Birds of a Feather Burn Together
They dragged him through the streets of his tiny hometown, civilians staring him down with looks of contempt and disgust, small children throwing stones at him while his captors paraded him around the village towards the town square in his very own death march. People he knew, people he once trusted, sneered at him as he passed.
They pushed him up on the stage in the middle of the town plaza. A single stake stood there in the center, a coil of rope and a container of lantern oil resting beside it. The real monsters gripping his arms with a bruising force briefly untied his hands without letting go, placing him straight against the wooden death sentence, retying his limbs around it behind his back. One of the so-called holy men, a man of God, a Puritan, grabbed the coil and began to wrap it tightly around the man. He stood still, saying nothing, not struggling in the least. He looked across the square at the villagers who had gathered around to watch the "show." They all stared up at him, but never, not once, did they look him in the eye. Never straight in the eye. They were much too terrified of the "heathen" for that. They were too frightened of the witch. He looked down on them.
You, sir, will you help me? I saved your family from that fire, and not with witchcraft, I assure you. What about you, madam, who I rescued from a vicious bear in the forest that attacked you while gathering berries? I was there hunting, not dancing in a Devil Worshipping ritual, never, unlike what you might say against me. It was my knife that killed that brute beast, not sorcery. You will not save me now? Of course not. To speak would be to brandish yourself a witch before the entire village. You would join me at this God forsaken stake, condemned to burn in the fire of hell come to Earth with me. I have helped so many in this village with my own bare hands, not magic most evil! I should be considered a hero, not a heretic!
He thought these things as he saw those he recognized, a look of complete resentment twisting his rather handsome features. Then he saw him. The man who had accused him of devil's worship, of witchcraft, the man he had trusted with everything that he was.
The man who made me renounce my religion to be with him in secret. The man who broke my heart. Will you not tell them, Arthur? Won't you, for me? Of course not, for you are the true witch, you lying, traitorous heathen! I was a man of God before I met you! You bewitched me with your charms and spells, you made me turn away from the Father and fall in love with you! You devil, you monster, beast, heretic, heathen, WITCH! ... But, alas, no matter how angry I am, no matter how betrayed, no matter that my feelings are only the result of witchcraft, despite myself, I love you. And no matter how much you deserve to be betrayed in turn, I shall not reveal your secret. Though you deserve it, God knows you deserve it.
He clenched his eyes shut, unwilling to look upon the face of his lover any longer. His captor, the Reverend, stood in front of him, facing the people of Salem. He spoke, "My fellow God fearin' men and women, we have today, before us, a child of the Devil himself," The Reverend turned to him, becoming the first to look him in the eyes (blue, an evil color) since he was accused, and continued, "Alfred Franklin Jones, You have been condemned to death by burning at the stake for the devilish crimes of heresy and witchcraft. I ask of you now, witch, who else did you see among you when conversing with the Devil? Who?" The man said nothing. "If you will not talk and repent for your sins, then you shall burn, heathen. God shall have no mercy on you and may you burn in hell with your monstrous kind for all eternity!" The man, with his own righteous fire in his eyes, began to pour the lantern oil over the man, soaking him in the flammable substance. The Reverend had a solemn look upon his face as he lit a match and dropped it by the victim. As the fire spread, the man, naturally, expected pain, but felt none. The villagers had anticipated wailing screams of agony, but heard none. His hair and clothing were not the slightest bit singed. He was completely bathed in fire, and yet, he was not burning. The villagers watched in horror as the accusations and rumors that had flown throughout the village (much like a witch in their own right) were confirmed before their very eyes. The man himself, however, was overcome by confusion.
Why am I not dying?
He looked through the flames burning bright upon his skin, still as harmless as a butterfly beating its wings. Arthur. He was seemingly chanting silently, his mouth moving rapidly as it formed unheard words.
"Witch! He really is a witch!" The villagers began shouting at him. "Heathen! Not even the fires of Hell will claim him!" They kept screeching at him, pure terror and hatred blended perfectly in their eyes as they looked upon him. He had averted his attention by then from Arthur back to the villagers and failed to notice the true witch in the back of the crowd disappearing into thin air. The townsfolk, however, notice immediately when he reappeared beside the burning man, his chants now audible.
"Save this man from his wretched fate,
Shield him from these people's hate.
Prevent this man from feeling pain,
Make death not what he gains."
The witch said this repeatedly as he lifted his hand to caress the man's cheek. Even once he stopped saying the words, they were chanted in the air, growing louder with each repeat until it echoed throughout the town with a force equal to that of a lesser God.
"Alfred, love, I am so sorry for what I have done. I had heard they were coming after me, so I… I am so sorry! Alfred, I love you!" Tears cascaded down the witch's cheek as he reached further into the fire and untied the rope that bound his lover. The man looked him in his emerald eyes.
"Did you ever bewitch me? Did you ever control my emotions?" The witch looked shocked at such a question.
"No! Of course not! I would never! You fell in love with me on your own, Alfred, I swear it." The honesty was plain as day in the witch's eyes and that was enough for the man. He embraced the sorcerer and held him close, the fire spreading to his body as well.
"WITCH! He is a witch! We must kill them both! We must rid our village of their evil! We must clean this land of their putrid existence! Birds of a feather burn together!" The villager that had spoken out was suddenly thrown backwards by an unseen force. She flew before landing on a rusty pile of farm equipment. She was impaled on impact. The witch slowly turned around and faced the crowd, green, cat like eyes not bothering to hide the malice and smoldering with fury.
The villagers were all still stunned.
Witch! A real witch! He will kill us all!
Every member of the town thought this as the witch kept a hold on the man's hand and stared them down.
"She is right. Birds of a feather burn together for we have nowhere to fly. Alfred, love, we have no choice. Yes, dear people of God, I am a witch, a heretic, a heathen, and a devil. Alfred," The witch turned back to the blue-eyed man. "I will burn with you. Birds of a feather burn together," He finished, now whispering. The witch held both of the man's hands tightly, inching closer until his whole body was alight. He too felt no pain. He leaned into the other, sealing their lips in a sweet, loving final kiss as half of the spell broke. They still felt no pain, but their skin began to melt away beneath the flames that burned like their hatred for God and the townsfolk until nothing but the ashes of two blasphemous lovers remained.
Birds of a feather burning together.