Chapter 5
MERCY
I hear Benjamin's cries, simpering wails cutting through the air and I revel in them, in the thrashing and thundering of footfalls as he frantically searches his way out of the maze of ruined crops.
A man like Benjamin has lived his life getting what he wants, born with alabaster skin fairer than mine, a male, landowner—he has had every opportunity, every advantage in this life, and yet, he remains unsatisfied.
His crops grow, attended by servants he abused, his hearth warmed by a wife he condemned to death for the nature of age and his own indiscretions.
The first moments of peace this household encountered were under my stay, his prized, blushing bride.
It took little more than a bat of my eyelashes to ensnare his attention, Benjamin, with his failing looks and weathered bones, and if he were a smarter man, he may have questioned anything about the crossing of our paths.
But as with most men of his station, hubris outweighed sensibilities, and I wasted not a moment before binding him in a weave of his own mind.
I played the part of the dutiful wife who sent servants away after his unfortunate injury, insisted on tasking his care by my own hands.
I showed the household kindness, without the stench of his drink, his cruelty and they thrived in his absence.
Planted the fields each season, plowed them in the falling of the sun, all without complaint.
They slumber now in the main house, no longer sequestered to a barn with the livestock, tucked safely beneath a blanket of my Cast to keep them blissfully unaware of the gore and horror taking place in the west field.
I will leave this place deeded to them, in thanks.
My mind turns back to the work, knowing that my Bonded will not fail in his mission to make sure Benjamin is secured.
I give him the time to savor this. Silas is a house cat toying with a mouse, and every lick of fear permeates the air in a sweet aroma, making my mouth water.
With steady hands, I make ready the first pillar at the altar, slicing my thumb down to bone with my obsidian athame, pressing the welling into a bead, dripping it over the bind rune created to eternally enmesh Benjamin Hawthorne's soul with the essence of my Cast. Flames dance merrily in their wicks, lapping against my offering.
With my uninjured hand, I reach for Silas' amulet.
The stone glimmers in the firelight, and as I lift it, turn it over in my palm, the energy of him brushes against my skin through the smooth surface.
At once, I am transported back as my ears fill with the symphony of Benjamin's screams.
Harrow's End
Three Turns of the Wheel Past
Darkness blankets me, hastening my steps as the agony searing through my chest drags me deeper into this unfamiliar village.
I can smell the smoke as it chokes the air, as brush cracks beneath me.
I bypass the large house raised up proud by Puritan hands, heeding the call I could not ignore if I tried.
I am cold, gutted in a way I have not felt before, numb as I find my way to him in the dark.
"Silas."
His name slips past my lips on a harrowed whisper.
The smoke in this field is heaviest, the wood still smoldering around three pines staked into the earth.
I force myself to look at the charred bodies, bones burnt to blackness, flaking with ash.
Not even the wind blows around me, suffocating the stench of seared flesh, imprinting it into every draw of breath that enters my nose.
I know his body before I get close enough, feel the absence of his spirit and it is devastation.
Desolation.
I cross the burnt black circle, feet slipping on still smoking embers and I drop to my knees on a broken sob.
The fabric of my dress singes and burns, nuggets of ash searing my skin, but I cannot care as I lift shaking fingers to ghost over his cheek.
Slumped down, hands shackled by irons that scream against my power and I want to tear them from his body, but they are spelled in some way and either ancient knowledge or blind luck allowed mortal hands to capture him.
I cannot cry. I cannot crack open my chest and wail into the darkness because I should have been with him.
I should have insisted.
It was my dream that turned this into prophecy, brought him to this wretched place, the prophetic cries of a sister in need. My gaze falls to the other two, the smaller bones of ash and cinder, and I feel not an ounce of power.
Women.
The Green Witch I sent him after is not here, amongst the slaughtered.
The smoke wafts and drifts around us, swallowing my grief.
I reach for the pendant of amber nearly melted in a cradle of his bone, pulling it with difficulty from this body.
The misshapen stone sits in my palm, the material of it molten and burning my flesh, but I grip it tighter, needing to know. Needing to see.
My eyes mist as the stone bears me witness, vision tunneled to nothingness and when the mist clears, I am a voyeur, watching from the shadows.
Silas runs through the forest, a bear blazing a pathway, hand clasped behind him around the hand of a sister.
She is far younger than I expected, with straw colored hair and startling green eyes, blood running the length from her temple along her jaw.
In the distance there is the bark of dogs, the shouts of men, the thundering crash of footfalls through the forest. I watch them flee, Silas nearly dragging her along, hear the pounding of their hearts and the sharp pants rushing past their lips as they tear through the trees.
The forest around us is alight with pockets of flames, torches wielded by men gaining ground every moment. A snap rings out, followed by a cry. The youngling stumbles, falling to the ground.
"Hells!" Silas swears, turning to kneel, hands pushing up her skirts to expose the source of the injury.
Her eyes are wide with tears and terror, bouncing between Silas' and the twisted, gnarled bones of her ankle, purpling and rapidly swelling.
They both know it will not bear weight. The dogs grow louder, closer, their paws heavy on the trail.
"Leave me!" she urges, pushing as much bravery into her voice, even as it trembles from her fear.
"I cannae continue. Go! Save yer'self!" Her pleas are wrapped in the Celtic lilt of her homeland, but I know Silas will not abandon her.
She is Kindred, this youngling, and too close to a child we will never have. I see the moment he decides.
She does too.
"I beg ye, flee!" she protests, even as he stands, scoops her body up against his chest and even though she is a woman to mortals, I feel myself how short her years truly are.
He runs, head swiveling, searching, when he sees it.
A hollow in a great tree, and in this moment, it feels intentional.
A blessing sent from the Olde Gods. I watch as he tucks her inside, the dark shelter shielding her body from view.
From the ground, he gathers mud, and she does the same, slathering it across her wrists, her neck, dampening any scent the hounds tracked.
"Thank ye," she whispers, a warble.
"Stay low. I will come back for you," he promises, clasping her hand in his, swallowing her fingers beneath the paw of him.
But he won't.
He grabs for his athame, slices a deep gash from wrist to elbow and before a drop can spill, he runs, bolting through the trees.
Silas bathes the path in his scent, leading a wide arc away from the youngling.
I follow him, feet unhurried as the memory pulls me in time to see my Bonded cornered by several men, armed to the teeth, barrels trained.
The snarl of hounds rips through the air, teeth bared, frothing at the mouth, held on leashes they rabidly strain against.
"Is this he?" a gruff voice barks. I feel the menacing aura radiating from the shackles slung over his shoulder, but in the man himself, I feel nothing.
His skin is unmarked with protections, save for the cross dangling heavily around his neck.
His hair is shaggy, roughly cut to his shoulders, and he smells of pipe tobacco and musk.
My lip curls in disgust as Constable Wickham enters the clearing, soulless pits of eyes narrowed on Silas, held at bay by the litany of muskets aimed at his person.
"Aye," he confirms, "Twas he who broke in, stole away the witch whore. Sent a wave of Hellfyre to meet me."
I look to Silas, expecting the tips of his fingers to ignite, to spark the matchlock of their muskets, but even as they twitch, raised in the air in surrender, the flames do not come.
The proximity of the chains dampen his power, nearly exhausted from whatever he had to go through to get the youngling out.
The gathered men are judge and jury as the charge falls against Silas and they are content to condemn him without further proof, to collect the bounty on the head of a Witch.
"On your knees, demon," that same Hunter demands. A muscle in Silas' jaw tics, and I see him weighing the risks of rushing them, but the energy leaches from his body, his limbs straining against the drain every moment that passes in the presence of those irons. He drops to one knee, then two.
There is a breaking in my soul, witnessing a warrior of his caliber subdued by men not fit to sharpen his blade.
Rage coils in my chest, turning and churning as they ascend.
The clink of the shackles sliding into place is visceral, and I flinch.
He stares past them all, and I wonder if he can see me, in this moment.
He stares right into my soul, in this stolen memory, and my heart crumbles a little deeper, because I believe somehow, he did.
The memory shifts, to three tied to stakes while servants lay straw and kindling beneath their feet.
The energy is evil, and even in this vast field, the air is oppressive, weighted with the thirst for violence.
A group of men stand gathered, laughing and sneering as one of the women shackled sobs and cries out for forgiveness, for salvation, proclaiming innocence even as her pleas fall on intentionally deaf ears.
The voices blur together as a Reverend begins to speak, raising a torch of damnation, speaking vile curses of retribution and the cleansing release of fire.
To a rousing chorus of encouraging shouts and jeers, he lights the pyres, one by one.
“Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live!”
Flames erupt. Anguished voices of the women scream into the darkness, the sky glowing with fire more brutal than any in the Hells as innocents burn.
I force myself to look at Silas, to see his jaw clamped shut as the flames lick up his legs hungrily, climbing higher as linen catches and fabric turns to ash.
Blood trickles from the corners of his lip as he bites his tongue, refusing to give them his screams, his cries or pleas.
The flames eat over more of him, devouring his torso, his chest, singing wisps of his dark hair as it falls into his face.
Still, he does not scream.
He does not relent.
The Berserker, Bj?rnson, does not beg or bow.
His true name, barely spoken amongst us after so many turns, falls from my lips in a broken sob.
I move closer, weaving through the throng unseen and unobstructed, walk straight through the flames, but they do not burn me.
I reach up to cup his face, and his mouth opens, green eyes burning emeralds as one word escapes his lips.
"Mercy."
Behind me, the Good Reverend apotheosizes.
"You see! The heretic, once put to the flames, is cleansed! He asks for mercy, and the Lord provides. Go now, your soul relinquished from the Devil. Go now, and be with God!"
I hear their renewed cheers fade to nothing as the melted amber stone releases me.
Breath stitches in my chest as shaking hands press against Silas' bones.
Beneath the pads of my fingers, I feel the salt crystalized into the marrow of his vessel.
There will be no resurrections of this body, but I will find a way to bring him back to me.
I grab onto this sensation, feel their joy at this devastation, their lust for it. For the power it bolsters in them.
Countless battles, and his body returns to dust not in a heroic death, one that would call the Valkyries to him.
No Hel, no Valhalla, just endless nothing at the greedy hands and hearts full of hatred.
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and wet, and I let them fall but I refuse to grieve.
Instead, I make a vow. They will rue this night.
“Lest ye be judged.”
But they will be judged, and they will die for their trespasses.
I rise, and turn back into the forest, in search of the youngling.
First, I will ensure her safety, that the sacrifice Silas laid does not go in vain.
Once I am assured of her prosperity, I will return to Harrow's End, because the Reverend misunderstood Silas' last words.
He did not call out for absolution.
He called for me.
And I will reduce all they hold dear to ruin.
The air is still, the quiet only broken by the drag of a body over rustling husks and pathetic groans spilling past simpering lips. I look up to see Silas, white shirt covered in blood, flames blazing from the slits of his eyes, dragging the body of Benjamin Hawthorne over dead stalks by the ankle.
"Where would you like him, Witchling?" he asks, voice stronger now.
I crook my finger, beckoning closer and he obeys without question, wrenching Benjamin up by the foot roughly.
He cries out as a series of pops resonate, the crushing of bone a cacophony of sound on the quiet darkness as I twirl the athame between my fingers, the blade glinting in the candle light.