Part 1 : Drown the senses
Lon closed his eyes for a long moment, and tried to drown out every sense that he possibly could. The noisy crowd, not noisy with enthusiasm, but idle chitchat which was a product of impatience. The heavy armor that made every movement an effort, and The hot sun that was cooking him right in the armor as if he were tonight's lobster. Even his boredom seemed to assert itself as an offensive sense. He had to be rid of them all.
When he opened his eyes, his torment hadn't gone anywhere, and nothing had changed much. The spectators may have gotten more impatient. It wasn't easy or pleasant being a hero. He focused his vision into the eye holes in his helmet, though it was much easier to stare at the metal surrounding them. Three more, he reminded himself. Not so bad.
He turned around and cast his gaze on his target. Lon couldn't feel much sympathy for people, dead or alive. Despite that he didn't like to cause them pain intentionally when he could avoid it. He heard the lethargic weeping the once-was was making as his head and arms were shoved and locked into the last apparatus that would ever inconvenience it.
“You had your three days, everything will be sorted to your specifications.” Said one of the two escorts restraining the thing. His lines sounded practiced and insincere, as if death was just business at this point. The other one yawned and they both retreated into the shade.
Lon adjusted his helmet. If only he were able to retreat into the shade as well.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist on the red-jeweled long-hafted ax. The Once-was was looking up at him, though it could hardly meet his eyes from it's bent position. It took in a breath and spoke. He knew it would speak because they didn't need to breath to survive.
“I'm still alive. Please listen, I'm not dead.”
Lon sneered involuntarily, but it didn't matter. No one could see it with the too big helmet covering his face. It was just the way these things sounded, was all. Their voices lacked emphasis and energy. Even if they said human enough things, it sounded all wrong. An emotionless drone was all you heard after a while.
At any rate, it made it all the harder to feel sorry for them. He lifted his ax and braced himself. It was still talking to him, droning on. “Weren't you that hero? Can't you see I'm up and talking? Up and Thinking?”
Lon stared at the metal around the eye-holes of his helmet. He'd done this almost a hundred times and he knew where to swing. He didn't answer it, he'd done that just once and regretted it.
“I've just come down with a cold, can't you see?”
The ax came down. It would never complain about the heat. It was a weapon, and all it knew was work. The bone crushed more than severed, but it fell apart none the less. The head hit the rim of the basket and tipped in. Sloppy, but not bad considering he hadn't been looking. At least the thing wasn't talking anymore.
The people didn't even pay attention to these executions at this point, there had been so many of them that even the enthusiasts had had enough. Two more, he reminded himself as the last body was cleared away. Re-executed, as he'd come to think of it.

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Part 2 : Dead Hello

It was dark in here, like night. You would never guess it was the middle of the day. The dungeons existed in a different time-zone. It was always night here. Infinite hours of night.
Lon lifted his helmet off his head, his elbows ached like rusty hinges must ache. He heaved a long sigh of relief as he put the thing down heavily on the table beside him. Black, sweat soaked hair fell down his shoulders, he felt like he'd walked through a boiling rain. Someone was walking past. He raised his hand. “You,” He called.
The man blinked, looked at Lon, back to the helmet, then to Lon. Lon sneered slightly and the man's eyes locked on Lon's. “Get me something to eat.” Lon said. “I'm not dying of heatstroke without a last meal.”
The man nodded and hurried out of the room. The reaction wasn't unusual. Not many people knew what the great Lon actually looked like. His eagle nose and wide set eyes, and thick but crooked jaw was not what what heroes typically looked like. His brow was distinctively brooding, it conveyed well that he was unhappy about the rest of his features.
As far as most knew, his helm really was his face. He looked at the incredible thing, it was a large round helmet that attached directly to his shoulder and chest plates. He had to turn his shoulders like an ape to see around him, but his point was usually to move forward anyway.
The face was two simple eye-holes punched out in the rather enormous surface, and the armor in full was noticeably closer to white than was strictly traditional. When he thought of the first time he'd taken it off for them, it was hard not to giggle. Rarely is such a cruel joke so very funny.
“Oy there.” Said a voice, and he almost let it catch his attention. He realized at the last second that it had a dead pitch, and didn't turn his head. Just a prisoner. It laughed, which was the worst thing they could do. It sounded like a death rattle.
'It must have seen me flinch' Lon thought, but he wouldn't humor it any further. Soon he would have a sandwich, hopefully dripping with gravy, and it would be more than enough to take his mind off of the talking dead.
It's rattling laugh finally petered out. “You won't talk to me either then.” It said in death pitch. “Strange place this world has become lately, no? Just last week I was well alive, having fine wine and cheeses, mingling with the best of them. And here I sit now unacknowledged by somebody even as ugly as yourself..” A pause. “I didn't mean that, by the way. I thought maybe it might draw a reaction from you, which would be the most interaction I've gotten since I was dragged in here. No words then either, in-case you're wondering.”
Lon massaged his temples with his fingertips.
“Though, if you don't mind me saying, you do have a rather unique look about you. Combination of maybe an eagle and...Have you heard of rhinoceros? Very foreign animal but I may be able to draw one for you if you're curious. My talent is calligraphy, but my hand is steady. Well, what would you say? Would you like a drawing?” A short pause. “No, I didn't suppose you would. Your name is Lon, is it not? I've seen--”
“Shut up!” Lon thundered, his armor rang from movement as he jolted to his feet. In one motion he'd stood and whirled to face the once-was, he caught its eyes and instantly regretted it. They were bloodshot and it was smiling rather widely.
“Needed that.” The dead man said. “I can talk to the other deads, but it isn't the same because they're in the same predicament that I am. You understand? As it is, us and the liveys are in different worlds. We won't be acknowledged by them...but you, well you broke the--”
“I said shut up!” Lon kicked over a table, breaking one of its legs with a loud crack. “Keep on like this and I'll move your execution date to today!”
A third voice. “Excuse me.”
Lon looked, it was the guard from before, holding a meager sandwich on a plate. Lon's hopes sank, and he looked like a crazy person now as well. Caught talking to a once-as. He walked forward and snatched the sandwich. “Don't you think for yourself? Water,you idiot!”
The guard nodded weakly and turned to go, Lon gave him a rough shove on the back to start him off.
Lon was blushing furiously, and he looked even more absurd when he blushed. He hoped the guard decided he'd had enough of Lon and changed shifts. He pulled over a new table and kicked the broken one aside. He sat down heavily. At least the dead were quiet now.
Just scribbling. That's all they did most of the time, and the sounds in the dungeons were just pen on paper. Writing frantically to everybody still alive, making wills and final requests. They scribbled just like humans, so it wasn't as bad. But he pitied the person who had to go through these. What the dead must say...
“So you know,” Said the dead from before. “I'm well aware that you can't do that. We're given three days to sort our affairs or our sympathizers would go insane. Good for something, I suppose. Always a bother in life, making things less convenient for others. But it just doesn't affect the dead the same way. I'm quite safe.”
More scribbling.
“I could break the rule.” Lon said after a long pause. He scowled instantly after. “why am I even talking to you?”
“Maybe you're dead. It was awfully hot out there today, the guards were saying. And you in that armor.”
Lon slammed his fist into the cell, armored by a gauntlet it made a huge crashing rattle and all the dead groaned. “I'd know if I was like that.” Lon Said.
A death rattle , a laugh was his reply. And then “No, you wouldn't. But I'll let you experience it for yourself, as it's happening to everyone these days.”
Shaken to the core by the idea of it, he sat down and took a bite of his sandwich. It tasted wonderful. He didn't imagine the dead could taste something like this, so it was proof. Even so, his hand shook. They didn't talk for the rest of the night. The dead man just scribbled.

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Part 3: Happy 18

His armor weighed a ton and if it didn't he would have probably fallen over. Balanced right, however, it pressed him directly into the ground like a set nail and made it very easy to balance with no actual concentration. He was being steamed and he could almost believe he really was dying today. If he didn't get out of here, he'd be scribbling before he knew it.
Thirteen heads had rolled so far today, and on the eight his thumb had found a small barb on the inside of his armor. It grew exceedingly noticeable until he was sure he was bleeding, which had been on number twelve.
Eighteen, he remembered as they brought out fourteen. He gripped his ax and scored his thumb and did his best to walk back into place.
“Wait, I'm alive, can't you see?”
Could have been his mom speaking right then. Lon had had enough talk. Kill what talks.
He slammed the ax down and severed the head, the stroke was completely clean, and a small number of the audience gasped. So at least he wasn't the only one who had to see this.
The fourteenth got dragged away. He'd not seen the dead he'd talked to the night before. Lon wondered how long it would be, one day or two. He didn't know if he could stand listening to it for two more days. Would be better risk cooking in the sun than cooling down in the dungeons. And he would have done it if what the once-was said hadn't shaken him so thoroughly.
He'd seen a doctor before he'd begun swinging the ax today.
“Don't ask me,” The doctor had said. “There isn't any difference at first. Not until the blood stops flowing and breathing becomes unimportant. This is a fairly new condition, as I'm sure you're aware. I'm sorry but you'll have to come back in a week.”
Come back when you're dead...
Lon relaxed in his armor and let it hold him. He was so hot that he felt like he was floating. 'My brain must be cooking.'
Fifteen was locked roughly in place. This one squirmed a lot, he didn't talk but it screamed. Lon split its head down the middle instead of at the neck. He'd never heard something quite like that before, and his body had moved of its own accord to snuff it out.
Even if he'd stopped and thought about it, his mind had been equally repulsed. Proper procedure was a luxury, and they would have to forgive him. It's head fell open as they dragged it away and Lon couldn't manage to look away. He didn't want sixteen. He wanted a large beer in his favorite tavern back home. And he wanted his old friends to laugh with. He hadn't laughed with anyone in over a year.
Sixteen came however. And seventeen, and eighteen which had been the only one he'd been truly glad to see.

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(This will be an ongoing but short story. To be continued. )

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Part 4: Art

Lon poured the pitcher of water over his head, it was icy and he shivered as it drizzled into his armor. “More...” He said and shoved the pitcher into the guards hand. The same miserable guard from yesterday. “And a sandwich. Roast beef, tell the chef I'll be up to discuss it with him if I'm not satisfied.”
He pushed the young guard down the hallway and fell into the same chair as yesterday. Already he could feel that the water on his body had heated up.
“Welcome back.” Chimed the Once-Was in the cell behind him. Talking didn't stop him from scribbling. “I didn't know if I would see you again.”
Lon didn't answer. mustn't play into the dead's games a second time.
The dead was still speaking.
“For us time has stopped
For the dead no bells ring.
No keys turn.
No eyes catch our own.
The dead need no bells
They need no keys
They need no eyes.
What we need is paper--”

“Stop!” Lon hissed. “how...how SICK!”
The dead smiled, delighted, and Lon clamped his hand over his mouth. He sighed out his nose.
“The dead write their future in paper, because they won't be there to see it out themselves. I never understood why people care so much about what happens after they're death. But never the less I do enjoy paper.”
There was a long silence.
“Shall I read another poem?”
“No.” Lon said, resigning with a slump of his shoulders.
“Are you certain? I was considered very skilled at stringing together words while I was still living. I fancy that I still am now too.”
“A poet, huh?” Lon said. Anything to change the subject.
“Sir?” Said the third voice again. Long swung around startled.
The boy held a substantial sandwich and a pitcher of water. Lon felt his mouth watering. Roasted potatoes even lined the plate. He didn't even care that the guard was looking at him like he had no head. What kind of person asks questions to the dead ones? he must be thinking.
He didn't need to answer questions because his mouth was for food.
Lon snatched the water and plate from his hands and sat down again. He'd been so startled he didn't remember standing up. He set the food in-front of him and made shewing motions at the guard who was glad to be relieved.
The dead shifted in his chair and it creaked lightly. “Maybe I'm wrong.” He said, pencil to chin. He waited for the pause to catch Lon's attention. “Maybe guards simply hate talking, and it has nothing to do with me being dead.”
That made Lon stop chewing, but he started again and the once-was let him eat. Still, when he was finished and drinking water, the dead chimed in again. “Are guards taking vows of silence now, Hero?”
Lon spit and glared at the dead.
“You're glaring at the guard, not me.”
“I'm glaring at you.” Lon shot back. “It is because you're dead. You aren't like us anymore. The fact that they don't like talking to me either is because I am me. It's unrelated. Stupid dead.” He gulped his water down.
A light death rattle echoed from the cell. It was a laugh, and it made Lon glad that he'd eaten as fast as he had. “What?” Lon asked. He talked to the dead now. There wasn't any use in denying it.
He was rustling through papers, Lon craned his neck but the dead was blocking his view. More rustling. Finally Lon gave in. “What have you got?”
“You would really rather not see.” the dead drawled. His jaw hung slightly in its cocky grin.
“Do you want my company or not?” Lon said. It wasn't really a question. “Show me or I'll leave.”
“Well I wouldn't want that.” The dead said. He sat up and stuck three pieces of paper onto the wall, presumably with his spit. “How do you like them?”
Lon gaped at the papers.
An intricate illustration of a fish with shining ink scales.
A mountain-scape with sharp vibrant thunder and clouds.
Lastly a beautiful woman with pitch-black heels, dancing, whirling, almost in motion.
It was art.
Incredible art. And Lon felt disgusted, because it was coming from something dead! He couldn't help but sneer, and the dead man frowned in response. Lon froze. They could make expressions?
“I was afraid of that kind of response.” The dead said, he was smiling this time, but it was empty. Had it been full before? Lon wondered. “Well, you can leave now.” It said.
“It's...skilled.” Lon said. It was only a guess, really. He didn't know a thing about art, but it certainly did look impressive.
“Ah, thank you. I was never much of an artist, to tell you the absolute truth. Calligrapher and poet, if you remember.” He rattled out a chuckle. “But you would be surprised how fast you could pick something up when you are told you only have three days to produce your life's work...Sorry, Death's work.”
Lon shot he the dead a look, and the dead held up his hands defensively. “Don't want to offend anybody.” it said in his dead drawl. It was shuffling papers again. “I have poems as well, though you said you didn't want to hear them.”
“That's right. I don't.” Lon said. Coming to terms with seeing the art had been difficult enough.
The dead shrugged and continued to organize for a moment.
“Why bother with them?” Lon asked. “Nobody is going to read them. They'll go right into the incinerator. ”
The dead shrugged. “Who knows. Somebody may catch a glance, but that isn't what is important to me.” He picked up a paper and was making long, careful strokes of his pen, distinctively not scribbling.
Lon realized he was the one asking questions now. But even so. “Then why?”
“Well,” The dead said, his pen was freshly dipped in ink but he withdrew it from the paper. He turned to Lon, though still sat in his rickety chair. “I don't know if you care, but my name is Leandrote Afatel. I'm the man to make the worlds greatest dead art.” He reached out and made three thick ink lines on the wooden wall. The pen ran out of ink with the third stroke.
Lon stared. The dead's movements were clumsy by nature, and his tone was dead, stagnant and uninspired, but even so Lon stared. How depressing, he thought in the back of his head. A dead with more passion than I've got. Not just scribbling, creating.
“It will just be burned.” Lon said, and turned away from Leandrote.
“All I can do is bring my art into the world. People will do what they will with it. I have a question before you leave.”
Lon, who was just beginning to stand, sighed and sank back into his chair. “Mh?”
“You can think about this, if you'd like. I will still be here tomorrow.”
“Spit it out.”
Leandrote rattled. “Of course. Lon, What is a hero?”
Lon walked away.
For the next two hours Leandrote patiently fought his lethargic hands. He drew a rhinoceros.

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Part 5: Lucky me

Lon's axe swung down hard. He could hardly feel the resistance as steel passed through flesh and bone. But somehow he could always tell even if he hit a fly with his axe. He could swear that it was more sensitive than his fingertips. Must be connected to his nerves somehow.
He wretched the blade out of the smashed wooden floorboards. the wood was rough and dry, course with dust, but getting steadily wetter with blood. The dead didn't bleed much. Their blood didn't need pumping.
He hadn't been counting today. He'd come up with the notion that it would go faster if he wasn't keeping track, but that had turned out to be completely untrue. He'd been here for an eternity.
They brought out another. Lon tried to review the day in his head. How many faces had he seen and cut off? It was so easy not to pay attention to these things that he had no hope of recalling it. He cut off its head and they brought out another.
They must be endless.
He hadn't slept again last night because of Leandrote the dead. What is a hero?
He looked at his axe through the circular holes in his dome of a helmet. Being realistic, a hero was someone who defended his people and stomped out evil no matter the cost.
The two guards forced a dead-one's head into the stocks and latched it shut. They muttered something as they walked back into the shade but Lon could only hear his own breathing. Besides that, only his axe's singing was loud enough to pierce his helmet.
The cost was standing in town square every day, rolling heads and accepting meager pay. Seeing the peoples absolute indifference, or even dislike for him, and wearing a mask to hide his hideous face. All that and not wanting to do it in the first place. What a horrible cost.
Someone had to be forced to, he supposed. And that was a hero. He was just unlucky.
His axe came up, his powerful shoulders heaved it in a great circle and it slammed into the floorboards. The head almost rolled off stage and one of the guards had to run to catch it. No one was sitting close enough to be surprised by it, though.
They drug the body down below and Lon waited for the next. He waited for thirty minutes before he realized that that had been all of them. The audience watched him leave after standing still like an idiot for half an hour, and then they left too.

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