Burn the witch!

Ominis Gaunt does his job piously, even though he doesn’t like it. But someone has to do it. Besides, it has its advantages. The ringing of the church bells gives him a headache. Ominis stifles a yawn as he listens to his personal auditor, twisting the old family ring on his finger out of boredom. The thick stack of reports from the rural churches is finished, and all that remains is to sort out the reports from the residents. His attention is immediately drawn to four letters from a small hamlet with complaints and suspicions of witchcraft. Ah, that’s a good reason to leave the church for a while.

***

The journey to Feldcroft promises to be quite long. Ominis gets used to the constant shaking of the carriage, the knocking and creaking of the wheels quickly enough and enjoys other sensations. The clatter of hooves, the occasional neighing and snorting of the three harnessed stallions, the singing of birds and the clean scent of the pine forest. In moments like these, he wants to take off his shoes and walk barefoot on the cool ground. “Your Excellency, it is such an honor to work with you,” chirps the young nun in an enthusiastic voice. “That’s good to hear, Sister Sweeting. But it’s not necessary to be so formal,” he smiles indulgently, and she nods. The girl doesn’t sit in silence for long. “If you allow me, may I ask a question?” After receiving a nod, she continues. “Why me? Not someone more experienced, and not your scribe? Not that I doubt your choice! Not at all!” “I understand your confusion, sister. It is simply that I enjoy working with others of our young generation, who have a mind as flexible and sharp as a rod. Besides, I’ve heard rumors about your desire to become an inquisitor.” Poppy smiles shyly. “What are you saying? That is an aspiration for the more distant future.” Ominis nods knowingly. For women, it is more difficult and takes much longer to obtain such high positions. “In any case, this trip will give you a lot of invaluable experience. If everything goes smoothly, you may count on my letter of recommendation. That should hasten the process quite a bit.” “Thank you, Monsignor Gaunt!” Poppy practically glows with happiness.

***

Feldcroft turns out to be a very small hamlet hidden among the cold mountains, with a flimsy chapel. Ominis has been to dozens of them on his sacred missions to cleanse the filth. “The witcher has already been detained. At first we felt sorry for this ragged outsider Sebastian Sallow — an orphan with a sick sister. But as soon as they showed up, nothing but trouble began,” complains the local priest, accompanying them to where the accused is imprisoned. “He’s only a suspected witcher until we’re sure,” Gaunt corrects. They reluctantly agree with his words. Catching sight of the inquisitor and the nun, the detained young man jumps up from the bench and grabs the bars with his bound hands. “Please, please, at least you have to listen! This is a terrible mistake! I am innocent! I was framed! I was just collecting herbs for my sick sister!” “Be respectful to His Excellency, pup!” The priest angrily slaps the prisoner’s outstretched hands, forcing him to move away from the bars. “No need to be so harsh, he is nothing but a lost child.” The inquisitor raises a conciliatory hand. “I believe your words, Sebastian. You can call me “Father Ominis.” He gives the accused one of his benevolent smiles, and the candlelight flickers in his sightless eyes. “But we simply must make sure.” It’s always the same. Every time, assurances of innocence are followed by confessions. And this time will be no exception.

***

The air is filled with warmth and thick with the smell of honey from the lit wax candles. Another scream cuts through the silence of the dungeon. Still loud, but not as loud as before — when the first three dozen needles were stabbed in the skin. A voice sounds through helpless sobs: “I’m innocent. Please, enough. I’m not a witcher, I swear. I need to return to my sister. She won’t be able to take care of herself.” Ominis allows himself the fleeting indulgence of his eyes closing in pleasure as he strokes the bare stomach and broad chest with its growth of hair and hardened nipples. Small chapels like this one usually lack the proper equipment, so Gaunt always carries his own modest kit, containing only a set of needles. But with them he can always draw out the necessary words or a physical reaction if someone is too stubborn to admit the obvious. A five-centimeter needle is inserted between his ribs, and Sebastian sobs. A tear falls on the back of Ominis' hand. “Sister Sweeting, wouldn’t you like to try?” The nun isn’t immediately aware that she is being called. In fact, she’d rather be anywhere but here. Taking advantage of the fact that the inquisitor lacks sight, she allows herself the audacity to turn away and cover her ears with her hands, just so she wouldn’t hear the heartbreaking screams and sobs of the young man with red eyes and a beautiful face swollen from tears. Needles stick out from under his nails, from his back, chest and between his ribs, but even now, thoughts of his sick sister do not leave the brother’s head. Poppy’s heart aches for him. “This could be an incredibly valuable experience if you want to become an inquisitor.” With a friendly smile, Ominis insistently holds out the needle to Poppy, causing her to involuntarily shiver. The priest looks frighteningly calm while committing such atrocities. As if he is suggesting that she not torture an innocent person, but blow on a shaggy white dandelion. And yet. This is what Poppy dreamed of. Fighting evil. But this seems too much. It’s too cruel. Is this really how good people should act? Sallow hasn’t even been found guilty yet, he’s just a suspect. She takes the needle. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably. Noticing this, Sebastian looks into the girl’s eyes with despair, shaking his head, and in his gaze, even without words, there’s a visible request to stop. To stop the torment. “Please don’t do this. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just wanted Anne to get better. Please. You’re not like that.” Saying “I’m sorry” in her mind, she uses a trembling hand to stick the needle into the flesh next to where ten more are sticking out, causing Sebastian to instantly howl like a wolf, a new stream of tears spilling from his eyes. Ominis shakes his head disapprovingly. “This won’t do, you did it too fast. Let me teach you.” He holds out his hand expectantly for Poppy to take. If it weren’t for the terrifying situation, it might even pass for an invitation to a dance. Cold fingers wrap around her hand, forcing her to take the needle. The movements he directs are slow. Making Poppy feel the full weight of the metal moving through flesh. It makes Sebastian scream less and cry more, senselessly begging for mercy. Soon Ominis lets go of Poppy and continues alone. The nun prays that the young man’s suffering will end as soon as possible. “I can’t do it anymore,” Sebastian whispers in a hoarse, hissing voice, his body riddled with no less than a hundred needles. Ominis stabs in one more, hitting the spot above the heart, but this time the suspect doesn’t release a sound. No sigh, no sob, no cry. Nothing. It’s as if Sebastian didn’t feel the needle go in. That’s it. The Devil’s Mark is found. Now Sebastian is awaiting trial and subsequent execution.

***

The pen’s scratching is slow, its owner’s thoughts wandering as she tries to keep up with the speed of the words dictated to her for the report to the Vatican. “Excuse me, could you repeat that?” Poppy asks apologetically. She usually takes notes quickly enough, but right now she’s out of sorts, her mind feeling like pea soup. “What thoughts are tormenting you, sister?” Ominis asks softly. The nun only realises the meaning of what was said when she finishes writing “What” and puts down her pen. She looks away, not daring to tell the truth. “Nothing significant.” He nods knowingly, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “I hope you won’t forget to ask the Lord for forgiveness for lying in your nightly prayer.” Caught red-handed, Poppy shamefacedly confesses: “I was thinking about the accused. Sebastian didn’t seem so bad to me,” — in response to the inquisitor’s raised eyebrows, the nun nervously adjusts her veil and quickly justifies herself — “I mean, he was so worried about his sister. He said that she is bedridden.” Ominis understands what Poppy is getting at. It makes sense that the villagers wouldn’t be eager to help someone related to a witcher. What if his sister is a witch too? So he asks first, realizing that the indecisive girl might beat around the bush for a long time: “Do you wish to go to Sallow’s house?” “Is that possible?” Sweeting perks up, surprised. The inquisitor’s question sounded not just like a guess, but more like a suggestion. An innocent prank, like the card games that the other novices in Poppy’s convent sometimes indulged in. “We can witness Anne’s testimony for the court, since she can’t leave the house on her own,” Gaunt nods. “We can go now.” “Now? At nightfall?” The girl looks warily out the window at the gathering twilight. Night — a dangerous time, when dark forces gain more power. “Why not? How can you continue working and sleep peacefully, knowing that somewhere out there there might be an innocent person in need of help?” Ominis cheerfully gets up from the uncomfortable wooden chair, taking the cane by his side. “Besides, be it day or night outside, I don’t see any difference,” a smile slides across his thin lips, and Poppy is a little taken aback by such a sudden joke. The path to Sallow’s house is winding and looks more like an animal’s trail. Somewhere in the tall grass, snakes hiss discontentedly. Despite the mountainous terrain, the air is as heavy and musty as it is near the swamps. A large owl sitting on the roof hoots loudly, noticing the priests. The cold hut smells of chamomile, other forest herbs and something rotten, sweetish. Poppy covers her mouth and nose in a futile attempt to hold back the urge to vomit. She still empties her stomach at the sight of a dead girl’s body half-sitting in bed. Ominis does not need sight, he can tell from the smell alone that the corpse is definitely not fresh enough to be only a day or two old. The girl died long before Sebastian was detained. The madman lived in the same house as the remains for several months. “Poor thing. I will say a prayer for the repose of her soul.” Ominis stands by the bed of the departed, preparing to fold his hands together for the memorial prayer, but his fingers slightly brush against the shoulder of the deceased. A deafening, heart-rending screech full of horror pierces the mountainside, sudden, like a flash of lightning, and with a thunderous echo, when the long-dead corpse sharply turns its decomposing head towards the inquisitor with a vile crunch.

***

“What happened? I heard screams,” Sebastian asks the priests who came to see him in the dungeon with genuine concern. The rage inside Poppy is boiling, spilling over the edge. “It’s all your unholy tricks!” the nun barks, pointing her finger at the prisoner. “Mine?” Sebastian raises his eyebrows in confusion. “Calm down, Sister Sweeting,” Ominis says sympathetically but insistently, turning his blind gaze to the prisoner. “There’s no need to feign innocence anymore. We’ve seen the body.” Sebastian bends down, falling to his knees, and presses his forehead to the stonework on the floor. His bare back is spotted with dark dots from the needles, almost merging with his freckles. He lets out a deep sigh and lifts his head. His look from under his brows is mocking. No trace remains of the former image of the unjustly accused. “What a pity. Next time I’ll dig up a fresher grave,” Sebastian says with an undisguised, cheeky grin. “There won’t be a next time,” Poppy says, more restrained but still angry. The witcher turns his snide gaze to the nun and smiles unkindly at her. “Your voice was cuter when you were squealing like a bitch. Can you take off your cap? I bet you’ve got a few lovely grey hairs.” Gaunt steps forward, shielding his subordinate from the heretic’s ridicule. “Enough.” Brown eyes squint cheerfully. “Whatever you say, Ominis.” “Father Ominis,” the inquisitor corrects patiently, but the witcher only grins. “I’ll call you “Daddy”.” The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow and is clearly not impressed by that nickname. He says indifferently but warningly: “Then I’ll flog you.” “Mmm. Just like at home,” Sebastian says with feigned delight, “Daddy.” As a rule, Ominis Gaunt is not one to make empty promises. And this time is no exception. Consequently, the dungeon is filled with the sounds of biting strikes and painful groans. “When I’m free, you’ll scream my name.” The witcher has a smug grin on his lips, bordering on a snarl. Sebastian Sallow is also not in the habit of talking in vain.

***

The trial is always just a formality, where everything is decided in advance, and the verdict is passed in one day. It’s especially fast when there is no one to stand up for the accused. The opinion of the fools charmed by him does not count — the girls are besotted, which only proves his guilt. The river is raging with a violent current. The cold northern wind lashes ruthlessly. The crows are cawing their hearts out. People are crowding, in the idle hope of seeing an outlandish spectacle. Sebastian’s wrists and ankles are tightly bound. Several strong men from the hamlet are holding the kicking witcher with all their might, to drag him and throw him into the icy waters. The mountain river happily accepts Sebastian into its captivity. A minute passes. Two. On the inquisitor’s order, the villagers pull on the rope, dragging the body out of the water. Pale, with blue turned lips. Lifelessly still. “He died, I think?” “So he was innocent after all?” Poppy peers over the inquisitor’s shoulder in silence, but almost immediately looks back at the ground. Ominis confidently steps forward and bends over the body. “I need to make sure.” His hand touches the chest with its non-beating heart. He gently pushes down to feel the pulse better. A second. Two. Three. Splashes and a hoarse cough that tears at the throat escape from parted lips. Sebastian greedily inhales the desired air. Feeling the witcher shiver and hearing his teeth chatter, Ominis says mockingly: “You need to be warmed up. I hope the fire will be hot enough.”

***

Poppy watches with almost superstitious horror as Sebastian makes a real farce while Ominis is reading the prayer. The witcher has been graciously given the opportunity to repent for his sins before tomorrow, but he vies with the inquisitor by singing a vulgar song full of swears, which makes His Excellency shake all over. “No wonder, anyone would be furious at such blasphemy,” thinks the nun. Ominis finishes the prayer, and Sebastian licks his chapped lips to stretch them into a devilishly attractive smile. “You know, you could shut my mouth. Fill it with your cock. Put your hands on my head, squeeze my hair, and fuck me deep in the throat relentlessly until you spill your seed. Or you could give me free rein. Have me take your balls in my mouth. Kiss the mole on your inner thigh. Suck on the sensitive head. Play with my tongue around the frenulum. I promise, Daddy, I would drive you into a frenzy and make you cum harder than ever before.” “Enough. Don’t test my patience.” “It was worth a try,” Sebastian shrugs, not at all upset. His appraising gaze moves to the blushing Poppy, and his mouth twists into a feral grin. “It seems your little friend got wet imagining you and me together.” “Sister Sweeting, leave me alone with the prisoner. I’ll join you in just a minute.” “You think you’ll finish that quickly? How impatient,” Sebastian purrs smugly. As soon as the door closes behind the submissive Poppy, Ominis does something that is strictly forbidden by the Vatican — he unlocks and enters the witcher’s cage. Disregarding the rules, Gaunt abruptly closes the distance, lightly poking Sallow in the shin with his cane. His touch sightlessly leads him upwards, over the skin that has already completely healed from the torture. He grabs his face, squeezes the jaw hard. For a moment, Ominis Gaunt gives in to his lecherous desires and sinks a hungry kiss into the sinful lips. Their tongues intertwine like snakes. When finished, Ominis strokes the freckled cheek more lovingly and whispers: “Tomorrow it will all be over. Be a good boy and scream for me as loud as you can while you’re in the fire.”

***

Sebastian is tied to the stake of the future pyre as best they can. They tightly bind him by his arms and legs, pull the ropes taut around his stomach and even his neck. This way he will definitely not break free. He shouts curses at everyone present, promising to sleep in Hell with their fathers, while Ominis reads the very last prayer. Without hesitation, the inquisitor throws a burning torch to the logs drenched in oil and fat. With a snap, the crackling flame engulfs the scaffold in a matter of seconds. Sebastian, embraced by the fire, lets out a lingering, agonizing scream that chills the soul. There cannot be — should not be — as much air in his lungs as he lets out with his scream. The witcher takes his last breath, and a thick haze rises into the sky. “I’ve never seen smoke so black. Is it supposed to be like this?” Poppy asks in a concerned whisper. “Be calm, sister. This means that the witcher will no longer disturb these lands,” Ominis nods, a reassuring smile on his lips. No trace of his remains is found in the ashes extinguished by joint efforts. Not a single shabby bone. “The devil took his body for himself,” Sweeting says in amazement, crossing herself.

***

After finishing the record for the Vatican with the nun, the inquisitor locks the bedroom assigned to him. The room smells pleasantly of wild chamomile. Snakes can be heard hissing anxiously outside the window. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” Sebastian drawls playfully, settled into an uncomfortable wooden chair, and cheerfully removes his bare feet from the table. “Some herbal infusion?” “How could I refuse?” Ominis snorts, coming closer. Sebastian snaps his fingers, and a flame flares up beneath the clay jug. Later, Gaunt will have to come up with an excuse for the charred mark on the table. But that will be later. Now, Sebastian unceremoniously pulls Ominis in, grabbing him by the wrist and waist, and sits him sideways on his bare lap. He nuzzles the base of his neck and inhales the scent of his skin. “I hate it,” Sebastian whispers. “I hate that we can only see each other freely twice a year.” Gaunt finds Sallow’s jawline, guides it with his fingertips, and connects his lips in a gentle kiss. “Me too, my love. This is too little.” Sebastian hums sweetly at the affectionate nickname. He tugs at Ominis' vile, heretic robe, undressing him. Releasing his real self. Ending this masquerade in which his lover is forced to participate against his will. Their naked bodies press against each other. “It’s cruel of you to take someone so inexperienced to our lovely rendezvous. The poor thing probably still hasn’t recovered,” Sebastian complains, pouring hot brew into the cups. Only a deaf person would think that there is anything resembling sincere compassion in the witcher’s voice. But there is more than enough malice. “I don’t care.” Ominis rolls his eyes and accepts a cup of his favorite drink. “Almost all of my subordinates have already seen you. It would be difficult to explain why I repeatedly kill the same witcher, so I have to work with whoever I have. Besides, Sweeting was the funniest of them all.” “Her scream was delightful,” Sebastian nods in agreement. “What was it about, by the way? Was she really that scared of my sweet little sister?” “Let’s just say I played a little with your latest Anne,” Ominis demonstratively moves his fingers, one of which is decorated with an ancient family ring that has an incredibly interesting effect when in contact with the dead. “You’re evil, you know that?” Sebastian grins and catches the nimble fingers to kiss each of them, and the ring, without which their little games would be impossible. However, the powers of Gaunt’s family heirloom work best only in conjunction with Ominis' healing abilities. Without their use, the effect is eerie, and the revival is incomplete. The resurrected are more reminiscent of living, decaying dolls, capable only of carrying out simple orders. “I don’t want to hear that from you. Do you know how hard it was to keep a calm face and not laugh when you were interrupting the prayer?” Ominis rolls his eyes again, but the corners of his lips treacherously stretch into a smile, which he hides behind the cup. They would like to enjoy each other’s company more, but dawn is approaching, the sinful call of the flesh is great, and Sebastian has not yet kept his promise from the first night. The two witchers lie down on the wooden floor, on top of the infidel robes, because what is called a “bed” in this chapel is someone’s unfunny joke.

***

The shaking of the carriage lulls Ominis, who has not slept in over a day. His finger feels strange without the ring, but Sebastian will soon return it with an owl, once he digs up another suitable fresh corpse to play the role of his sick sister. After all, he arouses more suspicion alone than in the role of a caring brother. Almost falling asleep, Ominis hears Poppy’s voice. “Monsignor Gaunt?” the girl asks uncertainly, waiting for him to open his eyes. “Thank you for your offer, but I think I’ll decline it. I don’t think I can be an inquisitor.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Sister Sweeting,” Ominis says with a sympathetic expression, folding his hands. “May faith and the light of God always guide you on your chosen spiritual path.” Now, in the future, there will be one less potential problem. Ominis Gaunt does his job piously, even though he doesn’t like it. It’s exhausting to always be on guard, alone in the heart of a cluster of enemies, to put on a mask of polite smiles every day and say nice things to them, to memorize the texts of their filthy prayers. But someone has to do it. To try to sow discord among the saints from within and help their true brothers and sisters in the faith avoid execution. Besides, it has its advantages, like being able to meet your dark lover more than twice a year during their coven gatherings on Walpurgis and All Saints' Eve.