Bountiful: Part One
Behind the towering spires of Windmor, the setting sun washed the sky in hues of oranges and purples. The city was nestled atop the northern mountains of Ozardia, its stone-hewn buildings lost behind a near-constant cover of mist.
Desra’s stomach turned as dread pooled in her core. She hadn’t eaten dinner, but even if she had, she’d have wretched it up by now. Her leather shoes brushed softly against the worn stone steps that led to the public square. She knew tonight would not be like most nights. Tonight, a witch would burn.
The bells had rung at noon earlier that day, their solemn tune echoing against the mountain and signaling to the townspeople that a witch had been found, and they were to be executed that evening.
As she traveled the narrow streets that pitched and fell along with the mountain, she passed by vendors and artisans as they closed their stores. Cobblers, seamstresses, and potters were all warily preparing for the events of the evening. Very few people supported the executions, but the Order demanded that every townsperson attend or they would be arrested themselves.
“Desra!” a familiar voice called out from behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Brennan. A man with rich bronze skin and a crown of chin-length black curls—usually a wild, joyful mess—was weaving through the amassing crowd.
“Thank the Good Gods I was able to find you,” he said between breaths, his eyes heavy with genuine relief, as he finally caught up with her.
“You didn’t want to endure this wonderful evening alone, Brennan?” Desra masked her nerves with a smirk as she wrapped her arm around his neck. “Don’t worry, I am here to comfort you.”
Brennan chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You always know just what I need.”
They walked together in silence for a few moments, descending the final curve toward the square. A large crowd had already formed around the stone platform at the heart of the town. There were hundreds standing shoulder to shoulder. People leaned over balconies above, children clung to their mothers, and a few men exchanged coins, betting on how quickly the witch would burn.
Silver Knights formed a perimeter around the platform, each adorned with perfectly polished silver armor and a large sword sheathed at their sides.
A hush fell as a priestess clad in draping black robes ascended the steps of the platform and turned to face them.
“Welcome, Good citizens of Windmor. May the Good Gods bless you for your faithfulness tonight,” her voice echoed through the square, reaching even the people high above them who watched from their balconies.
Two Silver Knights ascended the steps next, and held firmly between them was the bare form of a woman. The woman was young, maybe just beginning her third decade. Her ivory skin was discolored with large, dark bruises, and her ash blonde hair hung limp over her face. Desra studied the two knights carefully, committing them to memory.
One was an older man, probably around the age of her father, and rather rotund for a Silver Knight; his round belly was barely contained by his shining armor. Desra noticed the malice with which he carried the woman—his knuckles were white from the force of his grip, and his aging face was twisted in disgust.
The other was a younger man, closer in age to her—about to begin his fourth decade, she assumed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with pale skin and short sand colored hair. She noticed his expression wasn’t as hateful as his companion’s. It was cold, yes, but more… apathetic. As if he didn’t care at all whether this woman lived or died.
“Our Silver Knights have found yet another witch! A heretic! An abomination to the Good Gods,” the Order priestess continued.
The knights, their movements efficient and practiced, bound the woman to the thick wooden post that jutted out of the center of the platform. Thick, coarse rope was tied firmly around her wrists and ankles, ensuring there would be no escape. The woman, despite the brutality of her situation, didn’t struggle.
“Death to the witch!” the crowd chanted in return. “Praise the Good Gods!”
Chills ran down Desra’s spine. The suffocating, absolute control the Order had on them all was unnerving. How far could one go against their moral code to please them, to avoid putting oneself in danger? She glanced over to Brennan, whose usual playful expression was now schooled into deliberate indifference, a mask he used in the mad world they lived in.
“Praise the Good Gods,” they both murmured in unison.
There was a high-pitched hiss, and suddenly flames erupted, surrounding the fair-skinned woman. The fire’s light cast her in a hellish orange glow, but the woman didn’t as much as flinch. Instead, she stared directly ahead—a final act of defiance—and let the fire consume her.
“Let this be a lesson to you all!” the priestess’ voice rang again. Her words were slow and calculated. “No witch is safe! There is no hiding! Evil will always be rooted out!” She lifted her arms with her palms facing out towards the crowd, revealing two inky black eyes etched permanently into her skin.
Tears welled in Desra’s eyes as she watched the witch burn before her.
She felt Brennan’s hand brush softly against hers. “Let’s go now,” he whispered, his voice shaking.
They turned away from the blazing pyre and made their way through the crowd.
Night had finally fallen during the long and silent journey back to Desra’s home. The wind howled as it blew Desras’ dark, wavy hair across her somber face, where tears fell in a continuous stream down her olive cheeks. She walked alongside Brennan in the crook of his arm as he gently stroked her shoulder.
Her home was set into the side of the mountain. It was taller than it was wide, and its petite windows were adorned by moss-green shutters, matching the verdant forest around them.
They entered the quaint home, the wooden door heavier than normal—a sign of the toll that the evening’s harrowing events had taken on them.
Inside, there was a small wooden table in the center of the room, surrounded by four mismatched chairs, each hand-carved by one of Windmor’s carpenters. Around the perimeter were bookcases overflowing with books. The back of the room featured a kitchen with a work table and open shelves piled high with plates, bowls, and cups.
“We have to do something, Des,” Brennan muttered, finally breaking the silence as he took a seat at the table.
She examined him for a moment, his slender frame slouched over the table’s surface with his face cradled between the palms of his hands—the vision of a man who was totally and utterly broken.
“Let me make you some tea,” she deflected, turning towards to work table and grabbing a cup off the shelf.
“That’s not what I meant,” Brennan countered.
Ignoring him, she grabbed a carafe from the counter behind her, pouring the water carefully into the porcelain teacup. She risked a glance out the window behind Brennan; there was no one around, yet her pulse raced.
“Calefac aquam,” Desra chanted quietly under her breath as she stirred the water, causing steam to gently rise from the cup.
“Are you seriously doing that right now?” Brennan’s voice was harsher than she’d ever heard him speak before.
“I’m not going to hide in my own home, Brennan,” she replied. Her hands shook as she continued making the cup of tea, grabbing an envelope filled with dried herbs from a drawer, and dropping it into the hot water. He wasn’t wrong. She shouldn’t be doing this, especially not now, but her magic also wasn’t something she could turn off. It was a living thing inside her, and if it went ignored, it would consume her from the inside out. “I have to use it. It doesn’t go away just because I want it to.”
She padded over to the round table where Brennan sat.
“Here. It’s chamomile.” She placed the cup in front of him.
“We can’t keep living like this, Des. You are in constant danger.” He turned to look at her directly, disregarding the tea. “The Order will not rest until every witch has been burned, don’t you see that? Things need to change, or you may be next.”
“Of course I see that, but what would you like to do? We are just two people. What change could we possibly make?”
His face fell as he turned back in his seat. “Thanks for the tea.”
Brennan sipped his chamomile tea as they sat in silence.
Desra shifted in her seat as she cleared her throat. “Are you going to the wedding next week?” she asked, trying to defuse the tension.
“Feels a little odd, doesn’t it? Going to a wedding so soon after an execution?” Brennan replied dryly.
Desra placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe a little distraction would be good for us.”
But there wasn’t enough distraction in the world that would erase the scent of burning flesh still clinging to their clothes—an acrid reminder that she could very well be next. The thought made Desra’s stomach churn.
“I’ll think about it.” Brennan stood up and walked toward the front door. “See you later, Des.”
Desra’s heart ached as he closed the door behind him. Brennan, usually so full of light, now seemed like a man with nothing left to hope for.
This is good. Witch-Hunting is a fun theme. We all take a swing at it. Mine was called something like "Three Blackened Crows".
Consider two editing points:
Burning flesh or a rotting corpse or festering wounds has a smell. Incorporate the smell into the horror of the burning. It would have saturated the clothes and hair of everyone within a hundred feet. A lasting message.
The "Are you seriously . . . . " question is written poorly. It has a contemporary feel that will not endure over time. Fashionable today is embarrassing in ten years. The concern is real. Give the young man an action and a delivery with a classical sensibility. Maybe he glances to the front door with alarm and back and mutters something like "This is not the time for parlour tricks, Desra. The Eyes of the Order are everywhere."
Your creative ability will tidy it up. Use classic styling though so the conversations will age well. You don't want your dialogues to sound like they came out of a Clueless movie.
It was a sad time