouragement to walk faster on the dreary path, which didn’t end well for any of us.

I’ve always wanted to be the best at something.

Really make a name for myself.

Based on where they’re dragging me, I only have a short time to cement my legacy.

If that means being the most annoying person that these men have had the pleasure of carrying to their execution? So be it.

Maybe one of the many factory workers clogging the sides of the streets will honor me with a plaque for my greatness.

I scan the unwashed masses, nodding to them as I pass like I’m royalty they’ve come to greet and not someone moments from becoming a corpse they can say they’d encountered.

The guards begin carrying me under both arms.

I let the toes of my boots drag, skipping over the stony street beneath us like a loose needle on a warped gramophone record.

The increased humidity informs me we’ve almost approached the sacred forest.

It takes two tries to swallow down my fear and speak steadily.

“The real crime is what this weather is going to do to my hair,” I tell the impatient prison guards.

I swear the one on my right chokes down a laugh.

Progress.

Just in time, too, as we breach the trees.

The crowd only thickens here along with the anticipation.

It takes too long, yet not long enough, to finally reach the clearing containing the Great Oak.

Without having to concern myself with pesky things like walking, I have the luxury of lazily craning my neck up and up and up to admire the ancient tree with the deserved amount of awe.

The impressive canopy towers at an unfathomable height above us - a much better sight than the desecration of it I’m being forced to participate in.

I’m jerked back to the present.

Literally.

The guard on my left jostles me in apparent desire to ruin my good mood.

As if that weren’t already an inevitability.

Without my permission, my eyes go to our destination ahead.

The shouts of the crowd dull out in my ears, the sway of the rope dangling from the branch in the eerie breeze hypnotizes me.

The platform built beneath it creaks under the feet of the man in line to die before me.

A doubly evil condemnation, as he’s the very person I’m charged with trying to save.

One minute, we were trading polite smiles at the market.

Next, his face was being slammed into the produce as he was charged with looting.

The man had two oranges in his hands.

Two!

I’d thought they should’ve at least let him grab three if they wanted to make that ridiculous charge at all convincing.

My error was in aiding the guards with that.

That’s all I was trying to do, I swear.

Did I throw the orange at the arresting officer’s face hard enough to leave a bruise?

Possibly.

Were they grateful for my help?

Not particularly.

How dramatic of them to utilize every second of my last moments to remind me of the futility of my effort.

Almost on cue, the guard on my left leans down to taunt in my ear, “You recognize him then?”

He pulls back to watch my reaction with an eager gleam, obviously anticipating sadness or surprise.

I frown and scan the platform until landing on a familiar figure.

“The executioner? Sure, but I figured he’d be here.”

Lefty’s face falls, fist tightening its grip on my arm as he grumbles furiously.

The governor emerges onto the raised rickety wood from the nice set of stairs built on the back of it.

I guess they splurged on those, knowing we would never be able to taint them with our touch.

There’s only one exit for us up there, and it’s through the inescapable loop dangling before the innocent man’s face.

“For the crime of looting,” the governor booms, silencing the crowd to hushed whispers, “this man will be hanged by the neck until dead.”

His coattails splay as wide as his arms in anticipation of the cheers that, for once, don’t come.

The wood creaks as the governor shifts awkwardly in his expensive shoes.

Dropping his arms with an audible slap to his sides, he voices the only blessing in the form of a question, “Any last words?”

The man’s eyes meet mine through the noose.

The branches begin to stir without a breeze.

Synchronized, my partner and I summon exactly what we need, “Tumultus.”

The Latin instruction for destruction detonates, rippling through the crowd and directing their actions in a heartbeat.

In the next, chaos ensues.

The thick crowd emits a deafening battle cry before charging into any fight they can find.

The people closest to the platform rush it while the governor stumbles back in horror.

Mostly at his stairs being ruined, I reckon.

Even the executioner looks rattled, obviously wishing this were a beheading instead, as his only current weapon is a lever.

My partner uses the noose to swing out, deftly landing a few feet in front of me, just before the platform is consumed by the crowd.

I go to close the distance to him, but I’m yanked to the left.

There’s a gurgle, and then I’m released.

I nod my thanks to the fake guard and friend on my right.

Dropping the act of still being bound, I clasp palms with my partner’s extended one.

Our spell won’t last forever.

We bolt hand in hand through the writhing fights unhindered until reaching the streets once more, frequently diverting to avoid the noise of crashing glass signifying actual looting.

Breathless but joyous at escaping the inescapable, I silently pray my thanks to the Great Oak as we slip into the forest circling the other side of the city.

My partner tosses me a wide grin as he runs through the trees by my side.

I smile back, summoning something in my palm before tossing it back to him.

He catches it and stops in his tracks to throw his head back in an exhilarated laugh that I join.

Quickly looking back over his shoulder, he returns his attention to me and offers, “I’ll split it with you,” before beginning to peel the orange.