Sealed In Darkness

PROLOGUE: Silver Moon. Crimson Flames. Scarlet Blood.

Scotland, 1563 Witches Trial.

¶The Crescent moon stood dauntlessly in its peak, damping what remained of the cold night and her fierce haunting breeze. Its light glinted off the well at the middle of the town, carving its image perfectly upon the water's surface, crowning its presence with a boldly instigated silver aura: fierce, demanding and kingly.

The dry cold air pierced into her pale bare skin, cracking up her lips and sending shivers down her back. Most of her cloth were torn in disarray, and what remained of it shaded only her groin, but her breast laid bare. Her ankles and wrist ached from the shackles and chains that married them together, with purple bruises and sores that bulged from being dragged and beaten around town.

Ailith was a Duchess in shame, but titles don't matter before the cold jaws of a guillotine, nor was it of any consequence when offered upon the altar of flames.

For some reason the moon was beautiful. She smiled as she stared at it, oblivious to the shouts and choruses of the town's people. She had made peace with her reality and had given into fate, as she watched them stack up timbers, and from its loom did they create a pyre: a wooden pedestal begging for her head.

To her, the quick dash of the flying torch thrown against the thick branches, and its flames consuming violently into the woods, were agnates of billions of meteorites plummeting to her chest. But what could she do than watch and pray for a sweeter death?

The uproar went on for hours, the inferno was hotter; blazing violently in its crimson and orange glory. Smokes and ashes rose with the wind, and the crackle from the woods that supported the flames echoed, roaring on and on.

"Kill the witch!"

"Burn her alive!"

"She's an abomination, a blasphemy!"

"The Devil's incarnate must not be allowed to live."

"Away with the woman!!"

She knew today was inevitable. She tucked her feet into the ground, fighting back tears. She understood that they were afraid; it was their basic instinct: the nature of men to fear and despise the unknown.

The same Humans she protected and saved, were about to end her life on a stake.

The wounds and the inevitable jaw of the flames, were not tenet to the cladding pain she felt. Her heart and soul shattered at the sight of those she held dear, whose eyes were shut red in rage and hate.

One would wonder why they did it, why they betrayed her, and rather seek her life than accept her penitence, even though she wasn't the villain in her own tragic story.

Then it crumbled. Her heart was made gray, like the ashes of a cinder, and it was washed away with the flood of her tears and blood.

Alas, despair and hate from betrayal, were the only things giving life to her soul, and passion in her eyes. Revenge was slowly knitting its weaves as a fuel guiding her as she embraced her fate of flames.

As she watched the already drafted future unfold before her, she drifted slowly in thoughts, drawn into the memories of the past; reminiscing four days before, that led to her present quandary.

She remembered that morning, the sun's first ray brightly prickling into her closed lids, forcing them open. The chilly breeze that rode soothingly, brushing against her fair skin in an eerie sensational manner. Through the window, she noticed a snow flake dancing rhythmically to the wind's pipe.

Winter was here.

She Rolled over the sheets, yawned and got her foot into a slipper: leather soles with fluffy exterior from sheep's wool, and walked over to the coat hanger that held her gray silk robe, which swept behind her as she tightened the sash, fastening it to fit with her curvy waist. The wind viciously slammed itself against the window, causing it to fling open in response to the wind's pounce, sending in a rushing wave of cold gust.
She needed a thick buffalo fur coat to shield off the cold, but getting that wasn't her top priority, shutting those open windows were. She dabbled in steps over to the dangling windows, and forced it close, turning the instant to respond to the knock striking the door.