the first time it's a whistle
it comes to him from a distance, eerily clear between the mocking calls of his executioners and heated crackle of the flames. high and trembling, its nearly enough to distract him from the wet hollow dug into his chest, just below his collar. it whispers at the edge of his awareness, filling him with malicious glee as he draws back the bowstring.
it leaves as quickly as it came, the vicious flush of poetic retribution whisking it away before the aching cavity between his ribs has even settled properly.
.
the second time it comes to him as a scream
a piercing cry, it bites through armor and flesh, burying deep in his spine like sharpened iron. endless and shrill, it drowns out the world around him, shrieking high in his skull, overwhelming and inescapable. every heartbeat, it wails, pitching higher and more painful as he is denied blood again and again. the pitiful, whining assurances meant to soothe and the nervous chuckles of laughter bleed into the torrent to feed the screaming chorus.
it claws at the confines of his skull with every breath, a thousand thousand voices, raging, agonized, demanding. each shrill spurring him to new heights of bloodlust, seeping into his vision in flashes of violent, pulsing scarlet. his sleep is fitful and tense as he closes his eyes and listens to the screeching echoes crying for justice, death, blood, death bloodDEATHDEATH-
watching the flashing arc of feathers pierce the traitor’s neck barely serves to quell the screams; the distant whistle far, far from enough to satiate the maddening echo. it shrieks, incensed, at the theft of its rightful kill, demanding penance, blood, and death.
the echoing blast of death is almost a comfort, short and final as it is.
.
the third time he hears it, it changes
at first, it's like a song - a siren’s call. sweet and thick, a twisting miasma crooning promises as cloying as the smoke that chokes his lungs. and rising in harmony beside it, a symphony of discord echoing a heady psalm of vengeance.
but even as the tainted lament swells in his ears, muffling his thoughts and choking his reason, a different tune calls out; one no less insistent, but a welcome chill in the ashy haze. pure and sharp as a bugle, the new melody soothes against his aching lungs, offering a blessed relief from the horrid pollution of need that sings around him.
the cool refrain shivers along his bones, demanding a chaos he can cheerfully grant. it warbles brightly in time with his swings as he digs deep, and quivers low in his belly as he strains trembling hands out to press the shining tag into sculk-worn flesh.
there is no perfect justice, no poetic death to bring him his peace. but this time, as he drinks in the panicked cries beyond the new walls and hums in time with its gleeful tune, he feels satisfied.
an eager grin steals across his face as he surveys his work, breathless - not with smoke and trembling bloodlust, but anxious adrenaline and wild, thrilling laughter.