Cursed

“I’m not alone. Find me. I’m not alone. Find me. I’m not alone. Find me.”

She repeated the chant under her breath until the words became unintelligible. Each person who passed by called out to her, but she ignored them in favour it, the need to say those words more than the desire to rest, to eat, to scream. She knelt on the ground and stared straight ahead, at a certain stone in the wall of her room. It was no different than the rest – grey, dull, slightly jagged to the touch. Nothing special. Just like her.

Minutes, hours, possibly days had passed since she had been, for lack of better words, dumped into a prison cell. Time becomes a strange thing when dread is the only emotion you have left.

Below the castle, the room was dark and damp. A small window near the ceiling let in the dimming light of the courtyard outside, though the girl hadn’t looked out since she began her mantra. Food sat ignored and uneaten on some straw beside the barred door. It had been there for hours, the bread slowly sinking into stew in a wooden bowl, now just a soggy lump.

She had never liked stew.

The girl was so focused on her call, she didn’t acknowledge the metallic sound of the door swinging open. It wasn’t until her collar was pulled, yanking her off the ground in a very undignified way, that she looked up.

“What did we tell you about doing that?”

Her feet were swinging freely. If she pointed her toes, she could barely reach the floor.

A choking, gasping sound escaped her throat as she realised her dress was strangling her. She shot her hands, bound in chains, to the fist detaining her, and slapped it with as much force as she could muster.

He let go with a start, and she fell into a heap. Her knees, already bruised from hours of kneeling, started to bleed, impressions of the sharp straw protruding her skin. Her hands found her throat, which she massaged as gently as she could, while glaring at the man beside her. She coughed hoarsely.

“Well, I’ve been sat there for the last few hours, and no-one’s noticed, so you clearly don’t care that much.”

He straightened up and made for her again, but she held out her hand, palm out, blocking him. He stared for a moment, only a moment, then stepped back.

On the tip of her middle finger was a small red scar. A long, thin line ran down the finger to the centre of her palm, where a deep red mark rested. It was shaped like a four-pointed star and stung when it was touched. It was about the height of her little finger.

The guard cleared his throat, intrigued by the mark.

“Your presence is requested upstairs. The King has some news.”

***

“STOP! You can’t do this! Please!”

Cries came from the gathered crowd, hands dragged on the shoulders of soldiers standing guard. Their blank, expressionless faces unnerved the people, who became almost violent in their attempts to get through the barrier they had formed.

An enormous bonfire had been constructed in the courtyard. It was as tall as the balcony and had a small staircase leading up to a platform. A long post was fixed into the middle, rope tied around it like a snake.

It was very odd-looking, however, as it was made entirely of spinning wheels.

Big and small, old, and new. Some black, brown, and even blue.

A young woman walked out of the castle gates. Or rather, she was dragged.

Her feet were bloody as she dug them as hard as she could into the dusty ground. Her long golden hair was wild and unkempt, flying around her frail body like a swarm of flies on a carcass.

She felt the touch of several spectators as they tried to pull her away from the iron grip of the guards. Things were thrown at her feet, but she did not see them.

Her eyes, though red and raw, were intensely concentrated on the King. She didn’t look away from him even as she fought against her restraints, even as she was pulled through the desperate crowd.

The King, middle-ages and slowly balding, stood high and proud on his raised balcony beside his wife. The golden crown atop his shiny head was in danger of sliding off. He looked almost comical beside his spouse, whom was far more regal and majestic.

The woman, barely of age when they were married, looked far more like his daughter than wife. A foot taller than her husband, she was donned in a deep purple gown that glistened in the evening light. Torches around reflected their fire in her eyes, which shone with tears she refused to let loose. She watched with distress as the girl, hands bound in chains, was wrenched towards the pile of broken wood. Her hand found her mouth and held in a gasp when she saw how beaten and bloody she truly was.

The King called for silence, only to be faced with more angry shouts and jeers. The girl refused to break her eye contact, until she was slapped across the face with a gloved hand. Her eyes watered angrily at her attacker, the same man from her prison cell.

“Quiet.”

He said it not to her, but to the people behind. He didn’t shout, or yell, or even raise his voice. But the crowd fell silent at his word. Even the children, a miracle in itself.

“Thank you,” said the King, as though they had been listening to him all along.

“This criminal,” he glanced at the girl being pulled up the stairs to the pole, “Is guilty of Witchcraft. She has been cursed for her wrong-doing and will bring destruction down on our beloved kingdom if we do not rid ourselves of this… sorceress.”

Shouts came up again.

“She’s no such thing!”

“Let her go, that’s not a witch up there!”

One woman called out desperately. “She’s just a child… please…”

They were ignored.

The guard stepped up to the platform, and very nearly pulled her arms off as he picked the girl up after him. Her back against the pole, he started unwrapping the rope around it.

“I’m Blaise,” he said. He moved closer to pull rope around her waist.

She ignored him, staring down at the pile of spinning wheels surrounding them. The small scar on her finger tingled. Her feet were bleeding, her knees stung. Everything ached. She wanted to close her eyes, to pay no attention to what will happen next.

“We heard you,” he said, barely a whisper. If she hadn’t been looking at his face, she mightn’t have known he’d spoken at all.

She blinked. “What?”

Blaise flashed her a kind smile. It softened his face.

“My friends are here to help. You're not alone, Celia. We heard you.”

And for the first time, he took off his gloves.

An identical symbol, though faded with time, sat in the palm of his left hand. A small spot of a scar on the top of his forefinger. He turned the hand in an odd pattern, and suddenly, the cuffs around Celia’s wrist came loose.

She gasped at him; eyes wide.

Blaise took her hands in his. They were coarse and warmed her icy fingers.

They stayed that way for a moment, paying no heed to the King’s outrageous speech.

“I need you to trust me, Celia.”

She looked to Blaise’s serious face and nodded, and shuddered with fear.

He took the rope from the post behind Celia and wrapped it gently around her waist, tying her against the bonfire. Celia panicked and tried to pull away. Blaise was far too strong for her. He pulled the rope tighter, causing her to wince as it scratched her bare arms.

Blaise lowered his head beside her ear. “You will be fine, I promise. Trust me.”

***

The torches were lit ready. Angry shouts still came over the gathering, but most were frozen in alarm.

Blaise stood at the bottom of the steps. Gloves back on, he picked up the nearest torch and raised it over the broken wood. The tip of his finger tingled.

The torch went out.

He feigned innocence, plastering a confused expression on his narrow face. The officer to his right picked up the next torch, which extinguished itself the moment he lifted it.

The same happened for each flame, until the entire courtyard was covered in a blanket of darkness.

The King stood angrily and shouted again.

“Stop this magic, Witch!”

Someone swiftly moved through the crowd towards the bonfire.

No, not someone. Several people.

Eleven came through the crowd, easily escaping the reaches of the guards around. They stood in a circle around Celia and were joined by Blaise in a hurry. Each, bar Blaise, donned a dark cloak pulled over their head. The first, a woman perhaps in her twenties, shouted up to the King.

“She hasn’t done anything, your Majesty. This girl is innocent of all crimes.” She raised her hand to Celia, and the ropes fell away from her.

Celia stepped shakily away from the post and stumbled down the steps into the hands of Blaise. A moment later, the bonfire set alight by itself.

The King sputtered. Before he could say anything, a second woman spoke up.

“She has been given the abilities of Magic from a higher being. It was never meant as a punishment for her. This has been written in the stars since the day she was born.”

Each member, including Blaise, raised their hands and pulled off their gloves. The same four-pointed star waved in the air from twelve different directions. She looked to Celia, and she too put her hand in the air.

Thirteen.

“We are now complete. Our sister has finally joined us.”

The King watched in a mix of fury and terror. The Queen beside him was visibly relieved, though severely pale in the face. She stepped away and sat down, patting her damp forehead.

“She is NOT your sister – she needs to die!”

Each member of the coven turned slowly to face the small man. In turn, the audience turned too, so he was confronted with every person in the yard.

Celia raised her hand to him and pointed her scarred finger. The King recoiled.

“This is because of you. Not me.”

The spinning wheels began to crack and break in the flames beside her. One fell from the pile towards an inattentive guard, so Celia raised her hand towards it.

It halted in mid-air, ash drifting into the evening air away from the crowd.

The man ran from beneath it, so Celia let it drop to the floor.

The King was now paler than his wife. The fire was a fair distance, yet he had sweat through his clothes in mere seconds. He stepped away from the edge and almost fell over his young wife.

Celia faced back towards the King.

“You cursed me, the day I was born. You let this happen, then you hid it from me for years. What did you think would happen?” Her voice became a shout, and she stumbled forward so she was directly in front of him.

The crowd were on edge. This was far more exciting than an execution.

The King retorted, “I did no such thing! I-”

Celia picked up a distinguished torch and threw it at him with all the force she could muster. It must’ve been moved by one of the Witches behind her, as it flew over the edge and to his feet on the balcony. He shrieked a very unmanly shriek.

“If you weren’t so prejudiced against people with Magic, you could’ve had a family! You didn’t need to send me away, we could-” She stopped for a breath. Her injuries were catching up to her. “You might have thought about Magic differently, Father, if you hadn’t thrown me away the moment you realised I’d been put under a spell, with those.” She pointed at the burning pile. “I lived for sixteen years before I came across one, before I stabbed my finger on it. Sixteen years we could’ve been a family, but no. Not with you.”

The Queen was slowly rocking to and forth in the corner, and the King stood there speechless.

"I was happy, until you pulled me back here just to see if I was worth it. Well, am I?"

Celia felt her newfound energy escaping her. She slowly sat on the cold floor, and one of the Witches took over.

She stood in front of Celia, protectively. “You will cause no more harm to any people, Magic or not. We will be watching you closely now our coven is complete.”

She turned her back to him, lifted Celia from the ground, and with the help of Blaise, carried her away. The coven followed her, headed into a tangle of trees nearby.

No-one said a word, and when their last glimpse of the group disappeared, the bonfire went out. They were left in complete darkness.

It took a moment to realise that the sky was black, too.

There were no stars shining that night.