Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Early Fall, 1582

I've been here for two days, mostly alone aside from the other people locked up in the other cells. I can hear them through the door to my cell. Their screams and cries haven't stopped echoing in my ears.

This morning, I woke up practically in a pool of sweat. The fever brought on by the fouled wounds on my body is gaining traction.

I don't know what happens to me if I die here. I haven't really had to think about it. Every other life I've taken part in was secure. None of the others were sick or weak like Amalie is now. None of them wanted to die like she does.

Part of it is bravery. If she dies here, she spites their plans to make yet another example of her. Part of it is despair. If she were to be miraculously freed, where would she go? Certainly not back to her father. He's part of the reason Amalie's here to begin with, the bastard.

Now the jaggedness of my writing is due to the chills wracking me. 

It won't be long. One or two more days.

I've never experienced what it's like to want to die.

I don't like it.

It's not my choice, though.

                                                                                        ~~*~~

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the door to my cell was banging open. Terror flooded through me, making my mouth taste metallic as I tried to scramble to my feet, but I was too weak.

I could barely huddle back into the corner and curl my arms protectively around myself.

How I despise the sound of the chains jangling around my ankles.

Looking up through a curtain of filthy hair and a fever haze, I found the familiar hateful face of the priest. My lip curled in a snarl, but I could do little more than glare daggers at him. My insolence earned a kick aimed at my ribs. Beneath the cry of pain that tore from my lips came an unfamiliar voice.

"If I am here to treat her, I would ask you to not inflict more damage." The sharp words shocked me.

Treat me? Treat me for what? Why was he daring to take such a tone with a priest, no matter how cruel that priest might be.

"I would remind you, Herr Doktor, that this...creature has been found guilty of consorting with the Devil and practicing that most reprehensible art of witchcraft."

"Yes," the doctor said dryly. Footsteps moved toward me, shuffling over the soiled straw laying limp on the freezing stone. "You have made quite sure that everyone knows what this woman has supposedly done."

I opened my mouth to warn him that the priest would be just as happy to put him on the pyre if he wasn't careful, but the sound of the door slamming shut jolted the thought clean from my head. The footsteps drew nearer, and I couldn't stop myself from cowering slightly.

I felt more than saw as the doctor crouched down beside me. He didn't move to touch me as I huddled in the corner. What fresh Hell had they in store for me today? 

"My name is Daniel," he said, pitching his voice low. "I am a physician. They tell me you are ill."

I had never in my nineteen years met a real, trained physician. The closest thing my village had to a doctor was an old herb-wife. 

She was one of the first to burn.

When I didn't respond, he shifted a little closer, his pale, elegant hand reaching for my wrist. I couldn't have resisted even if I wanted to. He was careful not to touch the raw, painful skin around my wrists, but a whimper still slipped from between my lips as the movement made the scabs on my arms crack and ooze.