The Whipping Tree

I: Lavender and Viridian

I

Lavender and Viridian

Several Months Ago

         Her bag rests atop her chair, coat and shawl draped on top. Joan sits on her bed nervously, eyes fixated on one of the laces of her boots, peeking out from under her bed.

         The house is quiet, deathly so. Her parents sleep in the room at the very end of the hallway, and at this time of night, the maids and servants are finished cleaning and lay in their beds.

         When the time comes, she slings her bag over her shoulder and dresses herself in warmer clothes, thoughts whirring with her recent conversation with Tomas. With boots in hand, she creeps out of her room, skirting to the left once she reaches the stairs, because after years of sneaking into the kitchen for food with Maud, she knows which steps to avoid.

         Her heart hammers a hole into her chest as she reaches the front doors, and even more so when she leaves her house. She thinks, wonders, for the thousandth time, why she is leaving with Boone. It isn’t so much her home she wants to leave, but the person she wants to stay with. She knows her chances of seeing Boone again are slim, and she refuses to let him go like she did with Tomas. She will go to her friend’s wedding, and she will take Boone with her. She will laugh and clap and cheer when Tomas and Mirna are wed, and she will make up for lost time when it’s her turn to dance with Tomas. She will wish him a happy life, blessed because Imorda knows he and Mirna both deserve it.

         Her thoughts are alight with these ideas as she arrives at the trail. There are tracks on the ground, but none fresh enough to indicate Boone having passed by with his uncle.

         She finds a shadowed part of the path, and with a start, realizes she is no more than several yards away from the Whipping Tree. She eyes it nervously. It certainly is large enough to hide her while she waits.

         Any who touch the Whipping Tree will be sentenced to an untimely death.

         The Whipping Tree will not stand to be misused.

         Would she be misusing it, if she were to hide in the shadows it cast?

         Joan weighs the myths her parents always told her against hard logic. It is a tree.

         Her steps are wary as she approaches it. It is unmoving, as always, despite the breeze that lifts the ends of her shawl and plays with her hair. She remembers a point in her childhood where offerings were made to satisfy the Whipping Tree’s needs. She also remembers, just as clearly, speculating whether all the sacrifices were needed.

         It is the disbelieving ones who are punished first.

         She contemplates her father’s words then, an arm’s length away from the tree. Its branches loom over her head. Standing so close, they resemble stone, the age-old dents and uneven planes weak yet solid.

         She decides to crouch in its shadow. She will not touch the tree. Instead, she will sit on her heels until she sees Boone and his uncle. She pulls her bag onto her lap and settles down, knowing that her legs will be numb in a matter of minutes.

         It does not take minutes, however.

         The explosion steals her breath away, and only when she stumbles against the trunk of the tree does she regain it.

         Reds and oranges dance before her eyes and she scrambles to her feet, lunging for her bag as it slips from her grasp. She knows the fire is far away and will not spread to where she stands, but when she counts down the row of houses starting from hers, she chokes on her breath.

         Tomas.

         Her thoughts scatter, each going to a different possibility as she begins to run towards the flames.

         A candle must have knocked over. All it really took was a candle for a house to burn in Brevinham.

         The smell, sickeningly reminding her of winter nights in front of her family’s fireplace, reached her before the heat did. Her eyes watered as she stared up at the house ablaze, flames curling up to caress the sky, like they could reach high enough to brush against the stars.

         She hears sobs before she reaches the spot.  

         “Stop it!” comes a roar to her left.

         She is pushed to the side as a throng of men approach a figure standing mere yards away from the house.

         It is a Nocen, a male, cloaked in their signature smoky attire and standing slim and lithe in preparation for the impending attack. A flash of white goes hurtling towards the Nocen, but whoever it is is restrained.

         As Joan is being shoved back, she recognizes the person as Mirna. Which means…

         She elbows her way to the distressed girl, sobbing and making terrible noises and shouting profanities as she struggles against whoever holds her. It takes a second person to keep her back.

         “MONSTER! You don’t deserve to live,” she screams, eliciting a laugh from the Nocen.

         “If it is true that I do not deserve to live, pray tell, why is your lover dead?” He laughs as a bow swings his way, casting aside the arrow loosed with a wave of his hand.

         Mirna screams again, anguish and wrath mixing with the knowledge that she is helpless.

         Joan reaches her and recognition flashes in her eyes despite her distress. The two embrace, and that is when Joan realizes the ash from the fire has mixed with the tears on her face, forming grimy tracks down her cheeks.

         “What happened?” she gasps, her arms tight around Mirna.

         “It killed him.” She trembles with fury as she raises a hand to point at the Nocen, who still cackles and deflects the attacks like swatting flies. Behind them, the fire is slowly being tamed.

         The two watch the Nocen toy with his attackers before he jumps back in a motion as fluid and natural as a wave of the hand. The smile has slipped off his face and he surveys the wary townsfolk with a glitter in his eyes Joan can even see from where she stands.

         “Abeor takes whom he wishes to take.” The smile returns. “I hope our paths will cross again soon.”

         With that, he flies down the road, quicker than anyone can follow, leaving behind a deathly silence, broken only by the heaving sobs of a splintered girl and a charred wooden beam collapsing into rubble.

(**A/N: Dundundun. Finally, part of the explanation is given. Wootwoot. Next chapter...oh boy, it's going to be exciting :D

Today happens to be the day of birth of a particularly musically inclined IRL friend of mine (damn, all these maybabies), so shout out to the Peachy Turtle. Happy Birthday, and I by no means planned for such a grim chapter to land on May 31st xD You'll get your fluff later.)