Crows don't care

She brought him water. She wasn't supposed to, just as she wasn't supposed to approach him at all, but as customary, the guards rarely opposed the Daughters of the Merciful One in their charitable deeds. They did object though, given the nature of the convicted, yet she was still admitted at the gallows, with her white tunic and the bucket of water.
She stood on a cranky stepstool to reach him, and waved away the birds perching on the wooden frame the man's outstretched arms were tied to.

"The bastard ain't dead yet," one of the guards said, "but crows just don't care bout it, I s'pose."

There was a sad irony in that, she thought.
Crows and men alike.

She helped him to drink, even though the task proved to be more difficult than expected: the man had almost no strength left to keep his head from hanging against his chest, and seemed barely able to swallow. She was patient though.
Day after day she kept coming, bringing water, and when the guards allowed her, even some bread.
"Crows may not care," she used to say, "but we're no crows."
She mended his wounds, cleaning them from the dirt and the dried blood; she medicated his torn eye, or at least what remained of it, and covered the gash with bandages to keep flies and other insects from swarming in it.
She tended him, and sometimes even talked to him, but the man never showed any sign of acknowledgement, not even when the only eye he had left seemed to stare right into hers.
She wasn't expecting anything different though, not from someone in his state, so she was caught rather unprepared when he finally called  for her.
It was the day before the execution, just while she was leaving him for the last time; as she realized he wanted to speak, she climbed back on the stepstool, getting close so he hadn't to struggle to be heard.
When he whispered in her ear, his rugged voice was strangely calm, and for some reasons, it gave her chills.

"The necklace I'm wearing. I want you to have it."

She had seen it, while she took care of his wounds: small bloodstained links against the mauled skin, a Fate's Cross hanging between his collar bones. She had wondered about its story.
She blushed and frowned, embarrassed. She couldn't take it, she said, it wasn't fair. But he insisted.
"I'll be dead tomorrow, and they'll take it away from me anyway. Let me choose at least who's going to keep my only belonging."
She didn't know how to answer, and when he insisted again, she finally agreed.

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached for the thin iron chain around his neck; it wasn't heavy, yet it seemed like it has been embed in his flesh, burning hot as it was just taken out from a furnace. Uneasiness prickled her skin as she touched it, as if something was really wrong about it.
What happened next, she had not time to realize.

The alarmed cry of one the guards made her turn around in fear, too fast, and the wooden stool under her feet staggered dangerously.
The last thing she saw as she was falling off the scaffold was the man's face; there was disappointment in it, or was that amusement?

Then the cold came, followed by darkness.



Guilt and embarrassment crept among the guards as they gathered around the girl's body, blood pooling around her head where it had hit the cobblestone.
How could she not know about the Fate's Cross? Why had no one told her about it? And why did they let her get so close to him in the first place?
When they raised their eyes back to the gallows, the tied man smiled at them innocently and spoke in a casual tone.


"It was well worth the try."