Woman of Sorrows-The Black-Veiled Woman

Blood Spilled

Two Weeks

The joyous jeers and cries of the crowd filled his ears as he was forced to walk before his guard. His hands were bound; his feet, shackled. As he walked amidst the shouts and cheers of the men, his head drooped. He knew the place of his fate. Behind him, the guard smacked the back of his head once, just for amusement. Immediately, he faltered and stumbled down before his keeper. As he was bound, he fell forward partly onto his knees, but his face also hit the ground, leaving a slowly reddening scrape across his forehead. Weak from his abuse, he drew himself to his feet again and carried on.

Before him was the chest. The chest where his life was to be let out. He knew, from the moment he had been captured, what his fate was going to be. The trough was low enough that on his knees, his head would easily reach over it. From the higher sides where he would stand, it slowly extended down in either direction until the black marble became part of the ground. On either side of the trough where he would stand were two small bowls of fire to illuminate his face. The bowls would soon be poured into the trough, two bowls of flaming oil. They meant to burn his blood as they had with so many before.

Even as he walked up the cold black marble steps, Tarre kept his peace. He had dedicated his life to Chalandra, and now would die doing her will. She had needed all the information he had managed to give her, but he had been foolish enough to of been caught. This was not her fault, he was his. To the end, he would hold his dignity and his peace.

He now stood behind the basin. It was an alter. An altar to sacrifice those who defied the divide. Stepping forward with a clean, sharp knife, one of the men grinned at him. His teeth were rotting and his robes were filled with greasy food. He signaled to the guard, who then poured the two bowls of flaming oil into the black marble altar. The guard placed the two bowls aside, then the man with rotting teeth stepped forward. Tarre closed his eyes and envisioned his past with Chalandra. The kind of love one feels for their leader. Their first meeting, her taking him on as an apprentice, their training, her trust in him. As he felt the cold of the knife press against his throat, he kept his eyes sealed shut. The crowd before him roared, though he heard not a sound. Not seconds later, he became lightheaded and opened his eyes to see his scarlet blood dripping down the front of his clothes.

Falling to his knees out of weakness, he leaned over the flaming black marble, letting his blood burn as it poured out his slowly dying body. He gasped for air, trying to overcome the dizzying sensation of his blood being drained from his body. He could feel it running down his neck, his lifeblood. This was to be his end, watching his crimson blood pour out of his throat, waiting for death to come before a crowd that celebrated his death. The death of a follower of Chalandra.

Drawing a deep breath which he was sure was his last, his blurry gaze shifted out over the crowd, as far as it could while the soldier behind him forced his head down over the basin. At the edge of the crowd, hidden in the woods, she stood. His mistress. Cloaked with her black cape, robed in black dress, she came to watch the death of her apprentice. To comfort him as he parted from the earth. She did not move to stop it, she simply stood, her veil pulled back from her face, yet left her hood up, watching.

Her face was stern. She did not shed a tear, yet some form of sorrow, or however it was she mourned, plagued her fair face. Though his sight was fading, he was able to make her out clearly. The pale skin of his mistress's face and hands standing in stark juxtaposition to the shadow-robed woods. No one noticed her, for she could always pass unnoticed if she wished.

He coughed, knowing now that he was at the end of his strength. Though he had resolved to pass bravely, pass like a warrior, he felt a tremble pass through his body. A shiver. It was both fear and coldness, for he knew already that this was his end. Chalandra simply raised her right hand, and lay it across her heart. She saluted him. And that was the final thing he saw before darkness took him. The mistress saluting her loyal servant, one who had been foolishly caught on a scouting venture in hopes of gathering information on the Yewflower divide.