To Ashes

It was Elizabeth’s father who turned her in.

 

Her mother shut herself in her bedroom, unable to watch. Elizabeth called out for her parents as the guards marched toward her.

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Just days before, she’d walked with her mother on the cobbled streets of the city, admiring the beauty of the glimmering silver armor the King’s guards wore. As the men dragged her away, she hated it.

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She pounded her small fists into the metal plates, leaving angry purple bruises on her arms. She struggled with everything she had, yet the men didn’t miss a step as she thrashed against their hold. Her father opened the door for them as they carried her to the prison wagon.

 

The rumors of a witch in their midst stirred the entire city. Magic was strictly forbidden in the empire. Gruesome stories about the witches in the north had proven that magic was corrupting and contagious. Evil. It was every good citizen’s duty to hate magic and those who would use it to taint their pure kingdom​.

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At first, Elizabeth had greeted her powers as an exciting new trick. A fun new plaything. She found the candles especially entertaining. They would tell her about what the servants did in the candlelight when they thought no one was watching. They were the biggest gossips in the manor. The fireplace was different, less talkative, but Elizabeth liked it just as much. She would kneel on the carpet and plunge her hands into the glowing coals. The flames licked at her skin and tickled her arms, making her giggle.

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Elizabeth treasured her new friends until the day her nanny, Cassandra, discovered her playing with the flames, laughing and unburnt. Cassandra turned pale at the sight, dropping her bundle of linens.

 

Cassandra dragged Elizabeth from the fireplace, wild concern in her eyes. “Keep this between us. No one can know.”

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Elizabeth tried to ignore the candles’ chatter, and she kept her room cold. She managed to deny that part of herself, keeping it locked tight in her chest like smoldering charcoal.

 

But she felt its presence there, burning low when her father began to yell that last night. She heard the candles’ low whispers. He’d lost money on his venture in town. Most nights he took out his anger on his wife, but tonight, his own inferno raging in his belly, he wanted to strike the first thing he saw.

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The fireplace came to her rescue first, blazing a path in the carpet to the drunk man’s feet, encircling him in a burning ring. She tried telling him the fire wasn’t mean. It wouldn’t hurt anyone. It was only protecting her.

 

But he wouldn’t listen. No one would.

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Her pleas fell on deaf ears as the guards shackled her and threw her in the prison tower. She couldn’t understand why everyone turned against her. Even her fellow prisoners seemed wary as they passed her cell.

 

When the King’s dog died suddenly, she was blamed. When the King’s sister lost her child, she was blamed. When the knives in the kitchen became dull, she was blamed.

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Shortly after her imprisonment, a plague tore through the capital. For days, a mob gathered below her window in the tower and on the first night, they lit a fire with a child’s doll tied to a stake. They threw rocks and prayed until the sickness passed. But the King didn’t bend to their frantic cries for blood. Witch or not, a child’s execution could reflect poorly upon his kingdom, and he put the security of his throne above all else.

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But things were changing. It had been four harvest cycles since the guards dragged her up the steps of the prison tower. With every sunrise, the protection of childhood waned.

 

Elizabeth wondered how they would do it. Growing up, she heard the tales of witches of the north and their public burnings. But those were just stories. Magic wasn’t real. When she’d been a child, full of imagination, she believed in magic, believed she’d set that fire. But she wasn’t sure anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

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During the nights, she searched for it, for any sign of magic inside her. She found nothing. Even the smoldering embers in her heart had been extinguished. Whatever spark she might have wielded, it had gone dormant.

 

So, she waited.

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In the dim light of dawn, Elizabeth traced her hand along the scarred walls. The scores marked her days in the dingy cell. Four harvest cycles. She noted every single day and marked it with a notch. She picked up the worn stone from the ground and began to scrape at the wall.

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She smiled gently as she remembered her first night in the tower. The King and his son came to see her. The prince was just a boy then, learning how to govern, how to maintain control of a kingdom. Elizabeth huddled in the corner, her night dress torn and smudged with ash. The prince stood close behind his father. He held his arms close to his sides, away from the mossy walls of the narrow corridor.

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“There, son,” the King said, pointing to the shivering girl. “That is how we keep these people in line.” He struck his cane against the iron bars, making Elizabeth jump and press herself deeper into the corner. “Give them someone to blame. Then, when they demand justice, it is simple enough to give it to them. Burn up their worries ‘til they feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

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The King’s wide smile flashed through the bars. He clapped a meaty hand on his son’s shoulder before leaving in a flurry of silk and fur. Elizabeth waited until she heard the rhythmic click of his cane descend the stairs. When she looked up, the prince was still there, squinting at her in the low light.

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“Hello?” he said into the darkness. “You don’t seem too scary.” With a visible shudder, he stuck his hand through the bars on the door. The moss left green streaks on his embroidered sleeve. “I’m Ben.”

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Elizabeth remained rooted to her spot in the corner, watching Ben through a curtain of her straw-colored hair. After a moment, Ben pulled his arm back through the bars.

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“Do you like cards?” Ben asked. “My father likes them, but mum says they aren’t appropriate for a king.” He crossed his arms and raised his chin. “I think I’ll still play cards when I’m king. What good is it, being king, if you can’t do things you like?”

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Ben returned every night. The guards stood in the hallway those first few days, keeping an eye on the young prince. The second night, he brought her books from the royal library, and on the third night, he explained the rules to his favorite card game. She was a fast learner.

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“Not fast enough,” Elizabeth whispered to herself as she finished carving another line on the stone wall. One last line. Her last morning. The Executioner would be coming to take her soon. No doubt, he had been waiting for this day.

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Elizabeth had watched over the years as he dragged prisoners out of their cells to their deaths. Some came willingly, with dignity. Others howled their innocence, begging futilely until their pleas were cut short by a dull blade and a hooded smile.

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Elizabeth hoped to be the former, but one never knew how they would react to death until they stared him in his leather-covered face. Some fainted.

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Noise from the hallway drew her from her morbid thoughts. Footsteps. The Executioner slipped a key into the lock. The door shuddered as he opened it, and rust specks showered onto the damp stone below. He waited in the narrow doorway as she collected herself and stood to face him, wiping her hands on her threadbare skirt. He slipped a chain through the metal loops on her shackles and pulled roughly, forcing her to follow him out of the cell and down the stairs.

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They walked through the castle grounds, passing the garden where Ben had taken her on the night he stole the key from the sleeping warden. Ben kissed her that night on the worn bench, nestled amongst the tall lilacs. They’d been flowering that night, and Ben plucked a stem of the purple flowers before offering it to her on one knee.

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“Ellie, will you marry me?” he asked, placing one hand over his heart.

 

Elizabeth turned away, blinking rapidly to clear the moisture from her eyes. “Don’t be cruel Ben.”

 

Ben leapt to his feet, wrapping his arms around her. “Shh.” He ran his hand over her hair, smoothing the frizzy curls. “I love you. I could never do anything to hurt you, Ellie.”

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Bathed in moonlight and the scent of lilacs, she believed him.

 

The Executioner snapped the chain, causing her to fall to her knees in the tall grass. They were outside the castle now. He waited for her to get up before pulling her forward again. A crowd gathered around a pile of wood and straw. A tall wooden mast towered above the kindling, and a man stood atop the pile, holding a coil of thick rope.

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A throne had been brought out and placed on a raised dais, shaded by a canvas canopy. Ben sat in the plush seat, draped in a white fur cloak. His hands gripped the armrests, keeping his body still while his left leg bounced rapidly. He stared blankly past the pyre as the Executioner dragged Elizabeth to the top.

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When the King died, he passed a fractured kingdom to his son. Rebellion brewed in the north, and stories of stolen children and forbidden magic fueled the fire of unrest. When Ben ascended to the throne, he promised to be a strong ruler. The king they needed. In the solitude of her cell, listening to the cheerful trumpets, she entertained thoughts of a pardon, even marriage. For the first time since she arrived at the castle, she nursed a new warmth in her chest.

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As soon as the formal ceremony ended, Ben snuck away and climbed the winding stairs of her tower. Bonfires and tents littered the grassy field between the castle and the city below. Elizabeth watched as a group closest to her window roasted a small pig on a spit, turning it slowly.

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“You need to keep your cards closer to your chest, Elizabeth, I can see them.” Ben sat cross-legged on a cushion on the other side of the bars and reached through the gap to pull from the deck of cards. He still wore the royal colors from the coronation that morning. The sunken circles under his eyes had deepened over the last month.

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“Why are we here?” Elizabeth said, tossing her cards to the stone in front of her.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’re the King now. Everyone has to listen to you.”

 

Ben shook his head and ran his hands down his face, smudging his cheek with green dirt, “It’s not that simple.”

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“Ben, please.” Elizabeth rolled forward to her knees and pressed her face into the bars. “Release me.”

 

Ben’s jaw ticked. “They would come for my head.” 

 

He stood.

 

“I love you,” Elizabeth whispered.

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Ben tore the golden crown from his shaggy hair and sent it crashing down the hall. Elizabeth jerked away from him, backing into the corner. He took a deep, trembling breath. “I have to go.”

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The air squeezed out of Elizabeth's lungs as the Executioner pulled the rope tight, securing her to the pole at the top of the pyre. The crowd of frenzied peasants cheered and spat. As the straw was lit, a high-pitched voice yelled, “Long live the King!”

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The flames yawned and stretched as they grew taller around her. The heat grew closer.

 

She looked to Ben, as panic and hope warred in her heart. Ben turned his head away. She kept her gaze focused on the side of his face as the fire spread. Like she’d done with her fingers a thousand times before, her eyes traced curved lines of his cheekbones and his strong jaw, dusted with stubble.

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She stared until soot replaced the hope in her chest. Smoke clouded her vision, blocking his image, and stinging her eyes. The ash settled in her throat, and coated the back of her tongue, making her descend into a fit of coughs. She clenched her fists, shackled behind her, and waited for the pain.

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She smiled when she heard them.

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The flames were all around her now, caressing her body, and whispering their hunger. The charred ropes fell from her body. The cuffs slid down her wrists, lubricated by sweat. She wrenched her hands from them, feeling the pop of her thumbs dislocating. She didn’t care. The only sensation now was the intoxicating heat.

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Her hair was gone, and the rags she wore had burned off, replaced by molten flame that gathered on her body like glowing armor. She walked on the coals, and emerged from the inferno, reveling in the embrace of her familiar flames.

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The gathered crowd began to scream and flee. Accusations tore from their throats, joining the embers on the wind.

 

“Witch!”

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The guards hesitated on the edges of the chaos, but they no longer mattered. She kept her focus locked on the King. The fire burned through her veins. It surged through the remnants of her heart and lit the shattered pieces on fire.

 

The King stood, but shock cemented his feet. His guards loosely surrounded him, their swords drawn and trembling in their grips.

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Her blood boiled.

 

Kill them.

 

She lashed out with her fire, wielding it like an extension of herself. Streams of liquid fire answered her call and shot across the clearing, to the town in one direction, and the castle in the other. Frantic cries filtered through the crackling and hissing of her flames as they tried to stamp them out.

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The King’s guards lay crumpled around her, their shiny armor blackened with soot. The King lifted his chin, finally looking directly at the witch standing before him.

 

He removed his jeweled crown and dropped it among the smoldering bodies. He kneeled and placed his hand over his heart as her fire reached the fur rug.

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Elizabeth climbed the steps. The fire followed her, fanning out behind her bare feet like the train of a wedding dress. She reached for Ben and cradled his face in her hands. His skin seared where she touched him, leaving blistered handprints on his cheeks. She held Ben as the wall of red flame closed in around them. Her tears sizzled and turned to steam as the smell of burnt lilacs filled her nose.

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