Every Little Memory

Entry #14: Burnt Orange

I blink and when my eyes open I see that I am standing mere centimeters from an enormous burning pyre. If I so much as bend over, my face will go straight into the open flames. I’m glad this is a memory, or my hair would be singed right now! I take slow steps backwards and take a glimpse at my surroundings.

There is white marble everywhere. The large cathedral that spans before me is made entirely of the material. It is so tall; it seems to touch the sky. The Church of Fennarie, standing tall and imposing before me. The last time I stepped through those large double doors, I was in irons and surrounded by guardsmen. It was a horrible experience, one I try to forget, but cannot.

I am standing in the front courtyard. It has a large patio, a perfectly kept lawn, and the greenest grass known to Fen. Everything else is pure white to reflect the purity that the goddess is supposed to represent. It is meant to be a sanctuary of sorts, filled with beauty and peace. Who knew such a place could house such evil?

The pyre is burning on the patio, closer to the building. When I look down expecting to see a mass of firewood, I am surprised to see a sizeable amount of books. I can’t tell what they were about before, as their covers are already melting and burning to ashes. Now they all look like lumps of black mush and burning paper.

I stare out to the courtyard, noticing for the first time that there is a large group of people standing by the patio. Most of them are white and purple robed dedicates to Fennarie from the church. Some are staring towards the patio in silence, while others have their heads bent in prayer. The other people look like nobility from the holy city of Alifen. There are women wearing large, expensive dresses and men clad in fine suits.

I follow their gazes, wondering what they are all staring at. My heart skips a beat when I see it. A long wooden executioner’s block, brown wood stained crimson. There is a large mechanism above it, huge and made of steel. There is a swinging axe blade attached to it. Engraved in the steel are swirling twisted symbols in the ancient scripture. Reading the unique etchings, I can make out the word Retribution. Is this to be true divine retribution or foul murder? No one stands under the blade now, for it is resting as high up as possible with rope tied around it so it sticks to the top beam.

There are several priests gathered around the mechanism, dressed in their white and purple robes. The eye of Fennarie is printed on their chests; a beautiful gold eye wide open so that it may watch the world. I recognize the head priest instantly in his violet garb inlaid with gold and silver. I could never forget that gentle, wrinkled face and piercing brown eyes that seem to stare into your soul.

The executioner stands beside the mechanism, ready to operate it. A thick black mask covers his no doubt grimy face. His clothes are dark and dirty, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His clothes are dark and dirty, but he doesn’t seem to mind. All he appears to care about is the task at hand.

I get a chill down my spine when I see the young boy standing in front of the gathered priests. He has shaggy, raven black hair that is rather unkempt. It frames his oval shaped face and pointed ears. His clothes are a peasant’s rags, torn and covered in dirt. His face is so youthful, beautiful, and innocent. He couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. He is a Prologus boy, just barely a teenager. I can tell by his ears and facial structure. What’s he doing all the way out here?

He has an excellent poker face. He looks unafraid, ready to run headfirst into the fire. It’s good he has that bravery, because judging by the irons around his wrists, he is the one sentenced to death.

The atmosphere is grim as the head priest begins to speak. “The Holy Fennarie demands justice this day. Gaze behind me, friends, as you witness the burning of lies and evil’s words, all written by the hand of this young man.” There is doubt in his voice, though he tries his best to conceal it. There is moisture in his eyes as though he fights tears. 

I have good reason to doubt that the words they claim this Prologus has written are actually lies. Knowing how the church operates these days, anything that speaks out against them or reveals a truth they want to remain hidden is destroyed.

The boy remains firm, staring straight ahead at the large axe blade. He really can’t be unafraid, can he? If I was in his position, I would be trembling with fear knowing that blade was to fall on my neck.

The head priest continues, turning to face the boy. “Marcel Valaith, for treason against the country of Fen and the revered Goddess, and for possessing evil magicks that defy her, you are hereby sentenced to death. May Fennarie have mercy on your soul.”

Of course. Writing controversial books isn’t a justified reason to execute someone. Neither is being a Seer, but in the Church’s eyes, it is. But what do they think they’re doing, killing a Prologus boy? We are not allowed to govern them, or punish them for our crimes. The only possible way is if he lived as a citizen of Fen, rather than in the tiny kindgom the Prologus have in Feyre Forest.  How did they even know he could See in the first place? Did he write it in those books of his? He must have.

The head priest puts a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, eyes filled with sorrow. That’s right, I remember. The head priest didn’t wish death upon us Seers. But if he didn’t comply with the majority of other priests and the word of the goddess, there would be dissent. So he had to do what had to be done in Fennarie’s name. “Be strong, son. I pray the goddess welcomes you with open arms,” I hear him whisper.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy replies, not taking his eyes off the blade.

He steps onto the block, maintaining his brave face. The executioner makes him lie face up, so he can see the blade hanging above him.  The moments pass in agonizing silence. The executioner unties the ropes from the blade, and my heart nearly stops beating when I hear it click into place. It is in this moment that Marcel's brave face seems to melt away. His blue eyes grow wide and fill with tears, trailing down his face. I hear the boy whisper in a frantic tone, “I-I don’t want to die… I don’t…Save me… Someone…” If only I could…do something. It's times like these that I curse being powerless to help.

Marcel's cries that began as whispers increase in volume as the executioner pulls a lever beside the mechanism and the blade is loosened. Time moves in slow motion as the blade swings like a clock pendulum, ready to extinguish the flame that is Marcel's life.  I close my eyes, cover my ears, and look away. By the spirits, I can’t watch this!

I escape the memory as the axe blade descends and the church bell tolls…No, this wasn’t a memory. It was a nightmare.

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A/N: I got the idea for this chapter while listening to Nightwish's "Poet and the Pendulum". It's a fantastic (though depressing) song about the death of a poet/songwriter by a blade on a pendulum. It's a good song. I highly recommend it.

This theme was "burning orange", which I immediately associated with fire, so burning books.  

Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment! I love to hear some reactions! :D