THE PYRE | ONC2021

Ⅱ

AT THE TABLE, Lady Ingrid could only think of how the lords seated around the table were so similar to the fat roast pig upon the table with an apple stuffed in its mouth. As they laughed over some insipid, horrid joke, their faces tinged with red and pink, shiny with grease and their fat bellies jiggling grotesquely.

Much like a pig before it is sent to slaughter.

 Ingrid's  hand floated to her neck where a jeweled choker itched. It was a gift from an earlier employer but it was irritating and reminded her too much of a dog collar. But she needed to be presentable.

Pigs, both on the table and around it, thought Ingrid, in a vain attempt to distract herself.

But Anna Bein and the... well, the witches clung onto her mind.

She brought her spoon to her lips, sipping on the soup again. It was rich, thick and creamy, and a safe warmth spilt all around her body. 

And then she thought of Anna Bein's children, with their hungry eyes.

What would they be able to eat? Would their father ever be able to get anything for them? Hell, Ingrid was sure they would starve because after what happened with Anna Bein, no one in the village would be willing to sell them anything. And that was one of the better outcomes.

They could get accused of being witches themselves.

Ingrid shook the thought out. The choker scratched her neck, and she winced.

No... no... the corpse had said that Anna Bein was innocent, she told herself. Everyone was there to hear that.

But would that save the children and the husband from the ire of the village? 

"Lady Ingrid? Lady Ingrid?"

It was Baron Althaus. He wiped his chin, smeared in grease, with a cloth napkin. "You seem distracted."

Ingrid coughed, "Yes—Yes, milord. My apologies for my dismal behavior."

"You ought to be," said the Baron pompously, "It's not everyday we let a—"

Let a what? A common sellsword? A bastard? Or a woman?  Ingrid thought, ready to swallow all the words she'd heard so many times before, being said to her. She didn't have any right to rebut the statement, anyway—she was dependent on the Baron to make a living. If he said anything bad about her and she caused a scene, her reputation would be ruined and future work would become even more scarce than it was now. 

But the Baron's son interrupted. He held up his glass. "Come, father. Let us hold a toast to Lady Ingrid. It was her, after all," He said, glancing sideways at her and giving her an assuring smile, "Who kept the village safe when the witches possessed a corpse. If it hadn't been for her, who knows what might have happened?"

The other lords hummed and nodded in agreement, speaking in loud sounds of approval. 

Ingrid gave a weak smile of thanks to the future baron, who returned it politely. His blond hair shone in the lamp light like spun gold. He was good-looking—unlike Ingrid, who was riddled with scars and possessed an unsightly nose. He raised his glass, gave a small toast and gulped it down, the others copying her. 

Ingrid did the same, ignoring the bitter taste of the alcohol. She never did like the numbing effect it would have on her. Her choker itched as the alcohol burned her throat.

"I—my lords, I need some air," Ingrid put her glass back on the table. "May I be excused?"

The Baron gave her a wave of dismissal. The son gave her a worried look, but Ingrid was already up and scuffling to ask a servant where the stairs to the nearest balcony were. She almost ran up the stairs, holding up her skirt in bunches. 

Then finally, Ingrid escaped onto the balcony, keeping the door open behind her.

Then she ripped off the offending choker. Her neck was finally free from the itchy fabric and metal. Suddenly, everything felt a little better. She took a deep breath, then another, massaging her neck slowly. Then she leaned back against the wall, and turned her gaze upwards at the sky.

The sky is beautiful tonight, she thought, as she looked above, gazing at the thousands of stars sparkling on the moonless, cloudy night. The hustle bustle of the serfs faded into the background. The wind whistled softly against her skin, singing its lovely, ancient song.

She set her focus on the faint red glow of Mars, following constellations—constant, unlike the stars. That's what Adelaide had told her. 

Do you know why those four stars don't twinkle? That's because they aren't stars. They're planets. Did you know 'planet,' means wanderer? They're wanderers, just like you and I.

A flicker of Adelaide's hand freeing itself from the ropes binding her, cutting through the water as a last call of mercy, before she drowned. 

Suddenly, the air that was pleasanter than the oily, choking atmosphere inside seemed far too cold. Far too cold. The stars that twinkled innocently now seemed like millions of eyes, staring at her, watching her every move. Their twinkle seemed now more like the flicker of eyelids.

And the wind... The wind sounded more like the howl of laughter from the corpse, as it announced the end of days for humanity.

The pyre cannot protect you now, it whispered, now sounding so incredibly real, and tangible,  that it could have just been a lover clinging to Ingrid's arms, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear.

Ingrid choked back a sob, and turned to run, scrambling towards the door—but suddenly the door to the balcony slammed shut. She slammed her hands against the wood, "Let me in! Please! I'm out here, let me in!"

Her fists burned as she hit it again and again. 

"Please!" She screamed.

And wind and the stars, the only ones who knew, only laughed and stared.

:::

word count: 985 words

day: 17/02/2021