The Raven's Shadow
Ketti:Oh, look, a new story. *shifty eyes* A double update tonight, and when I wake up I'll either give y'all chapter three and four, chapter three, or something completely unrelated. We'll see! You can thank Jubalii for this new story, she inspires me to write. That's right, it's all her fault. ;D
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"Witch!" "Demon!" "Burn her!"
Seras woke with a cry, looking around her frantically. Shit, shit, shitshitshitshit. They'd found her. The empty house was surrounded on all sides by angry voices and torches.
The fifteen year old girl gathered her skirts close to her and cowered for a moment in the corner, as if hiding would make them go away. When the door was rammed into, nearly busting off its rusted hinges, she jumped to her feet. No, she wouldn't go down without a fight! Terrified that they would burn the home with her inside, she threw a rock out the nearest window and when she heard their shouts of surprise, she bolted out the back hole.
"There she goes! Get her!"
Her breath came in sobs as she ran for her life, skirts hiked up at her waist so that her long legs could move unimpeded, her waist length blonde locks glowing in the flickering torchlight. Sanctuary, she had to reach the Church, had to… She stumbled on a loose stone in the road and with a sinking heart remembered that Father Anderson was away on his yearly duty to seek out the helpless and needy and render them aid.
But if she could make it, maybe they'd…
A heavy body tackled her from behind and she screamed like a banshee as she fell – she tasted blood in her mouth, and realized she'd chipped a tooth – and writhed desperately to get free. "Ah gawt'er!"
Seras fought like a demon, clawing and biting until a heavy fist slammed into her skull and she went limp. Rough voices jeered at her as her arms were yanked behind her back and her wrists tied with rough rope. The mob cheered as they dragged the unconscious girl to the town square where a stake had been prepared, dry kindling gathered at its base. Hauling her roughly into place, dirty hands grasped her legs and fondled them obscenely as they hoisted the tiny figure up so that her arms looped around the pole and they dropped her to land with a thud and a crack as the wood beneath her bent under her dead weight.
"The witch is caught! Burn her! Burn the witch!"
"Ent worth et ef sh's nawt awek." Someone protested, and the chubby woman waddled forward with a vial of pungent oils in her fat hand, she jabbed the nearest man in the arm and handed it to him, "Wek'er awp. Witch needsa ken 'er end, eh?"
The man grunted and clambered up the wood, first slapping the girl so hard the woman who handed him the vial thought the demon's neck would snap – it just proved her further guilt that it did not – and when she didn't stir he shoved the end of the vial under her nose. It took a moment, but the rancid smell jerked her to consciousness with a gasp, followed by dry retching heaves as she choked on the fumes. The man laughed cruelly and would have shoved the bottle up her nose had the woman not screeched, "dun let et touch'er!"
His fun ruined, he kicked the witch-child in the ribs before hopping down and handing the glass back to the good woman, who wiped it thoroughly on her apron before pocketing it again.
Seras whimpered, breaths coming in a rattling wheeze as she tried to focus her blurry vision on the angry faces surrounding her.
Admits the catcalls, she heard the voice of the constable calling.
"Repent, girlie!" She looked up blearily and saw him waving from the back. "Repent, and God will let you into Heaven!"
"Tha's right dearie," a goodwife said somewhere behind her. "We're only doing it for your soul, ye know."
Seras opened her mouth, to beg, to protest, to scream in anger, to weep, to do anything, but she wans't given the chance. "She'll enchant us! Don't listen!" The crowd rroared and the torches waved threateningly.
One of the men, a skinny rat faced sort of man, leapt forward and clambered up the wood pile to tangle his hand in her hair, "A witch's hair! Only a witch could keep it so neat without a home, and it shines like the gold she sold her soul for!" He cried, and the men jeered at her as the women clucked in disapproval. He grabbed a knife from his belt and Seras cried out as he tore through her blonde locks, leaving them to hang raggedly around her face as he brandished the hair before throwing it to the kindling. "Let it burn with her!"
"Burn, burn, burn! Burn the witch!"
"No!" Seras screamed, but the man punched her in the gut as she gasped, spitting up blood. Hanging limply at the waist, her tied arms the only thing holding her up, she felt the tears dampen her cheeks and was glad she didn't need to look at the vicious ugly faces any longer.
"May the Lord God forgive you your sins, and may the Devil rot for tainting such a young soul!" The man cried before leaping down and grabbing a torch.
Seras prayed that someone would stop him, like Father Anderson always did.
Her hopes were shattered as the sharp tang of wood smoke hit her nostrils. Heat built around her as more and more torches were thrown onto the pyre, and it was no time at all before she was surrounded by dancing hungry tongues of red, orange, and greedy yellow. Burning hair curdled her nose and she whimpered as she tugged frantically at her arms, trying to free herself even as the townsfolk laughed. They laughed and laughed, and Seras hated them. She hated them so much she wished she really were a witch, so that she could curse them for their vile deeds.
Heat grew beneath her feet and she screamed as the flames leapt onto her toes, gobbling at her skin. It burned! The holy fire burned, and her throat bled raw from her unholy shrieks as she danced back on the burning wood, trying to escape the flames.
God! Oh Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?
The hem of her skirt caught ablaze and she knew with a dread certainty that she would not be rescued. God would not intervene. But her heart quailed at the thought of calling the Devil to her aid; for was it not better to die an innocent than taint one's soul for all eternity?
"Please," she choked out between chapped lips, her eyes blinded by the smoke, she knew not who she prayed to, anyone, anything that would take pity on a poor orphan child, just please…
A raven's cry rent the night air, and then the sky opened up with a thunderous roar and an icy deluge poured from the heavens. Seras sobbed with relief as the gobbling flames shrieked their rage and shrank back into the wood, guttering quickly. The large black bird swooped out of the storm to perch atop the pole holding her to the dead embers. The superstitious simple folk screamed and fled, crying about angry gods and witchcraft as they left the half dead girl to rot.
Seras coughed, and tipped her head up to swallow the falling water, wetting her damaged throat gratefully. Her skin felt too tight, and hot, and she couldn't even think of her feet or she'd cry again. "Thank you," she whispered, barely hanging onto consciousness.
The bird fluttered down to perch carefully on her tied hands, pecking at the rope until it gave with a snap and she fell face first into the muddy ash that was all that remained of her funeral pyre.
The raven hopped a circle around the girl and cawed, but no one came to help.
Seras' last thought before blackness consumed her was that the raven had a lovely voice.
Muffled voices surrounded her, and she felt as though her ears were stuffed with cotton, her head ached something fearsome, too. Gentle hands replaced the cooling cloth atop her forehead and she murmured appreciably before falling back into the abyss of dreamless healing sleep.
"Seras, Seras, can ye hear me?"
The familiar voice of Father Anderson pulled at her ears and she moaned weakly, eyelids too heavy to move. She felt his large hands hoisting her up and a cup was held to her lips, she swallowed shakily, coughing weakly after every sip.
"Dinnae worry Seras, Ah'll protect ye," Father Anderson soothed as he helped her to lay back down and she mumbled incoherently in what she hoped came across as her thanks.
A warm hand petted across her scalp comfortingly and she drifted back slowly into the depths of darkness, dimly aware of the burning pain in her feet as the slightl pressure was removed – bandages, a part of her mind realized – and a cooling salve was slathered across the ruined skin.
"How could they," she felt his rumbling voice in her bones more than heard it, "tryin'a burn an innocent child. Misguided fools, Ah must remind them of God's will at next Mass."
Finally she slipped fully under the surface of the black sea and knew no more.
