/ Here's finally chapter three of my little story. As always, feel free to leave (constructive) feedback. Enjoy. /
Burn, Witch, Burn
"The sunlight claps the earth,
and the moonbeams kiss the sea:
what are all these kissings worth,
if thou kiss not me?"
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
Chapter III: Cat Got Your Tongue, Dear?
Just a few more hours to go – a few hours and Myrtle Snow would be burning at the stake yet again, but this time she would burn once and for all. At this very moment, the former head of the Witches' Council was sat in her bedroom on a wooden chair, facing a mirror, facing her sealed fate, her fears and her worries, facing what would soon be her release from suffering.
She looked at herself, her glasses resting on the tabletop. The image of herself that Myrtle could see was slightly blurry now that she was not wearing any assistance for her vision. Yet, the flame-haired witch could see how reddened the area in and around her blue eyes was, how glistening lines created by icy tears went from right underneath her eyes down to her chin. Myrtle had been crying for the past twenty minutes straight, being laid on her bed until she had eventually pulled herself together – and recovered her dignity, or some of it, at least.
Now staring at herself, the usually so sophisticated ginger allowed a heavy, depressed sigh to escape from her dry lips.
"It's for the best", she murmured to herself, or rather to her sorry reflection in the mirror. For sure, nobody was entitled to see Myrtle Snow in such a condition – she looked miserable. She felt miserable. No one should ever see the Guardian of Veracity in the Vernacular like this. Myrtle's hair was a mess (even more so than it normally was), her makeup was non-existent, she was only wearing a simple dress rather than any of her usual Haute Couture pieces, and worst of all, even a blind man would have seen the despair and depression in her aura.
"Pull yourself together, Myrt, you will be with her again soon."
Her own words brought the tears back into Myrtle's eyes. It was a wonder how there still was any salty liquid left to be produced and pushed out of her eyes at this point.
"For God's sake, you don't even know whether she feels the same", the flame-haired female hissed at herself – she felt like there were two tiny Myrtles sat on either of her shoulders. A small devil and a little angel version, yet they weren't arguing about a decision that was ought to be made. It seemed they were rather arguing about whether Myrtle's intentions were right. Whether the feelings she's had for so long now weren't misleading her.
"Oh, but she does. Did. The way she kissed you, that wasn't just some meaningless kiss, it couldn't have been. The way she's looked at you, there was more than just hatred and you know it, Myrtle Snow. She felt the same. Or did she?"
Closing her teary eyes, the redhead's thoughts went back to that one evening, that one particular encounter with Fiona Goode, several weeks back.
"Fiona, don't you think you should seriously consider rehab? Your excessive alcohol consumption over the past weeks almost worries me."
"Myrt, would you shut your mouth and stop talking for once? Allow me to enjoy at least one thing in my last weeks as the Supreme of this coven, will you?"
"How can you possibly enjoy a thing when you've drunk yourself into oblivion?"
"The most enjoyable thing about it is that I don't have to listen to your silly rambling all the godforsaken time, darling." Once those words were spoken, Fiona Goode tilted her head to the side lightly, the flame-haired woman a good distance away from her across the room, leaning against the door frame. Fiona herself was draped on the chaise longue, her head thrown back so that Myrtle was upside down. Her hand was tumbling weakly down the piece of furniture, her fingers brushing along the parquet and up the half empty whiskey tumbler that was resting on the floor.
"What about that boyfriend of yours, hm? Don't you enjoy him? A little birdie told me you don't even bother putting on panties anymore when you leave the house."
No response came from the intoxicated Supreme. Instead, Myrtle watched the woman sitting upright in a manner more elegant than what she would suspect from someone as inebriated as Fiona Goode at this very moment.
"What, cat got your tongue, dear?"
Still no response from the blonde. The Supreme managed to get up from the chaise longue, yet she failed to miss the whiskey tumbler and knocked it over, the remaining liquid spreading in a pool of strong alcohol around the foot of the chaise. "Oh, shit", Fiona cursed under her breath, however, seemingly careless, and she lowly added, "Whatever."
Myrtle did not hesitate to rush over to Fiona's side as she watched this clumsy scene, wanting to prevent her from falling over like the glass had just done.
"I can walk, redhead", defended Fiona herself, elegantly stepping away from said redhead. The Supreme's expression was as cold as ice as she shot Myrtle a glance, her eyes glazed – it was difficult to make out whether they were glazed from the alcohol or if there was a hint of tears in those brown orbs.
"Why do you even care, Myrt? Won't you be the first to crack open a bottle of champagne once I'm dead? Aren't you the one who wants me dead the most? So don't tell me you care or even worry about me. Besides, my love life is none of your goddamn business." Fiona was pointing her index finger at Myrtle, the tip of her finger almost touching the redhead's colourful blouse.
This sudden, well, Myrtle Snow would almost dare to call it an outburst of emotion, stunned the head of the Witches' Council more than she thought it would. Perhaps it had been something hidden in Fiona's voice – a hint of hurt – that surprised the ginger so much.
"Since when are you this sentimental? What's the whiskey doing to you, dear? I was expecting some kind of harsh response or you bragging about how marvellous your lover is do-"
Another thing surprised or rather stunned Myrtle far more now than Fiona's subtle expression of hurt had done. It was the Supreme's lips pressed upon her own, the blonde's left hand resting against the redheaded woman's cheek, soon moving further to her nape to pull Myrtle closer and keep her captured. It was just a brief moment that the flame-haired witch had her blue orbs widened in shock before her eyes went shut. What was happening? She did not want to give Fiona the satisfaction of giving in, yet she could not do anything against the enchanting power of the Supreme's soft, sensual lips brushing up so sweetly against her own. Myrtle gave in, her arms draping around the blonde's slim waist, leaning into her touch and returning the kiss with a passion that she never thought she inhabited.
Completely losing herself in Fiona Goode's touch, Myrtle parted her lips slightly and allowed her tongue to push forward, gently slip into the other woman's mouth and explore the hot insides of her usually so insolent mouth. When the redhead's tongue met Fiona's for a passionate dance, however, the old Supreme cupped both of her cheeks and pulled away from the kiss, leaving a totally flustered Myrtle Snow standing right in front of her. The ginger's arms fell back to her sides.
Fiona's expression was cold again, as if nothing ever happened, yet she still had the other witch's cheeks cupped. Her fingernails dug very slightly into Myrtle's pale skin.
"I said you shall stop talking, Myrt. This was my last resort to shut you up just once. For Christ's sake, you're giving me a headache with all that bullshit you're babbling." With that being said, Fiona Goode seemed to be done. She stepped back, let go of Myrtle entirely and she shot just one quick glance back at the mess nearby the chaise longue.
"Clean that shit up. I need some sleep."
Moments later, Myrtle Snow was alone in the room. Her lips burning. Her heart racing. Lifting her right hand slowly, she allowed a gloved finger to gently graze along her own lips, as if she could manifest the taste of Fiona's deliciously tempting mouth, keep it secured and never forget.
Sniffing once, the Guardian of Truth found herself wiping her eyes before she eventually dared to look back into the mirror. This strange and yet so fulfilling encounter with her nemesis had been occupying Myrtle's mind for weeks.
"She's awoken all those damned feelings you had sworn to yourself to never allow to leak", the witch scolded herself. "You're so endlessly stupid, Myrt."
Eventually, Myrtle picked up a tissue from the table in front of herself, to dry her eyes and wipe off any visible sadness. Once she was done, she began putting on some subtle makeup for the ceremony – of course, one Myrtle Snow always had to give away as much grace as possible, even if it was in a situation as depressing as the one to come.
Her mind went back to the dead Supreme and those looks she had given Myrtle every now and then. Suggestive and almost teasing. Smirks and grins, sometimes the redhead had felt like she was being undressed by Fiona's eyes only. But what did it matter now? Fiona Goode was dead, and Myrtle was going to follow her very soon. One and a half hours from this very moment on, the redheaded witch would be tied up to the stake, ready to burn for the second and last time.
The memories of Fiona were both a blessing and a curse. Myrtle Snow never wanted to forget about their kiss again, she never wished to miss out on what she believed they had, somewhere deep within, hidden between the two. Yet, whenever the ginger came to remember, it felt like a sharp stinging pain in her chest, as if someone was drawing a dagger into her heart over and over again. The pain was too much for Myrtle to bear – she wished to die and be finally reunited with Fiona again. If not in life, then at least in death.
Taking a few deep breaths, the flame-haired woman forced a smile once she had fixed her hair. With that, she got up from her seat and picked up the red Balenciaga dress that was placed across the mattress of her bed. Feeling the soft fabric for a moment and almost pitying that this beautiful dress was going to burn with her, Myrtle lastly shook her head walked into the bathroom to change. Once the dress was put on and a pair of matching shoes slipped onto her feet, Myrtle Snow was ready.
What was now following was a very long period of waiting – the redheaded woman did not keep track of the remaining time by looking at a clock or a watch, she measured time by the amount of cigarillos she still got to nervously smoke to calm her nerves.
One question, however, never left Myrtle's mind. Was she really not too oblivious to believe that there had been something between herself and Fiona Goode?