The Second Writer Games: Life and Death

Semifinals - Funeral Crashing - Hans Corone

Semifinals - Funeral Crashing - Hans Corone

I walk out the church's back door, but it does not lead to the rest of the arena. No, this door leads me to the place my heart has yearned to see most.

Home.

Yet, as I scan the area around me it is apparent that the royal burial site is what stands before me. The first thought occurs to me is who has died? Before I realize how ridiculous a question that is.

A body shrouded in black is lowered into the ground. It is near unbelievable to comprehend that that body is mine, that I am the one they are lowering down below. The sight brings my heart spasming.

I try to turn my focus elsewhere. I scan my eyes over the assembled crowd and although I see my parents and my brothers, my eyes do not land on the one I want to see the most. Instead, my gaze lands on my killer.

While something in me softened at the sight of my family, the opposite occurs at the sight of Isobel. Just at the mere sight of her brings my pulse to race and my stomach to clench in revulsion.

She cries fake tears, bundled up in her black widow's clothing. The color does not suit her in the slightest. If nothing else, I can take satisfaction in the fact that she will wear a color that makes her appear unsightly for the next six months.

However, I can see into her now. Not literally, in the way I am sure they all can see through me, but figuratively. I can see how her thoughts are forming, and I can read every emotion that crosses her face as clearly were it written in the skies above.

The witch is triumphant. The curl in her lips makes this undeniably so. But the look in her eyes guides me to guess what else she has done even before I follow her eyes down to the lowest point of the ground.

The place where the love of my life watches my funeral in chains.

Her appearance is almost more horrible than the sight of my own dead body. Her eyes are more sunken in than I can remember them being in years. It is almost difficult to get a clear look at her because of her shaking. Despite the cold, her skin is covered with little more than a pile of rags that hardly manage to cover just enough of her for the very sight of her not to be scandalous.

I have never seen her appear so battered. And yet, some factor of the rags she wears tugs at my memory. I squint at the rags for a long moment before I realize it is the same dress she wore the day I died, the last time I saw her.

My brow scrunches together. It must have been a few days after my death. How could she not have changed clothing in all that time? Unless....Unless she was arrested the day of my death.

I fall to my knees in the midst of my own funeral. In front of the crowd, a pastor says the traditional rites for a prince, but I could not care less.

There is only one crime Seraphine could have been accused of the day of my death. And that crime happens to warrant death.

I drag myself to my feet and force myself to fight through the crowd of onlookers to get to Seraphine. How will they do it? A man would be drawn and quartered for such an offense. If accused as a witch in addition to all else, she could be burnt at the stake. I pray for her sake that this is not the case. At least the hanging is quick.

Closer up, I can see the tears leaving trails in the dirt on her face. The cold is not the only thing that wracks her body.

I make my way closer. I can see the way the chains make her wrists turn an ugly shade of scarlet.

"Seraphine!" I call. She moves her eyes from the corpse, but they are filled with hatred. I watch her raise her eyes past me to stare at Isobel.

"Seraphine!" I scream again. I know she cannot hear me, but I cannot stand by and not try. The scene around me starts to blur. "Seraphine, I will return for you! I will save you!"

The world shifts. I hit the ground. My eyes open to the arena once more, right outside of the church.

I release a deep howl of all my newfound grief into the night air, no longer caring who hears me.