The Faceless Executioner

Author's Notes: This story contains m/m sex.

Thanks as usual to my faithful editor bikoukumori and my lady love, for turning a messy story into a polished mess.

All participants in sexual activities are 18 or older.

*****

"Elthas Veru'in, you have been found guilty of treason and conspiracy to destabilize the realm. There can only be one reasonable punishment for such transgressions. It is my solemn duty as Speaker of House Everbrook to sentence you and your accomplices to death. May the Lifegiver embrace you."

"This is a farce and you know it," the pale elf kneeling before the Speaker's throne spat. "All I did was marry a priestess of the Moon Maiden. Love is no crime!"

The Speaker made an impatient gesture with his right hand. Guards grabbed Elthas and his weeping wife by the arms and dragged them to the far side of the clearing where the executioner waited. He wore a gray tabard and cloak over his delicate chain armor, the color of oblivion. His face, like that of most elves, was almost androgynous in its softness. Unlike those around him though, he showed no hint of emotion whatsoever. He was beautiful, in the same way an endlessly deep lake was. The sunlight reflected off his long hair, fine like spun gold. Dispassionately, he unsheathed the heavy, two-handed executioner's blade.

"I can't believe my own brother will be the one to kill me," Elthas muttered as the guards bent him over the block. "Lenthas, don't you have any sympathy?"

The executioner shook his head. "You knew the ancient laws even before you bedded the drow. Make your peace." In a fluid motion, the blade came up, catching even more sunlight and turning the razor-sharp steel into a sliver of blinding light. Even Elthas stopped struggling for a moment, captivated by the horrifying beauty of the sight. With a dispassionate sigh, the executioner brought the blade down. The cut was true and Elthas' head rolled into the basket behind the block. His wife, a beautiful, silver-haired dark elf, screamed in terror as they dragged her to the blood-stained wood block. It took three guards to keep her in place so that the executioner could do his grisly duty. Eventually, she joined her husband in the afterlife.

Nobody knew it then but that was the first day of the end.

* * * *

"My lord, the rebels have breached the inner perimeter!" A red-faced guard, out of breath, went to one knee in front of the Speaker. "Lord Nerui'is wants to know where the reinforcements are."

The Speaker sighed and waved at the two heavily armored guards flanking his throne. "Go. Help them."

One of them cocked his elaborately decorated helmet. "Sire, what difference can two men make? They have an army out there. We don't. Not anymore."

"Don't question me. Go. You-," he pointed at the runner, "fetch the executioner."

"Yes, sire." The guardsman rose and stumbled out of the Speaker's Hall, followed by the reluctant throne guards.

The Speaker sighed. Why wouldn't they understand? All he had ever done was put the safety of the realm first. Allowing his subjects to bring these so-called repentant dark elves into Everbrook was to invite disaster. He had been only a boy when the Lifegiver had banished the dark-skinned elves from the Surface as punishment for the heinous acts of debauchery and cruelty against their fair-skinned kin but less than four thousand years were not enough time to change their ways. They might say they had repented, had forsworn the ways of their evil goddess but, even if they did, their murderous siblings might not. Inviting even a single dark elf into the forest halls of Everbrook might bring untold numbers of vengeance seekers. If one single elf had to suffer for all the others to live in peace, so be it. He had accepted that the duties of the Speaker would one day force him to make uncomfortable decisions. He was prepared to pay the price.

He rose from his throne and took the simple gold circlet, adorned with leaves and a single, crystalline spire, off his head. He had worn the Speaker's crown so long, he hadn't realized how heavy it had become. Next came the chain of office he wore around his neck. The Speaker placed both items on the seat cushion.

"Don't just stand there," he said softly. Behind him, leathers creaked as the executioner shifted his weight.

"You called."

"Get Cellana and Solan out of here. Ask if Sunleaf will grant them asylum."

"What about you?"

The speaker cocked his head. The sounds of battle were more distinct now, even through the walls of living wood surrounding the Speaker's Hall.

"If it is my head they want, they shall have it. It won't change anything in the end."

"Then don't. There is no need for you to die."

"You have your orders. Save my wife. Save my child." The Speaker reached behind the throne. When not in use, the ancient executioner's blade was kept there. He unsheathed the weapon and an errant beam of starlight glanced off the blade. Sword in hand, he opened the double doors leading into the Speaker's Hall.

The view before him broke his heart. Parts of the forest city were ablaze, ancient elven homes ravaged by the fire.

"There he is!" someone shouted and a group of armed men rushed him. The first lost his head as the Speaker, still nimble despite his age, swung the enchanted blade at neck height, giving pause to the others. They encircled him, blades and spears pointed at him.

"Lothain, no!" a woman screamed nearby. He didn't look over his shoulder. Cellana's voice was unmistakable, even when distorted by terror. Smiling grimly, the Speaker advanced, impaling another rebel on the ancient blade, the sword easily piercing through armor, flesh and bones, erupting through his back.

Pain blossomed in his shoulder. Surprised, he gazed at the spear lodged in his flesh. A moment later, his knees screamed in pain as his tendons were cut by a low sweep. The last thing the Speaker saw was the blade of Sirian Thelomar, aiming for his eyes.

* * * *

"We need to go," the executioner said softly, pulling Cellana Everbrook away from the doors.

"Lothain, no!" she screamed, trying to shake free. The executioner tightened his grip and pulled her away, to the other exit. Lady Cellana gasped at the horrible, wet sounds of weapons cutting deep. Her fingernails dug viciously into the executioner's unprotected hands.

"Charging at them will only get you killed," the executioner whispered. "If you want any chance at revenge, come with me and keep quiet."

Cellana Everbrook took a deep breath. Before her, through the double doors leading outside, she saw a circle of grunting, snarling beasts chopping the body of her beloved husband, the benevolent Speaker Lothain, into bloody pieces, screaming "Death to the tyrant!" She balled her fists until her nails broke the skin, the pinpricks of pain sharp enough to keep her conscious.

"You will pay for what you have done," she hissed. The burning city threw maddening, flickering shadows across her delicate, tear-streaked face. "There will be a reckoning, even if it will take me a thousand years to accomplish."

"Come now. Your son is waiting."

* * * *

Her hair, held in place by a simple golden circlet, had lost all of its magnificent luster. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes burned with an intensity bordering at madness. She wore a gray dress adorned with dull moonstones set into a nightsky pattern across her shoulders. Solan, her prepubescent son, sat on a smaller throne by her side, fully clothed in royal garb. Still it was Lady Cellana commanding his full attention as he went to a knee in front of her.

"You called."

"It has been almost a decade since we went into hiding. We should think about revenge. Don't you think, Lenthas Veru'in?"

"I am but a simple executioner," Lenthas said.

"You must have done something extraordinary to earn my husband's trust. Who are you really, Lenthas?"

Lenthas sighed, but looked up, straight into Cellana's eyes. "I was a Talon."

"What does that mean?"

"The Speaker's Talons. There is always just a few of us. We are the Speaker's eyes and ears. His daggers, when necessary."

"So you were more than a simple sword-swinger?"

Lenthas allowed himself a thin smile. "We were trained since childhood. Where the others frolicked through the forests, dancing in the clearings and bathing in the springs, we learned to walk unseen amidst our enemies. Not only that. We were taught how to be our enemies. To even fool their loved ones."

Cellana leaned forward in her throne, eyes blazing. "Show me."

He rose and produced a slim ring from a pouch at his belt. "Watch closely," he whispered, slipping the ring onto his left hand. He seemed to weave and flow apart. Two firm orbs filled out his shirt while he shrunk. His shoulders became narrower, his hips wider and his behind curvier. But most shocking of all was the change of his skin. It turned jet-black. His hair, golden like liquid sunrays, turned a rich moonlight-silver. Only his eyes, these unfathomable dark orbs, stayed the same. A cocky smile tugged at his- no, her! lips.

Cellana gasped. She had heard about shapechanging magic before, but the ease with which Lenthas had so utterly changed his form was astounding. "Say something," she ordered.

"As her Ladyship commands," the female dark elf said, her voice rich and smoky, slightly lisping as most dwellers from Below tend to do when speaking the Trade tongue. "Something."

"You are the only one I can trust, Lenthas. Will you go and be my Gabreth Es'raul? The unflinching slayer of my enemies?"

Lenthas removed the ring and flowed back into his initial appearance. He again went back to a knee and bowed his head. So long had he been confined to this one shape, this one task of executing those judged guilty by others that he had completely forgotten the all-consuming ecstasy of the change. How exquisite the thrill of the hunt must feel, after all these centuries! His heart beat faster in anticipation.

"Whatever you desire, my Lady."

* * * *

Sirian Thelomar was drunk, like most of his fellow revelers. Clothing littered the floor and naked bodies were everywhere in this moonlit clearing, in pairs or groups. What had started as a dance in honor of the Moon Maiden had quickly escalated into a heated orgy involving the elven delegation. Sirian rose from between the two exhausted drow women which had seduced him and stretched, pushing locks of golden hair out of his face as he did. The bonfire in the clearing's center had died down, only offering scant illumination. He was sticky and thirsty and the nearby brook beckoned.

A soft hand brushed his shoulder and he turned, looking into the face of a handsome drow male. Like most around him, the drow was naked, only wearing the simple silver disc of a Moon Maiden follower around his neck and a few assorted pieces of jewelry on his body. Sirian licked his lips. Up until this night he had never thought about bedding a man but after seeing his friends enjoying the services of skilled drow males his curiosity was definitely piqued. It helped that the silver-haired stranger next to him had an androgynous beauty Sirian found hard to resist.

"I have cool water and a soft cloth," the dark elf purred, his fingernails caressing down Sirian's chest. "You look like you could use either."

"Grand idea," Sirian slurred, placing his arm around the drow's naked shoulders. "What's your name?"

"Gabreth," he whispered, licking Sirian's ear. Arm in arm they walked across the clearing, past heated lovemaking and gentle caresses, moans and sighs, until they reached the brook. Along its bank they walked until the noises from the clearing were but a distant whisper among the trees. The brook flowed into a pond here and Gabreth led Sirian to the water's edge. On a blanket, cups and a pitcher. Next to it, towels and tins of fragrant ointments.

Gabreth bent low, presenting Sirian with a nice view of his toned buttocks. He picked up a cup and the pitcher, filling the former with liquid from the latter. Smiling, Gabreth handed the cup to Sirian.

"May this night never end," the drow said. Sirian drank greedily, the refreshing water pouring down his throat. Grinning, he put down the cup.

"Now what?" he asked Gabreth. The dark elf guided him towards the water, a towel and washcloth over an arm and a tin with fragrant soap in hand.

"Now I will wash you, if that's fine with you."

"Oh, by all means," Sirian said, relaxing as the cool water splashed around his ankles. Gabreth went to his knees in front of him, soaking the washcloth and swabbing it over Sirian's heated skin.

"Seems my sisters loved to make a mess out of you," Gabreth observed. He leaned in and kissed a spot on Sirian's thigh where earlier one of the dark elf women had ground her pussy into it. Sirian twitched at the sudden intimacy but held perfectly still as Gabreth's mouth traveled higher, warm breath coming ever closer to his manhood. He noticed himself getting hard.

"Don't worry, I will take good care of it," Gabreth purred, wrapping the wash cloth around Sirian's shaft and giving it a playful squeeze. With nimble fingers, he applied soap all over Sirian's body and lathered him up. Sirian sighed in pleasure as Gabreth's hands scooped water over him. Soon, hands were replaced by lips and a tongue as Gabreth kissed and licked water droplets off Sirian's skin, everywhere but his crotch.

"Stop tormenting me," Sirian hissed, grabbing hold of Gabreth's shock of icy-white hair.

The kneeling dark elf grinned up at him. "That's what we drow do best. But I'm in a charitable mood tonight." Swiftly, he closed his lips around Sirian's glans, flicking his tongue against his sensitive flesh.

"Oh heavens," Sirian gasped. He had been served by elven beauties and, more recently, even fiery human women but none came even close to the mastery of the tongue as this slender, black-skinned elf before him. He thought he had spent himself fucking both his seductresses before but the exquisite tongue-work of Gabreth had him panting happily within moments. Nimble fingers teased his balls and the second hand kneaded his toned behind, inching ever closer towards his crack.

And then Gabreth stopped.

"Huh, what?" Sirian gasped, finding himself out of breath and his raging hardness exposed to the cool night air.

"Don't you think it a bit selfish just to stand there?" Gabreth asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Sirian gulped. It was one thing to close his eyes and enjoy the treatment, a completely different affair sucking dick himself. Gabreth splashed water over himself, cleansing himself with quick, efficient motions. Then the dark elf rose from the brook and pulled Sirian towards the blanket. "Don't worry, I'll resume what I did once your mouth is on me."

Sirian sank onto the soft cloth, a worried look on his face. "I... have never-"

"Shh... just do what comes naturally," Gabreth said with a chuckle, melting onto the blanket next to Sirian. Looking deep into the elf's teal eyes, Gabreth guided Sirian's hand down his body, towards his own rampant hardness. He leaned in and brushed his lips against the elf's. Surprised at his own boldness, Sirian kissed back. Gabreth's tongue licked his lips and within a heated heartbeat, their tongues were dueling wildly, interspersed by breathless kisses. Sirian found that pleasuring a man was at once alien, yet incredibly familiar. He had played with himself often enough to know what to do, yet it was exciting and new to see how grabbing, squeezing and pumping another man's rod would elicit gasps and moans from him. If his hands could make Gabreth sigh and moan like this...

Sirian pushed against Gabreth's shoulder, turning the dark elf onto his back. He straddled Gabreth's legs and kissed down the jet-black, chiseled body, licking and smooching at the smooth, hairless skin. Gabreth had his eyes closed, murmuring soft encouragement as Sirian's lips went lower, nearing the drow's crotch. He remembered something the drow had said earlier and changed position, laying down next to Gabreth, his hardness pointing straight at the dark elf's face. Chuckling, Gabreth reached out and pulled Sirian's crotch closer, wrapping his lips around Sirian's rod, resuming his exquisite tonguing and sucking.

Sirian hesitated for only a moment. He already knew how Gabreth tasted and he admitted he liked it. So, slowly at first, he kissed and licked up the dark elf's shaft until he closed his lips around him. Gabreth's hand was there, caressing his neck, guiding him wordlessly without pushing him too far. Sirian happily sucked and twirled his tongue, overcome by his own mounting desire as Gabreth did the same to him. They bucked into each other, hot skin against hot skin, muffled gasps and moans, hands roaming over backs and asses.

Gabreth tapped his shoulder. "You might want to stop..." he breathlessly whispered. Sirian already knew, the tell-tale taste of precum announcing Gabreth's imminent release. He didn't care, instead redoubling his efforts to pleasure his partner. Gabreth groaned around Sirian's shaft then tensed up as his release swept through him. Sirian managed to point Gabreth's rod away from his face at the last second. Fascinated he watched the dark elf erupting, shot after shot of hot seed spouting from him.

Gabreth's thumb, which had been insistently massaging his back door, slid into him, hitting a certain spot deep inside, causing Sirian to tense up and explode himself. Gabreth moaned appreciatively as he sucked Sirian dry, his tongue coaxing every last bit of seed from him.

Panting, Sirian rested his head on Gabreth's thigh. "That was... unexpected. Thank you, friend," he panted.

"It was my pleasure," Gabreth murmured. Suddenly, there was a sharp, pricking sensation on the inside of Sirian's thigh. The elf shot into a sitting position, just in time to see Gabreth put aside a long, shimmering needle, its tip dark with blood.

"What-" he began, only to realize how heavy his tongue had become. Gabreth smiled at him and dabbed at the puncture wound with a wet cloth.

"I have injected you with a fast-acting paralytic venom," the dark elf whispered, going to his knees. "All your major muscle groups will soon freeze up, while your respiratory system will work overtime. Since you just came, your blood flow is much faster, distributing the venom even quicker than usual. Within a few moments, you should be unable to move."

"B't- wh- wh-" Sirian stuttered, his tongue, weighing a million tons, unable to form coherent words.

"Once dawn comes, they will find you, drowned. That's what happens when you drink too much at a drow feast. My condolences to your family."

Gabreth removed a ring from his left hand. Sirian couldn't believe his eyes. The youthful, androgynous dark elf seemed to flow apart. His skin color lightened, until he was as pale as moonlight. The soft, beautiful features of his face remained, amplified by age and his long white mane turned into spun gold. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, roamed over Sirian's body, taking in every mark, every scar, every imperfection. And then the stranger replaced the ring on his hand, again flowing, morphing, changing. This time, his skin took on the bronzed tones of Sirian's own. The golden hair curled and his face... his face!

Now wearing the paralyzed elf's form, Gabreth picked up Sirian and carried him further into the pond. He let the body slide off his shoulders, submerging the head. He stood by his side in the waist-deep water until there were no more air bubbles reaching the surface. Then he waited a bit longer, to make sure. Once he was certain his mark had perished, he waded back to shore. Wrapped in a towel and wearing the smile of a happy reveler, he rejoined the orgy at the clearing. He had to make sure no one would miss Sirian until the time was right.