Hatred

II.

She hates him because he cares.

True, he's eager to see the gilded surface of a utopian Labyrinthia, ignoring the rotten stench of slowly putrefying 'good intentions' lurking beneath the gleaming exterior. But he does nothing purely for his own gain. He cares about the city and its people, their welfare. He suffers through the Story's darker chapters, and rejoices when things turn out well in the end.

She watches him carefully on the city streets. The children clamber over his armor-clad form like a moving jungle gym, the women bat coy eyelashes with an inviting smile, the men laugh jovially at whatever wry joke passes his lips. He's integrated himself amongst them in a way she never could. It makes his job that much easier, as they're more willing to seek him out when trouble arises.

But for all its benefits, it makes his job that much harder, too. She attends his first public performance in the Witches Court, a hood concealing her features and making it easier to blend in with the bloodthirsty crowd. Even if she does hate him with a passion, she's concerned about his debut. A lackluster performance will reflect poorly on her. It was her task to train him properly; the project is dependent on this night going well. She'd rather not be forced to hear the Teller's croaking if things turn sour.

Thankfully, she need not worry. He plays to the audience, saving his stonier expressions for the accused once he publicly wrings the guilty confession from her trembling lips. The accused is an elderly woman, well-liked by all, who had somehow managed to hide her powers throughout the course of her life. She knows that the garrison often helped this woman with various tasks as part of their public service: mending her broken fence, helping with large packages. Sir Barnham once lent her his own cloak on a particularly blustery winter's day.

It must wrench his heart, she thinks, to consign this woman to death.

A part of her is thoroughly disgusted at the odd eagerness she feels, the curiosity bubbling up from within as she wonders what he must be thinking, feeling. It's morbid, and cruel, but she can't condemn herself entirely. After all, it's not as if the grandmother will truly perish. The Great Witch already has a carefully chosen task prepared for her in the forest beyond the city walls. There will be others to chop wood, draw water, and cook meals. Her life as a Shade will be infinitely easier than her life as a citizen of Labyrinthia.

The Inquisitor overlooks blatant evidence that might spell doubt and freedom for the accused. Anger stirs within her as she watches, biting her lip while her gaze remains trained on his face. It's nothing she wouldn't do herself, per se, but.... Suddenly, she realizes what a parent must feel when watching their child make careless mistakes. Helpless, frustrated, irritated, and yet—

He must learn.

He will learn, if she has any say in it. The smallest seed of a plan is buried in the back of her mind, one that she constantly nurtures in the hopes of a grand scheme blossoming from its roots. She hates him, yes, but not enough to keep them all stuck in a fairie tale of lies.

The trial is over, the verdict spoken. The accused is sentenced to immediate immolation, as is tradition. A cheer erupts through the domed room; revulsion runs through her veins as the people around her—good people—eagerly scream for the death of a harmless old woman. She has to be helped up the stairs leading to the cage, her weathered hand carefully braced on the knight's metal gauntlet. If she feels fear, injustice or despair, she does well not to show it. Her face is tranquil as the knight closes the cage around her.

Her only son sobs like a child, his wife watching in abject horror; her hands cover their little daughter's eyes, shielding her from the sight of her grandmother's execution. With the pull of a lever, she is gone in a burst of flame. The sounds of their grief are drowned by the ferocious bedlam echoing in the rafters.

She hates him, but his saving grace comes from his expression. He winces when the first of the flames leap from the hellish pit. The doomed soul is surrounded in a fiery embrace, but he turns instead towards the shadows flickering along the walls. The audience, perhaps sensing that he needs encouragement, begins to chant his name in unison. He looks around the gallery with wide eyes, the tips of his ears glowing red with modest embarrassment.

She slips away in the tumult, knowing that the Shades will soon be in need of their mistress. The new Inquisitor is best left to his overwhelming acceptance.

It's only a matter of time, she knows, before that wince will be gone forever.