Burn the Wytch

by Ella Scott

—

I waited in my tent for the Priests to take me away. 

Knowing it would only enrage them, I swiped a bold line across my face with charcoal. A thick layer covered my eyes from hairline to hairline. A mockery of a blindfold, but I knew it would make my cat-like irises more prominent. 

My lips were painted red with precision, but I wiped the lip paint down my chin, leaving an imperfect set of lines with my fingers. The image of a wild woman who feasts on blood.

I wore my hair down, unbound save for the few thin braids where beads were woven through. When I wore it free, it fell to my waist. 

I knew that whenever the Priests came to collect the Wytches, they would strip women before the pyre. For the sake of controlling my own nakedness, I wore only a sheer dressing gown for now.

My tent is near the edge of the camp. It provided the Priests the perfect opportunity to parade a heretic for all the camp to see. My tent’s location also meant I heard the rattle of the chimes on the Priest's oakwood staff during his entire march to fetch me.

There was nothing ceremonial as the chimes stopped jingling. The sounds were called to an end by a thump of the staff against the earth. There was no courtesy as the flaps of my tent were strewn open as wide as they could go.

 I have been waiting for them, kneeling. Exuding obedience.

The Priest who held the staff was an old man, whose age was exaggerated by his full head of white hair and hunched posture. He wore the standard black robes with a traditional dark and crusted rope to hold it in place. The ropes were stained with the blood of convicted heretics over the entirety of a Priest's servitude. “You are to be brought before the Emperor now,” he wheezed out.

From behind him, two of the Emperor's guards stepped around to grab hold of me. They all expected a fight and wanted a good show. They would not get it from me

The men grabbed an arm each to hoist me up. Together, we walked out of my tent. 

Once outside, a third guard stepped up close behind me, pressing a blade against my dressing gown. As if the sheerness of it was an illusion to hide blades of my own. The garment billowed out slightly in the wind, too thin to lie draped against my body. 

The blade did not pierce my skin, it wasn't even touching me, only the clothing for now, as a warning. 

We walked through the camp like this. Past tents and firepits. Every member of the camp was standing in scattered rows to watch me.

It was a slow walk, as we followed the pace of the old Priest. There were five guards and three Priests in total. The younger two Priests were chanting prayers incessantly. One of them was genuinely handsome, with long eyelashes that hid vibrant blue eyes, and high cheekbones over a strong jaw. What a waste.

From among the onlookers, the gawking men elbowed one another for a look at the naked woman being marched through the mud. I think they liked the dirt squishing under my feet. The wet sound rhythmed by my steps, a distant similarity to the thumping they had been deprived of while on the war campaign.

 But today the soldiers were devoutly religious, attending my sentencing. 

There were some women here to maintain the camp. Suddenly, they were not keen on me anymore. The chants of “Burn the Wytch” were not whispered, but shouted. 

Mere days ago, they fought outside my tent for my anti-pregnancy mixtures. But today the woman betrayed one of their own. I cannot blame them. Suppressed women will do what is needed to survive. To stay hidden. 

I smiled to myself again. 

Once I was before the Emperor, I was forced to my knees. I spoke not a word through the accusations by the Priests. I was not permitted to talk through the conviction, nor while they stripped me and tied me to the pyre.

The Emperor did not speak either, only nodded and watched. 

At nightfall, I was burned. To the public's dismay and distraught, I did not scream.

-

Before dawn the following day, I appeared inside the Emperor’s tent.

He was seated on his outrageously large throne, holding an empty wine goblet. Drunken men were scattered on the ground throughout the camp, but not inside the Emperor’s tent.

The Emperor still did not speak as I traversed across the tent. I was not fully formed, but a cloud of smoke. He still did not speak when I solidified into a body once more.

I strode across the tent and stopped before him. 

He dragged his eyes up my naked body to meet mine.

My skin still steamed, like I left a hot bath on a cold night. My hair writhed in a phantom breeze, blurring at the ends, smokey.

The Emperor's skin was dewy with exertion, and his long hair was braided back to keep it from his face. He wore a groomed beard that only highlighted his strong jawline. 

I climbed up on the throne, over and atop him. 

He grabbed a handful of my smoking hair at the back of my head, where the strands of hair were fully formed. The haze wafted away as he reached up to me.

The Emperor pulled my head back to expose my throat. I felt his breath against my skin as he said,  “Never make me do that again.”

I smiled, “Fear not, I am Ember. My heir could never be so weak.”

He ran a hand over my stomach, swollen in such a subtle way that only he and I could attest to.

-x-X-x-