Work Text:
The days start was a quiet one, only the occasional melody of a passing bird to break the silence as it's song echoed slightly in the quaint english town.
A soft golden glow poured into thin fabrics of the curtains, casting down onto a wooden table. It was cluttered, old pages strewn about the surface. "To my dearest Amice," The ink escribed on the paper like a promise, signed thoughtfully "sincerest, Alaric."
To the side, a burnt out candle encapsulated in a rusted golden holder that lit up a bowl put to the side. Over the top was a rag, torn and tattered at the edges, it was clearly well loved. Inside, rising dough, bread dough, freshly made by the priests wife.
She was a beautiful young woman that baked goods for the village often. A humble woman she was, never accepting payment for the loaves she gave out. "Gifting thy neighbour," She'd smile politely, swatting away small pouches of coins from persisting hands. The village people loved her and she loved them. Neither expected to meet at dawn, the woman being hauled up to the stakes by the man she so greatly loved.
"My dearest love–pray, let thy heart reconsider such greivous sin!" Amice cried, pulling against the ropes that were cutting into the flesh of her wrists. She writhed, having to be held still as she was tightly tied to the stakes wood. She hissed as the coarse texture dug into her soft skin, yet she ignored it in hopes of reaching her husband.
"Dear–"
"Hold thy tongue, the serpent speaks such lies!" Snapped Alaric with a temper the village had never seen before, a temper Amice had never seen before. "The devil doth tempt me, but thy wit, thy power of Christ–Lord Jesus–vanquish the devil before heavenly eyes," He roared with fury burning in his own eyes as he snatched a lit torch from one of the village folk. "Come, gather close and send the devil's creation back to hell!" He spat at the ground Amice had once stepped as he surged forward and drove the torch into the surrounding wood, watching as the village folk followed him in burning his wife alive.
The wood charred with her boiling screams, screams that tore from her vocal cords and left scars as flame danced over her frame in harsh hue. She struggled to undo the rope binding her to her death, but to no avail and gave up as the strong stench of burning wood filled her nostrils. She became numb to the pain after awhile, the sting of her husbands betrayal far greater than the sting of being trialed as a witch under false accusations.