A last minute short depicting the ending of a terrible man. Written for a short contest, shared for your viewing pleasure. Written featuring the prompt: "The ending of a bad guy", within the given time slot of one hour.

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Three nights. Oskaferno had spent three nights here, tucked in a tight space beneath stone and dirt, surrounded by nothing but rot. Why did he choose to do such a thing?

The kingdom was, most likely, shouting in joy, for finally they had taken down such a cursed man, an assassin such as he, and locked him away in their dreadful chambers, their dreadful prison chambers. The first week wasn’t that bad at all. Yeah, it was still a disgusting prison cell that smelled like smoldering trash, but at least there was room for him to walk around. But as his ending came closer, they shoved him into this area that was barely fit to place even a beast. His knees were curled to his rather large chest, his wrists beneath his chin. He could no longer feel his limbs, they had been lost hours ago. At least he had time to think about how may end up dying, for he was certain that that would be his ending. Would they demolish his body with flaming arrows, or tie each limb to a horse of the shires, pulling each limb from the others? Or would he get lucky? Would his death be swift, a painless one given by the blade? Would he ever be fortunate enough to find that to be the final ending that sent him away to the heavens shining above, or, more likely, the fires burning below.

With a clank, the doors above him opened, the warty face of a guard, Martynn, sneering down at his mangy, crumpled form. “Morning dreamboat.” He snarled, looking down. “You’ve got one hour. Better start praying. After all, they’ll be coming for you real soon. In fact, maybe if you throw some begging in there, I’ll feel more lenient. I’ll even let you see your family once more, for a price, of course. Now wouldn’t you like that, mutt?” He questioned, spitting into Oskaferno’s face, though the man, russet hair braided into dingy dreadlocks by now, merely brushed it off.

“My family is dead. You’ll be getting nothing from me, whether that pleasure come through coin or vocals. Either way, I won’t be appeasing you.” He snarled, feline eyes flashing as golden as the coin he refused to cough up to gain his life back. Martynn turned from him, slamming closed the metal grate and returning to his pacing.

One hour? Was that really all he had left? Was that all the time he had to work with, to fully grasp the fact that he was going to die, and there was nothing to be done about it? In only an hour, no, less than that now, stone would meet iron, and his breath would pierce the air only one last time. And then he’d have officially left everyone behind. His past. His friends. His foes. His family, at least, hopefully waited for him. They’d all move on without him, he would be forgotten. After all, who remained to remember him after he died? The death of those like him were all too common, and the others...they would try to forget him. They would find no need to mourn the loss of a man who had done such heinous things to them, to the castle.

The clock was ticking now, his time was coming. He began to count. Soon enough, only a pitiful half hour of his life remained. The brutal reign of terror that Oskaferno had concocted would end as swiftly as it had begun, with blood meeting ground where it never should have mixed, crimson puddles shining in the sunlight.

Time still ticked down, and boots thumped above his head, heavy arms reaching down, grasping skin that threatened to tear in their brutish grasps. He was lifted from the hole, into the blinding light above, ribs bruised as he was scraped against the stone. Was it that close? It had felt so fast, how fleeting his death was coming about. The guards pulled him with them, towards the square. Oh, how the assassin wished he could meet this with his head held high, though hunger and dehydration had long since taken its toll, and he was weak, barely able to walk on numb legs, muscles protesting after such a length of time trapped in that hole.

The square loomed before him, packed with people frothing at the mouth, eagerly waiting for him to die, for him to breathe his last. But he saw no guillotine, saw no horses, saw no archers. Only a pole on a platform.

The guards, hitting him around the ankles with metal-studded whips, urged the cursed up the short steps, pushing him into public views. It did not take long for them to secure him, and he closed his eyes, worried. Would he be burnt? Did they intend to roast him?

If only that was the answer, for the truth was far worse. Raining through the air, it was as if the skies had opened, and a rainstorm of stones rose, pegging him on the cheeks, the chest, the knees, the eyes. From every direction, the stones flew as he stood there, defenseless to the rabid crowds as the screamed their curses upon him.

Stone upon stone marked porcelain skin, for hours. When they counted it up, they learned it had taken them five hours. But at the end of those five hours, Oskaferno was but a crumpled form of pulverized flesh, kneeling on the wood, his breaths ragged, growing shallower and shallower as he felt his life stolen away.

He had never hoped to go out like this. He had never wished for it to be his form made only a mash of flesh, tears of blood staining ruddy cheeks. “Matthias.” He whispered, looking up as one last wisp of life exhaled from ragged lips, and the man they feared closed his eyes, gone at las