♱
𝔘pon the morrow, the sky was rumbling above Delilah's head, and at every grumble, it did vibrate her chest in unison. Some commoners and Delilah were situated on the stony bench of the omnibus, waiting with impatience for their destination. Their visages were wracked with distress, their lips pulled into a straight line and legs shaking with anxiety; they were all in a state of anguish and torment, almost on the verge of alighting from the coach to sprint to their abode alone. A witch trial was to take place shortly in the metropolis, and while some were thrilled to witness it firsthand, others were harrowed by the unsettling atmosphere enveloping them, causing them to almost suffocate. Delilah could sense the exhilaration and torment of the populace deep within her chest, as though it were her own. However, Delilah could only dwell on Rosetta's vendetta against the Holy Office; she was on the brink of leaping from the carriage and running to the metropolis herself to bring her friend back. Yet, her thoughts were cut off by the coachmen's voice, "Terminus imminent to Hightower ! The passengers are invited to leave the carriage !" belted out the coachmen.
With alacrity, Delilah hastened from the coach, seeking amidst the throng for her friend's raven locks. As she perused the townsfolk, she found herself drawn deeper into the assemblage, and it was only when she arrived at the forefront of the crowd that she beheld what some deemed "the grandest witchcraft trial." There, the Pope Horatio Achibald of the capital stood upon a dais surrounded by Knights Templar. The pontiff's presence at this trial was most unusual, for it was whispered that he loathed witches to such a degree that even the mere sight of one caused him discomfort.
Yet, what was even more peculiar were sumptuous crimson velvet seats, which bespoke the presence of the royal family. Delilah's eyes widened as she espied what stood between the dais and the crowd; a total of ten pyres, signifying the execution of ten witches. Indeed, this was the grandest witchcraft trial, for within three days, the Knights Templar had apprehended such a number of witches. The notion caused Delilah to feel lightheaded. She gripped the fabric covering her legs, striving to conceal her trembling hands.
In that instant, a susurrus arose from the throng, and Delilah perceived shadows stirring upon the dais. The royal family settled into their seats, paying no heed to the townsfolk, among them were the progeny of the monarch, Princess Karmelia and Eleanor Fennessy, as well as the dowager queen, Mimoza Fennessy. The preeminent pontiff offered a bow of respect to them. Delilah noted his furrowed brow as he espied the most esteemed chair, reserved for the monarch, which was also vacant.
However, before he could utter a word, he was interrupted by the advent of another figure. As he ascended the dais, a profound stillness descended, and some among the crowd could only gasp in amazement at his arrival. His very presence seemed to press down upon the chests of all present, including Delilah. In truth, he was none other than the enigmatic man whose identity could not be defined, the one who beheld her in her moment of deepest despair. And even as she found herself enveloped by the same sensations that assailed her during their initial encounter, chattering arose from the people gathered around her, "Oh my! I cannot believe what I'm seeing, the Great Lord has granted us a boon !" belted out a woman. "It is lord De Lacroix !" exclaimed another one.
Chantings and praisings towards him rose from every corner of the assembly, but all she could feel was how he perfectly carried a death fragrance and donned a blood attire. Delilah's throat felt soared when her eyes met his, she almost felt her soul being sucked out of her, attracted like a magnet by his aura. He didn't sit, he rather stood firmly next to the monarch's empty chair. The lord looked otherworldly with his silver locks framing his face, but something eerie emanated from his gaze, something that couldn't be defined, but could only be felt by one. His eyes promised a never ending torment, whether it was a pure or corrupted torment, only one's soul could determine. He was not the judge, he was the executor. And now, Delilah's soul could only but beg for him to execute her and put an end to this haunting exchange between them. Yet, he was not a man who answered prayers, he was rather one to shatter them.
What encompassed them a moment ago, was now replaced by a dense mist, shrouding each and every entity around them, to leave nothing but a crimson thread that bound their souls. Alas, he was bereft of a soul, for he was not afflicted by such a curse. As the Lord moved his hands to clasp them behind his back, a frisson ran down Delilah's spine, and a pang spread like quicksilver through her chest. She felt her lungs gasping for air, only to let out a meager breath that barely passed the threshold of her lips. In her mind, she pondered, "How can his mere presence inflict such pain upon me?"
The mist did vanish from around Delilah, when a man, in a brutal manner, did collide with her. As if the crimson thread had been cut, she did then take a deep breath, and only then did she recall the purpose for her presence in that place. Casting a final glance towards the Lord, Delilah perceived that his brows were knitted, as if in deep thought. This was the first time she had perceived such a human emotion upon his countenance. The young maiden then commenced to walk away from the tumult, in search of Rosetta. Once she had extricated herself from the throng, she beheld her friend's raven locks. Rosetta was hastening towards a batisse, as if following someone. However, before Delilah could follow her, the people began to close in upon the pyres. Her body was buffeted and she found herself once again at the forefront. The pyres loomed over her and she sought out the Lord. He was not at the monarch's seat, but was rather murmuring something to the supreme Pope, something she was unable to discern.
However, her attention was drawn away to a company of Knight Templars, who were forcing chained women towards the pyres. Delilah's hands began to tremble all the more, as she felt the anguish and agony of the women washing over her like a tidal wave. She almost felt herself drowning, caught in the excitement and anger of the crowd, the grief and resignation of the women, and the indifference and ennui of the royal family. Her senses reeled, and she felt as though her very soul was hovering above the bleak scene, detached from her earthly form. A heavy pall hung over the assembly, as if the very air had grown thick with the scent of death. The accused women stood in silence as they were bound to the pyres, seemingly resigned to their fate. Their countenances were not marked by lonely tears, nor did their palms shake with fear. Instead, they stood proud and resolute, unflinching even as Pope Horatio suddenly rose from the altar.
"Dear sons and daughters of God! It has been years since we have been plagued by the vile presence of beings whose names cannot be uttered without invoking dread. Their very souls, steeped in heresy, were doomed to eternal death from the moment they did indulge in their sinful practices. And, we are gathered here today on this fateful day only to carry out the will of the Almighty. Thus, these wretched souls shall be condemned to the eternal flames of Hell, that they may be cleansed of their sins by the members of the Holy Office!"
As the pyres were lit, Delilah felt death's chill creeping into her soul, almost as if the gates of hell were opening wide to welcome the souls of these innocent women. The flames began to devour them, starting from their feet, and anguished screams echoed through the air. Despite the acrid smoke and the stench of burning flesh, some remained silent, accepting their fate with a stoic grace. The crowd stood hushed, but Delilah could sense the pity, regret, and even relief of some, as if the misery and sacrifice of these innocents would bring them peace.
Despite the cries of agony, the witchfinders and royal family's faces remained stern and unyielding, as they watched the women being consumed by the flames. Delilah searched for the Lord's gaze, though she knew not why, and what she found therein shall forever haunt her. For in his eyes she saw nothingness, a void where emotion ought to be. He felt nothing, for he was incapable of feeling. He remained unmoving, his gaze fixed not on the trial, but on her. As if she were the one being burned alive. It was a dark day, one that would be forever etched in the memories of those who bore witness to the horrific spectacle. The dark atmosphere, the sense of foreboding, and the screams of the dying women created a macabre tableau that would haunt those who had seen it for years to come.
♱
When all that was left was ashes, and acrid smoke emanating from the pyres, the assembly started to dissolve. Only a silence could be heard, the royal family and the supreme pope walked to their personal carriages, their days still ongoing as if nothing happened, but Delilah's couldn't muster enough strength to walk away, these innocents were unknown to her, but she couldn't ignore her curse. She was condemned to feel and absorb other's misery and sins, whilst people would sleep peacefully this night, she was doomed to revive this memory until any misery remaining in this place was absorbed by her soul.
The place started to be empty, until only Delilah and the Lord were left. He remained motionless, still as a statue, since the moment their gazes locked and their soul's encountered each other's. It seemed as if he waged an internal battle, for not a muscle twitched. Only his eyes roved over Delilah's visage and form. And all she could do was allow him to scrutinize her, utterly vulnerable. It felt as though her very essence was bared before him, and Delilah had never felt so exposed.
Only when not a soul remained did the Lord deign to approach her. His steps he took toward her was languid and graceful, yet also ominous. He resembled a feline in his demeanor. With each step he took, the earth seemed to rend, as if opening the gates of hell. And she stood but a hair's breadth from falling in. When he stood before her, she realized she was doomed. He didn't speak, yet it felt as though his silence demanded her words. Delilah met his gaze, studying him as he had her. He stood closer than propriety allowed, she noted the scant inches between them. Such proximity only intensified the death fragrance surrounding him. The silence weighed upon Delilah, until she released a small breath and mustered the courage to speak, "Has the time come for you to define yourself to me, my lord ?"
But do not mistake, Delilah was not intimidated. Instead, she stood upon the brink of explosion. For she sensed nothing from him but an endless void, and somehow that left her with a quietness she was not used to. The aura that enveloped him seemed a dark abyss, devouring the living. Though she spoke, he remained stoic, yet he did reply.
"Define me as you wish, my lady." She held her tongue a moment, the words struggling to come easily to her. But finally, she averted her gaze and spoke, "If that is what you wish for, lord de Lacroix."
Once more, he didn't speak, Lord de Lacroix placed not great importance on words, for silence held more meaning than idle chatter. He was no lover of endless speeches and monologues, but reveled in the unspoken language of stillness. Delilah glanced again to the lord, only to behold a mirthless smirk tugging at one corner of his lips. But his eyes remained empty, devoid of all sparks of amusement. They resembled the gaze of one who had witnessed all this world had to offer, until only a void remained. The sole occasion on which the lord turned his gaze elsewhere was to adjust his black gloves, which adorned his hands. He took his time to answer, choosing his words with care. Delilah could not determine whether his reticence sprang from disinterest in her or from his enjoyment of imposing silence upon his interlocutors.
Delilah deemed it a sign that she ought to end this silence and take leave to seek her friend. However, before she could move, the lord responded, "I am incapable of wishing for anything, my lady."