𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐈𝐗

As Saturday staggers into the other side, a faint orange hue filled the dark scene in front of him, paired with a shouting, clamouring crowd of men. The sky was black, the fires were bright.

Unsteady on his feet, he falls to the floor, the wooden door that he had entered through closing- a perfect door with no pieces of missing wood planks, belonging to a new, and well structured large wooden meeting house. The pale boy lands next to a large wooden barrel.

He turns to the scene in front of him: an angry crowd of pilgrims were holding burning, fiery torches and pitchforks, surrounding something or, someone. 

The young, tall, boy in the centre grunts helplessly as the angry mob closes in on him.

"Burn him!" the villagers yell viciously.

The lean boy was shoved roughly from pilgrim to pilgrim.

Saturday quickly ducks behind the large wooden barrel next to him, watching the scene tentatively, hidden from view from the violent pilgrims.

"Burn him!"

"Burn him!"

"Devil spawn!" the men spat with contempt, stamping their pitchforks on the ground.

The young boy with floppy dirty blonde hair looks pleadingly around, begging with his chocolate brown eyes for mercy.

"Devil spawn!"

Saturday's eyes shone like black diamonds, looking at the young boy, whose features and build was exactly the same as his own.

"Beast!"

The boy, wearing a simple peasant's red soil coloured shirt and dark brown trousers, was roughly pulled by a pilgrim by his lean arm.

The boy furrows his eyebrows and glares at the much older man in anger, forcing himself out of the man's iron grip.

"Sorcerer!" 

The impact he got from wrenching himself free made him crash into another middle aged pilgrim, who also grabs his arm roughly.

Many other villagers, including young, simple-minded boys also joined the fray, brandishing pitchforks that were way too big for them, closing in on the floppy, haired dirty blonde.

"REPENT!" yells a man aggressively, the crowd's anger was deadly.

A pilgrim roughly shoves the boy to another man, who forcefully pushes him to the floor, piled with hay, yelling: "Begone!"

"Sorcerer!"

"Stand aside!" yells a pilgrim authoritatively, holding his fiery torch high.

The crowd separates to let a man through: a handsome pilgrim with mushroom shaped brown hair, holding a long, wooden staff in one hand. He was clearly their leader.

"Goodman Addams!" the man taunts, looking victoriously down at the pale boy kneeling on the floor. The boy moves back a tiny bit, scared but still defiant.

"You have been judged before God and found guilty." the pilgrim accused.

Saturday's emotionless face watched the whole exchange, hidden by shadows.

"You are a wizard, a sorcerer, Lucifer himself." the man says silkily, and the evilness of his tone shone through to the kneeling young boy. "For your sins, you will burn this night, and suffer the flames of eternal hellfire." the man smiled in relish, condemning the young boy mercilessly.

"I am innocent. It is you, Joseph Crackstone, that should be tried." the floppy, dirty-blonde haired boy returned defiantly. He had a slight Russian accent.