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"Bonsoir, monsieur le bourreau."
Zora stopped in his tracks. The sword he carried only for show lately suddenly felt heavier at his side. He knew this voice, calling out for him with no desperation, no hate, but with a hint of teasing.
Should he be surprised? No. It wasn't like he didn't know who he had to execute tomorrow, among others. He had received a detailed list of names, of reasons (traitor was the only reason he'd seen lately), and he had carte blanche to decide on the execution means. As if he did, with how long the list was…
"Hey-ya. You don't recognize me? That's rude, even for you."
No, he did. He couldn't forget that voice. Zora was grateful for the mask on his face: that way, it didn't show how happy he was to hear this voice from the past.
Zora turned. The jail cell was dark, as always. He hoped that it gave the ones about to leave this world for good the impression that the sun shone on them brighter as they died. Small comfort, he'd suppose. After nights and days spent in pure darkness, eating rotten bread and breathing rancid air, finally getting out would feel like freedom.
Dying was probably better than this.
"Not chatty today, are you?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. "Then again, you never were."
She moved closer to the bars, and he could see her face.
When Zora met this woman, she was simply named 'Vanessa Enoteca'. Not a louis to her name: she was one of many simple girls raised in a convent and whose beauty had brought to the less reputable parts of Paris. The same beautiful woman was now a 'Madame de…', married off to a ruined noble house only to get a title, necessary to get her to court, where she became the king's favorite. From the convent, to the king's mistress, and now…
…to be beheaded.
Zora would execute her tomorrow.
He glanced at her cell. As dirty and dark as the cell was, Vanessa still managed to retain some of her old beauty. Even after the fall of the monarchy and the orders Zora carried out by dozens a day, they hadn't gotten to her. Now, they had.
Although it wasn't in his habit to chat with his victims, he could grace this old friend with an answer.
"Vanessa," he said. "Or should I call you something different?"
"Depends. Do I have to call you Monsieur Ideale, Monsieur le bourreau, or can I call you Zora?"
"Zora is fine."
For old times' sake.
"He sure is, for an executioner."
Vanessa smirked. Chirpy, for a dead woman walking. But then, he noticed that the light didn't quite reach her eyes.
Zora had been doing this job for decades now. He had rebelled at first, of course. He was not above men. He had no legitimacy to kill. But he was born into the Ideale family, and such a burden came with his name. There was nothing else he could do, having spent his life being looked down on as less than a rat for being the son of an executioner, to being feared for taking over him. Not a noble he was, although he wore a sword. A special status, only granted to an executioner's family.
Zora had gone from hating his dad's profession to admiring his strength. He had gone from loving his father, to hating him, and to adoring him again. Sad it happened so close to Zara's death.
Zara didn't die a natural death. He wasn't executed, he was killed. A coward had dared to take down an Ideale for his ideas. So, Zora hated nobles. He hated the king. He hated following the orders he was given. That is, until he realized he could get his revenge on the nobles who had wronged his father. If Zora missed the base of atlas and had to swing his sword again while the noble was screaming its head off and bleeding all over the scaffold, it was not always a mistake.
Nobility didn't exist anymore. The king was dead. In name only. New nobles and new kings had taken over, despots behind their pretty speeches. Was there no equality possible? Was the promised utopia just that, impossible? No bright tomorrows…
Zora wanted to believe, still.
With a name like his? He could only be an idealist. Funny that ideal was now synonymous with death. His ancestors had a great sense of humor.
"Why am I here?" Vanessa asked. Her tone was detached— falsely so. She had that 'bored out' note in her voice that made Zora understand she was simply fishing for information. He had seen her do this far too many times to patrons. "I know everyone associated with the king ends up with their head rolling down the planks, but I didn't think it'd get to me. I'm hardly anyone of importance."
'Hardly anyone' was certainly not a way to talk about one of the king's mistresses, especially not one as influential as Madame de Vaude. Not one as prone to scandals for her disregard for bienseance either.
"You didn't run," Zora pointed out.
"I'm not one to."
"That's your mistake."
"Ah. I suppose it is…"
Zora glanced at her. She didn't look like she'd run away. Maybe it was because she wasn't born a noble, or maybe she knew she had flown too close to the sun, but she seemed to have accepted her fate. She'd die.
"At least, it'll be your sword," Vanessa said. "It's better to die by the hand of a friend."
"I had planned on using the guillotine."
"I don't want it. Your sword would hurt less. Grant me that wish?"
"I could miss."
"You don't unless you plan to, do you?"
Zora snickered. He had gotten far too comfortable talking to her, or to anyone at that old establishment, really. He hadn't been to the Taureau Noir in decades, busy as he currently was. But… he missed those nights. He could be Zora without the Ideale name. He could be Zora, and not Monsieur de Paris, executioner. He was let inside, and no one would bat an eye at who he was. Maybe that was because those people were all closer to death than he somehow was. Maybe they were stupid, oblivious, or careless. But they were great people.
Sad to see one of the people he met there meeting his sword tomorrow.
Sword, yes. He could grant that wish to an old friend.
"I'll try not to miss."
"I'm honored, Zor," Vanessa said. "You're not the same person you were."
Neither are you. Zora didn't say the words. She was, to some extent, the same woman he had crossed paths with.
"Can I at least get some wine?"
Zora smiled, and it felt strange to him. It had been… ages since he had. He would like to retract his former thought. Vanessa… was perhaps the one who had changed the least between the two of them. He produced a bottle of bad red he had smuggled in.
"You're the perfect man, you do know that?"
He only scoffed.
"I'm glad the last face I'll see is one of a friend," Vanessa said, grabbing the bottle. He didn't have the courage to tell her blood-stained wooden blanks would be her last sight. She smiled and glanced up at him. "You'll remove that mask for me?"
"Don't push your luck, Enoteca."
"Enoteca…" Vanessa said slowly, as if every syllable was a different sip of wine. "I haven't heard that name in decades. It's Madame de Vaude who's dying tomorrow, not Vanessa Enoteca. Me… I'll be free!"
And dead.
Zora supposed it was as free as she would ever be. He, himself, would only be free from all that blood— his bloodline, the blood of everyone he killed, and from shedding it... once he was gone.
Not anytime soon, then.
He envied Vanessa a little.
"Most people would hate for their friend to kill them," Zora pointed out.
"I'm noting you've finally accepted we're friends, I'm touched, Zor! But… well, I know you don't want to kill me. In a way, we have similar jobs. The people we interact with think it's personal when it's not. You don't decide who you kill, you frankly don't care; neither do I. It's our occupation. We're doing our job, that's all."
"For you, maybe," Zora said. "It can be personal for me."
"Really? I'd say you've finished your little revenge quest."
"What makes you think that?"
"The guillotine," Vanessa said, tilting the bottle towards him. "Your executions are too clean now. Fast. No time to either wallow, rejoice, or feel anything. It's chop-chop. Literally."
Zora raised an eyebrow before taking the bottle. It was terrible wine. The cheapest plonk he had ever tasted— it was barely anything more than smashed grapes. No finesse to it. But it was wine, and it was alcohol. By Vanessa's standards, it was the finest nectar.
"To think I'd be executed this late into the revolution… it really is a witch hunt. How do they say? Clean slate? What a stupid expression. How clean is that slate when it's got so much blood on it. "
For someone who was on the side of revolution and agreed there needed to be some change in society, it's almost laughable to see her here. Those who thought that her going to England meant she was against the revolution did not know her.
But orders were orders. Zora had long stopped questioning them. In the long run, that bloodshed would stop, and a new, more just regime would take place. There were simply some sacrificial lambs among the wolves, and he had to accept it. A society could not be overthrown without blood, and as long as it was his hands that were tainted with it, it was all right. Sacrificial wolves were needed too.
"Ahhh…" Vanessa sighed. "I wish we could go back to the old days. It was fun at the Taureau Noir. Do you think they'll show up for my execution? I'd like to see them."
Zora wouldn't count on it.
But at this point…
"Maybe."