Chapter Text
Salem watches the flickering shadows with large black eyes. They watch as the maw of darkness snaps at them, hungry and snarling, just waiting for their hooves to drift too close to the edge of the bed. They pull their thin blanket around them and huddle closer to the candle at their bedside, their only protections against the drooling shadows.
They feel childish. A grown adult shivering with wet eyes because their scared of the dark. Cowering by their candle and wishing for the arms of their father.
They pull their blanket further up and over their head and press their knees to their chest. They soak up all of the warmth they can get, feeling as though they’re drowning in their own body heat yet at the same time impossibly cold. They don’t take their eyes off of the shadows, at the pointed ears and too sharp edges that snap and cause them to flinch.
They should be anywhere but here. Anywhere being the little village just a little ways northwest of their cottage. In two days is the festival of bells, something they’d attended every year without fail. It’s the only time of year the village isn’t afraid to make itself known, the one time of year they know the god of magic’s protection would shield them from the bishops tyranny so they can celebrate in peace. A good child of the moon, Salem had done their best to help with preparation in the past. Trailing behind their father as he grew blooms of flowers and fought back moss.
It will be their first festival of the bells without their father’s presence. There will be no more walking in his footsteps as he greets his friends and buys them both witches’ blood.
A harsh frantic knocking breaks Salem out of their stupor. Their eyes drift towards the door for just a moment, not that they can make the sturdy piece of wood out in the near pitch dark of their cottage. They look back down at the shadows, finding that the knocking had scared away the angry maw. Salem’s breath catches in their throat as the knocking comes again, a plea in the night.
“Sa- er? Samuel!” They recognize the muffled voice immediately as belonging to an elder from the village. They’d met him few times in fleeting, he’d never stayed around long enough for them to learn his name and they suppose that had been mutual, “Samuel! You must come out!” The urgency in the elder’s voice is frighting, the breathlessness like he’d just run a marathon as well.
Salem finds that they don’t want to leave their bed. Not out of laziness, but out of a sinking feeling that’s beginning to settle deep in their gut. They don’t get visitors, not while they lived in the village and certainly not after they moved. Save for the rare lost traveler they’d have to hide under a table from and pretend not to be home.
“Samuel! Please!” The elder’s voice comes out as a heart-wrenching cry as his fists pound against their door, not knocking but punching it.
They suck in a breath, suddenly finding themself scrambling out of the safety of their bed. Their hooves hit the wood with a soft sound as they frantically stumble onto wood. Not a sound leaves their mouth as they pull their blanket around their shoulders and make their way to the door. The leave the candle where it is, not needing it’s guidance in their empty little cottage.
Their hand hesitate around the doorknob, but open it slowly. They go to open it just a crack, just enough to see his face, but its thrown open against their will.
The small elder looks worse for wear, and the horrid sight of him steals the breath out of their lungs. His wrinkled form is covered in cuts and burns that look gorey enough to nearly make them retch. Tears poor from one of his eyes, the other sealed tight and still sizzling. His wool is matted with dirt and leaves from running through the woods and blood from the moon knows what else.
“Go- you must go! Flee far from here!” Salem’s blanket slips from their shoulder’s and falls to the ground as their wrists are grabbed in a near bruising grip.
They try to make their mouth work, to force their tongue and dry throat to form words. But as they take in an inhale of smoke and ash they can’t help but splutter and stumble. They try to tug their wrist back as their eyes water, but his grip is too tight.
“The old faith has-” A strangled cry leaves the elders lips and blood mixed with spit sprays onto their nightgown.
Salem lets out their own disgusted sound, backing away and tripping over their fallen blanket as the elder’s hands slip from their wrists and he falls as well. They land on their bottom, though any pain barely registers as they breath in smoke and stare up at a guard clad in armor.
Blood stains the guards armor, seeping through the cracks. They watch with burning wet eyes as he plants a foot on the still struggling elders back and yanks his sword out. Blood pools from both sides of the wound, leaking out onto their porch and creating a spot of crimson on the elders clothing.
“The Old Faith,” Salem’s mouth suddenly works again, forming the words with a scratchy throat that hasn’t been used for talking in months.
The guard fixes his gaze onto them, a barely seen emerald gaze. Salem’s eyes are drawn past his head, focusing on the smoke and faint orange glow in the air. They breathe in another breath of smoke as a tear runs down their cheek. They’ve been found. The small village of Lambs, of true witches, have been found. The elder was trying to warn them, trying to get them to run before it was to late.
Salem feels sick to their stomach.
At the unmistakable sound of horses growing close, the guard springs into action. He kicks the elder’s body aside, reaching towards them with a burned hand and grabbing a fistful of their wool.
“Wait!-” They beg, kicking their feet against the grass as they’re dragged through blood and gore.
“Quiet, witch,” The guard scolds them, pressing his blade against their throat as he drags them backwards towards the hoofbeats.
Tears continues to prick at their eyes and spill down their cheeks, salt and vomit filling their mouth, “Please I-”
“I said quiet!” The guard releases them, throwing them onto the dirt and kicking them in their side before they can recover.
They let out a cry of pain as something comes out of their mouth and onto the dirt. They feel deprived of oxygen and desperately gasp, the smoke in the air not quite right. They let out a sob onto the dirt and grab a fistful of it, grounding themself, forcing themself to be in the moment.
“This doesn’t look to be the elder?” Their eyes widen as they hear a new voice, light and feathery yet oddly threatening in how it tickles their ears. They hadn’t noticed the horses stopping, the rest of the guard catching up.
“My apologies, reverend deacon Focalor,” The guard says, genuine in the way his voice holds a slight tremble, “I believed the elder to be a threat, so I disposed of it,”
Focalor responds quick, perhaps snappy, “Those were not the orders given, we need six witches alive,”
The guard clears his throat, his iron boots shuffling together, “I have reason to believe this witch may be special,” The irony of his words perhaps would have been humorous in any other situation, if they were not covered in blood and their lungs plagued by ash, “It was hidden out here, on the outskirts of the village, nearly in Darkwood, the elder seemed far to desperate to warn it as well,”
There is a horrible moment of silence, of tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. And then Focalor hums, a near soothing sound. She begins walking, slowing circling them as if a wolf waiting for them to make the wrong move. Her boots crunch on dry leaves and snap sticks in half until she comes into view. Salem dares not look up, keeping their eyes fixed onto those red stained boots.
Focalor makes a soft sound of annoyance, patience snapping as she leans down and grabs them by one of their horns, just big enough to yank. They hiss in pain as their gaze is forced up, but the sound dies in their throat as they meet her eyes.
Hundreds of little black and red stars train on them, blinking and moving as one. Those eyes are nestled into blue fur that looks less soft and more spiky to the touch. The black horns protruding from her head and fangs that split apart her face make her look nearly monstrous. And as Salem can’t seem to breathe or move, they can’t help but think that must the point.
Focalor’s face twists up into a snarl, hundreds of eyes narrowing in disgust and fangs stained with blood pinching together. She drops them, letting their head hit the ground with a thunk as they forget to hold themself up.
“Bind its hands and bring it with us, it’ll do,”
“Yes, reverend deacon Focalor,” Come a chorus of quiet and distant voices.
Salem doesn’t need to look up to know that the guards rush to follow her orders, the clanking of their boots and respectful yet fearful tones enough. She’s important, the leader of the raid against the village, perhaps more.
Focalor keeps a close eyes on them as the guards approach with shackles for their wrists and ankles. They want to fight them, they want to find a fire inside of themself and fight back but they find that they can’t. They’d be killed anyway, wouldn’t they be? If they kicked a guard in the shin another one would just slice at their neck.
They hiss in pain as they’re manhandled and cuffs are forced onto their wrists and ankles, linking their limbs together and making it hard to move without help. The cuffs are covered in gold markings, patterns that weave around and form unfamiliar shapes.
They’re pulled to their feet by two guards, one holding each elbow. Focalor inspects them, silent for too long as their village burns and their kin is slaughtered. Salem fixes their eyes to the patch of vomit on the grass, the spiders gaze too scrutinizing.
“Perhaps this Lamb is special,” At her words, Salem looks back up to meet her gaze, her tone too off-putting to them. There’s a sadistic mix of satisfaction and curiosity on her face, a face that makes their stomach curl with nausea until Focalor spins on her heels, “Let’s make haste, we’re missing Vephar’s show,”
In the year since they’d move from the village, Salem had walked the unkempt road few times. They had taken quite a lot of supplies when they’d left, and since the lands were bordering Darkwood the ground was good for farming what they required. They only ventured in for what they needed: Food that couldn’t be grown, books as their entertainment, and the occasional gossip that didn’t reach their cottage. But when they did walk the road dirtied with thorny bushes and red camellias, it’d never seem to take as long as their current walk.
Focalor had said to make haste, and yet they feel that the snail’s pace they were moving at is deliberate. Something used to torture them, giving them plenty time to think of what they’ll see when they reach the village, plenty time to attempt to escape instead of obediently shuffling along.
Salem can smell the carnage of the village before they see it, they can hear cries of anguish and spells going off in last-ditch attempts as they near. They feel their legs go weak in the guards hold, until their trembling form is practically being dragged along by two grumbling guards. The guards leading the slow charge disperse as Focalor begins barking order’s, waving them in different directions and sending them riding off after stray Lamb’s. She stares down at Salem as their held still by the two guards, forced to take it what remains of their once home.
Their drawn to the statue before anything else. The statue of a crown once stood in the center, carved out by a hand that existed long before anyone in the village. Salem sucks in a breath as their eyes trail over stone chunks that lay on the ground around the base on the destroyed monument. Tears spring to their eyes as they notice the blood and bodies around it, no doubt those who’d tried to defend what they had of their god.
When they look elsewhere, they find that blood and gore litter the town square. Houses have been torn down to their blazing wooden supports, Lambs still trapped inside, some already charred to crisps and some fighting to get out. Many are attempting to flee, taking whatever and whoever they can and sprinting while guards with blazing torches are hot on their tails. But few are fighting. Using the guards torches and turning their own flames against them, ripping open their own skin to use their blood as daggers, multi-tasking with water to kill and put out fires, and impaling guards with tree branches.
Salem can’t help but gag as they’re dragged forward into the battlefield. They watch as another Lamb dies and her still blazing remains land too close to their feet. Dione. They recognize her thick coat of grey wool. She owns a bakery with her wife, using her fire magic to warm up her goods. Her expression was always a bit pinched when Salem walked in, her words always rushed, but she was polite and had given them a cake as condolences when their dad died.
A scream wrenches its way out of Salem’s throat. Something wet and ugly along with spit and tears. They hardly register their throat going raw as they’re dragged away, the way their vision clouds with tears.
They’re choking on sobs as they’re shoved onto stone, just below the crumbled statue. Their vision is going blurry and their choking on spit and smoke. Focalor is saying something, her voice playful and taunting, but they can’t make her words out through their own desperate inhales. They feel like they’re dying, like all of the smoke and panic is getting to their head of their heart is failing them. Six witches alive, Focalor had said earlier, but she doesn’t seem to care about that as she saunters away, leaving Salem to fend for themself.
They shuffle around as best they can with the chains, pressing their knees to their chest and wrapping their arms around their legs. They shut their eyes tightly and press their forehead to their knees. They cry and sob, taking in deep breaths of smoke as they tap their their fingers against their dirty nightgown in a desperate attempt to calm themself down.
“Put them down here,” It isn’t long until they hear Focalor’s voice again, stepping in tune with more footsteps accompanied by more rattling chains.
Sobbing between clenched teeth, Salem peels their eyes away from their knees. Two more Lambs are shoved down with them. Both of them are covered in white wool with green eyes, most likely family then. They slump easily into place, not fighting and barely even crying. Salem’s eyes are drawn down to the shackles around their wrists. The yellow symbols are glowing, just slightly casting their arms in a golden light. They turn their gaze back to their own, and find no such reaction.
“Find three more of the weak ones before Vephar’s team slaughter’s them all,” Focalor says, eyeing Salem with that same look as before, “Let’s have this cleaned up before daybreak,”
From their uncomfortable front-row seat, Salem watches in silence as the town is decimated. Houses burn down around them, creating smells of smoke and blood as bodies are used as fuel. They watch many Lambs try to flee or fight back, some are slaughtered quickly with blades and some are slowly cooked alive. None of it is painless.
There is a prayer on the tip of Salem’s tongue. A wish of safety, for salvation. They do not let the prayer slip past their lips, keeping it locked tight like a secret. All of them must be praying. They’re taught to pray in their final moments, in moments of weakness and sickness and strife. They wonder to themself if gods get annoyed by so many prayers, or if its an ego boost.
Three more Lambs are shoved down next to Salem and the other two. Three more Lambs with cuffs that glow with gold. Though they they sizzle and bleed and cry, they slump and hardly make a sound. Marionettes with their strings cut. They don’t move forward to comfort any of the broken Lambs. A part of them, a small part, wanted to mumble a reassurance. But they felt that amongst the flames and death it is not their place to do so.
The guards begin to re-group as the sun peaks above the skyline. Salem raises their head high, desperately avoiding the gaze of any guards. They fix their eyes on the sky instead. It is still night; the sky is still a haunting shade of dark blue as a bright orange the color of flames appears below the horizon. The new day slowly chasing the old out, and with it, the last village of Lambs.
“The bishops will be pleased with our harvest,” They spare a glance down as a new voice joins the fray, something deep and unsettling that rattles their bones, the polar opposite to Focalor’s gentle voice.
Vephar. This has to be him because no other guard except Focalor has managed to strike such an earth-shattering fear. He is another type of bug, with many eyes but fewer than Focalor. Long antenna swivels in every direction as his sharp teeth clack together in what they assume is sadistic delight.
“The bishops will only be pleased if we are on time, so let’s move,” Focalor says before clapping her hands together, halting all nearby conversations.
Vephar takes the liberty of announcing her orders, “Everyone move it! Get the witches in the cart! We don’t have all day!”
Salem let’s out a cry of fear as he yells, curling in on themself further. The surrounding guards begin scrambling around as if headless chickens, eager to obey his orders. Salem is the first to be grabbed, two guards on either side urging them along like before, though faster now under the threat that is Vephar. From the clinking together of chains they gather that the other Lambs are close behind them.
Their eyes don’t take in much as they’re led around smoking patches of grass and unrecognizable bodies. There is only rubble, the blueprints of a village. They bite their tongue as they pass a familiar home, long-since abandoned and yet it was still burnt down.
“Goodbye dad,” They whisper, their words coming out in a choked sob.
A wooden carriage is their next destination. It’s a rickety thing with iron bars for windows. Salem finds themself the least bit grateful that they won’t be shuffled along the entire way in a similar fashion.
They’re dragged into the carriage as if walking is a chore. One guard hauls them up as the other glares daggers into their soul. Their shoved against a wooden bench so hard they let out a cry, earning a strange look from the guard manhandling them. They’re pushed into the far corner, an attempt to make room for the other five lambs in the already cramped carriage. The other Lamb’s are thrown into their seats in a similar fashion, though they behave as rag dolls and slump weakly.
A Lamb with black wool is sat next to Salem. She’s injured, the smell of blood and burnt mutton wafting from her. She doesn’t seem to cry though, the tears having dried up long ago, something Salem can relate to. She slumps against Salem’s shoulder as the carriage jostles, her muscles twitch but she hardly moves other then that.
“S’rry,” She mumbles, words broken and Salem notices her mouth barely moving. Her brows furrow in frustration and she huffs, her muscles twitch against them again, her head moves away from their shoulder, but she ultimately flops against them once more. A small wail passes through her lips, and Salem pats her head with theirs.
“It’s ok, you’re alright,” They whisper to her, not missing the soft sob that follows from her.
She begins to shake with sobs, and Salem sits in silence with her, not that they can do much else. Their eyes scan the faces of the Lamb’s sitting across from them. One of them is missing both of their eyes, a still red burnt wound remaining. Another is crying as well, silent tears dripping from their eyes, and the other is politely averting his gaze.
They’re all going to die. They’d known it was going to happen since their hands had been bound behind their back. But the reality of the situation is only becoming realer by the second. They fix their eyes on the ground. On scuffed wood and burnt hooves.
“The god of magic will save us,” They whisper to the still sobbing Lamb on their shoulder. And to themself; they pray.