Disclaimer: I don't own Enna Burning. If I did, I'd be the fantastic Shannon Hale.
Sileph laughed to himself as he entered his tent.
He'd finally done it—finally proven to the Tiran general that he was worthy of being a captain. Sure was a long time coming, he thought. I'm worth at least ten captains.
And to think, he mused; he had Bayern—that tiny, barbaric country to the north—to thank for his good fortune!
He chuckled conspiratorially at how Bayern was now in his—Tira's—clutches. Now that he'd caught their fire-witch, Bayern was soon to crumble.
For months the biggest news had been the many mysterious fires lighting up unexpectedly in nearby Tiran camps. The only thing anyone knew was that, suddenly, a fire would spontaneously light on Tiran tents—almost like the very air contained bits of heat and flame, just ready to be ignited. Or so they said. All Sileph knew was how, one moment, he'd been pulling his boots off, and the next, cries of "Fire" had spread through the camp. He had had only enough time to duck out of the tent before his tent caught on fire. He'd seen, as no one else had seen—for he prided himself on his excellent eyesight—a lone figure, dressed in Bayern garb, running away from the rising flames. He had a suspicion that the invader was female. Bah! The Bayern really were barbaric if they thought a female cold bring down Tira, fire-witch or no.
He had thought she'd looked familiar and had thought about it for days—until his ever-sharp mind latched onto it.
It had to be that Bayern wench, that bold one who had had the gall to question one of her own officers. Sileph had been there that day in the war council. He remembered how that little girl had stood behind her queen and dared to speak. Enna was her name, he remembered now. She had the look the strong-spirited about her, a spirit Sileph was all too eager to break.
When he had finally made the connection between the fires and Enna, he had remembered that faint glow of heat that seemed to emanate from her. He had heard of those with the fire speech—he was sure he'd heard of one within his own ancestry—but he had never met one before. Of course, knowing the fire tongue was nothing compared to his talent—people-speaking.
He immediately went to his commanding officer. He revealed all he knew with great arrogance. His reward was command of about ten men and the freedom to go and capture that fire-witch. But he'd had a stroke of military genius—one of many, in fact—and had decided to construct a gallows instead. Trickery was his best virtue—he didn't have the people-speaking for nothing—and so he ordered the gallows built. He'd had his men make three scarecrows: that mousy queen, the new king, and the bold fire-witch, the real object of his reverie.
That had been a week ago. Today had been his triumph: sure enough, the fire-witch had come to burn, dressed in the garb of the Tiran captives. How ironic. They wouldn't even have to find her new clothes.
He saw her stride, all alone, to the center of the camp, where the gallows stood, imposing. She looked so confident, so sure of herself and her task. He liked that. He would enjoy breaking her.
He watched her burn the scarecrows, watched the small smile flicker across her face at her triumph. One of his men had suggested hanging her from the gallows, but he'd refused. It wasn't right, he'd said. Better to use all available resources—no matter where they come from, or from whom. There! He would use her talents for the Tiran side; twist her loyalties until they turned to him.
He'd then stepped out and watched her mouth twist from happiness and freedom to an 'o' of surprise. He was glad, and drew himself up to his full height. Better start looking dreadful now, he thought, and grinned wickedly. He'd then given the signal, confidently, and two archers stepped into her view. He watched fright take the place of surprise and knew he'd accomplished his task. He watched her struggle, futilely, to find the flame, but one of his men stepped behind her. As she turned, the man drew up his sword, slick, and brought the blunt side down to connect with her head. She had crumpled and he had triumphed.
He sighed and crawled into his cot, closing his eyes, content.
It had been a good day.
Author's Note: Can you tell I don't like Sileph? I thought I would go ahead and clarify that this is NOT Enna-bashing. I don't think I'd be capable of that. It's just me trying to show Sileph for who he truly is: a dastardly, devious, irritating little snake. It's also a little indirect Sileph-bashing.
Reviews make me happy--so if you want to see this make a two-shot, review! If you don't, still review, cause then I'll be happy! (Any Sileph-bashing is welcome.) So, review, review, review!