Burnt Offerings

by Pearl Love

  “Madam, I—” The guard’s voice fell away as she grabbed his hand in both of hers and held it tightly.

  “Surely you know of the hateful rumors the villagers spread about my boy. Can you honestly tell me that you believe them? Look at him.” She threw a tear-filled glance toward Alen before turning back toward the guard. “Do you really believe him to be capable of that which he is accused?” After a brief hesitation, the man shook his head, and for a moment elation filled her heart. “Then you must help me!”

  “I cannot.” He pulled his hand out of her grasp and moved away as she regarded him with stunned disbelief.

  “Why?” she rasped.

  The guard shook his head. “Even if he is truly innocent as you claim, I am powerless. I cannot go against the cleric’s wishes.” He looked at her then, regret plain upon his sturdy features. “It is thanks to his grace that I have this position with the town watch. I have no land, no other way to feed my family than the pay I receive as a member of the guard. It is all that allows me to give them a decent home and put food on the table. It would take only his word to see me destitute.”

  Her gaze turned cold as she stared at him for a moment longer. “You are a coward,” she spat before turning away. As though unable to bear her rebuke, the guard dropped his gaze toward the ground, but she spared him not another thought. The conundrum of her son’s fate remained, and she felt physically ill as she weighed the impossible alternatives of his future.

  The priest chuckled as he witnessed her desperate exchange with the guardsman, obviously amused at her desolate confusion as she battled with herself. She despised the tears that spilled down her cheeks, hated that this cruel man was a witness to her pain. But he had left her no options. She simply could not stand by while her beloved son was executed. Better that he become this man’s servant, subject to his vile lusts, than be forever gone from the world.

  Her stomach threatened to empty itself upon the ground as self-disgust at her weakness filled her, but she would accept the condemnation. Nothing mattered to her except Alen’s well-being, and she would do anything to ensure it. Even if she had to beg on her hands and knees, she would entreat the priest to let her join her son in his imprisonment. Though she knew she could not protect Alen completely, she could at least tend to him and console him whenever he was overcome by the cleric’s wicked attentions. But no matter what the cost, she could not condemn her beautiful child to death.

  “Alen—” Go with him, my love, her heart cried, the plea a mere instant from breaching the wretchedness that had stolen her voice. “I-I—” I love you. She tried to speak the words that would save her boy’s life even as they condemned him to an unspeakable fate, but the burning ache in her heart stole her voice.

  ALEN comprehended the torment in his mother’s visage. He knew what she wanted to say, that she wished for him to give himself over to the priest so that his life might be spared. How he longed to grant her wish, for her sake if not for his own. Too many times had he seen her weep on his behalf, and the last thing he wanted was to prolong her agony. He glanced up at the old man standing triumphantly over him, his lecherous intentions apparent in the bulge that strained against the cloth, which bespoke his holy order. Anger filled him at the victory that suffused the aged cleric’s corrupt visage. How could the man so enjoy tormenting his poor mother? Alen simply could not understand the depths of the priest’s evil. She did not deserve this grief, and if he were a good boy as she claimed, he would alleviate her misery and submit himself to the wicked proposition.

  But—the gods forgive him—he could not. Not when, even now, he had only to close his eyes to see the image of blazing golden gaze. He could not betray the love he felt for the man in the flames, though it meant breaking his mother’s heart. He hoped she would forgive him for this final act of defiance. Once he was gone, perhaps she might find some measure of peace. Not all of the villagers were bad people. He knew that many of them had shown his mother some measure of kindness when she’d first arrived among them. Maybe when her anguish at his passing had dulled, she could end her self-imposed solitude and forge new bonds with those who were worthy of her friendship. Though he knew that his death would leave his dear mother grieved, he prayed that his absence would prove better for her in the end. As for him, there was no other decision to be made.

  It was as though a heavy weight lifted from him, convincing him of the rightness of his choice. Buoyed by a sudden confidence, he rose to his feet, ignoring the smug priest, and faced his mother. A bittersweet smile curved his lips as he gazed toward her, wishing that he could take the sadness from her heart even as his own filled with empowering resolve. This, he now realized, was ever meant to be his fate. He could no longer endure the violent desires constantly aimed toward him. He couldn’t bear another moment of watching his mother don a brave expression to hide her sadness as the townspeople shunned and taunted her by turns. At last his accursed face, which should never have been, would be erased from the world.

  The guards made to stop him as he started toward the sobbing woman, but he froze them with a glance, some new-found strength in his gaze giving them pause. Upon reaching her, he placed a cool hand upon her cheek, feeling the dampness of her tears against his palm. She looked up at him, lovely in his eyes though whatever maidenly beauty she had once claimed had long since been stolen by age and woe. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the resolution written in his gentle gaze. She shook her head, unwilling to accept his decision. Her wail of denial rang out in anguished peals as her legs faltered and she fell into his arms.

  “I am sorry, ma,” he whispered, speaking to her ears alone. “I would do anything to take away your tears. But can you not see?” He placed a less than steady hand underneath her chin and turned her face up toward his. “I cannot go with him. I would rather die.” Matched trails of glistening sorrow spilled down their cheeks. Alen held his mother tightly to his chest, taking this last opportunity to feel the comforting softness of her arms around him. “Please do not think me selfish,” he begged. “I would do anything to make you happy, but not this. Anything but this—”

  HER arms ached as she threatened to crush him with the desperate strength of her embrace. She wanted to beg him to put aside his dignity and self-respect. She would never pray for anything again if only she knew that he lived. But as fresh tears of anguish spilled from her swollen eyes, she realized that it was she who was being selfish. How could she ask her son to surrender all pride and debase himself simply to appease her self-centered desires? What sort of mother was she not to want what was best for her son? For in this instance, though she was loath to admit it, she knew deep in her heart that nothing but death would deliver him.

  “I was wrong to ask it of you,” she whispered against his chest. “You are my entire world, and I wish only that you be happy, that you be safe. Even if—” She choked on a sob. “Even if it means letting you go. Can you forgive an old woman her foolishness?” She raised her head, meeting summer blue eyes, which gazed into her own with understanding and boundless love. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, a gesture he had used to reassure her since he was a small boy. She found herself wondering when he had grown so that it was she who looked up to him.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Alen whispered, resting his head atop hers.

  THE priest glowered behind them, annoyed at the familial display of affection. He was more than ready to claim his prize, for surely this peasant woman would not let her son perish. “My patience grows thin,” he growled. “What is your answer, boy? Do you come with me now or face your death?”

  Neither mother nor son turned toward him, refusing to allow the detestable cleric to interrupt their final moments of togetherness. Without lifting his head, Alen proffered only a succinct reply.

  “I shall not go with you.”

  The priest stared at the embracing pair, unable to accept the ridiculousness that had fallen upon his ears. Of course, the boy would accept his offer. What other choi
ce did he have but to submit himself to the priest’s control?

  “Perhaps you do not understand just how dire your situation is.” He enunciated every word slowly and carefully, as though speaking to one of less than sufficient intellect.

  The woman looked up at him over her son’s shoulder, her eyes filled with defiance even as they sparkled with tears. “No. It is you who does not understand. I will not give Alen over to you.” She glanced up into her son’s gently smiling face. Reaching up with a single hand she caressed his downy cheek in a mirror of his own reassurance. “If it is his lot to die,” she said, voice strong though tight with emotion, “then I would have him do so with dignity.”

  The priest sputtered with shocked indignation as he watched the boy lightly press his lips to the woman’s creased brow. Grinding his teeth furiously, he acknowledged the utter destruction of all his foul hopes.

  “So be it,” he growled.

  Gesturing sharply, he signaled the guards, uncaring that several of them averted their eyes from him. Stirred to action, they closed in around the pair, intent on seizing the doomed youth.

  ALEN’S heart ached at the panic that flashed across his mother’s face as the brawny men pressed in toward them. Her arms clenched around him as though even they were unwilling to let him go. He feared that she had lost her courage, unable to fulfill her lofty promises now that the time was at hand. Alen was almost relieved when the same guard whom his mother had desperately implored for assistance closed a meaty hand around his arm, attempting to pull him away.

  “Don’t touch him!” She shouted at the man in rebellious denial, plainly incensed at his earlier refusal to help her.

  “Ma,” Alen murmured, tacitly pleading with her not to resist any further, lest she be harmed in her desire to protect him.

  “Let him go, woman,” the guard grunted not unkindly, but before he could persuade her, he was joined by one of his surlier fellows. The other man shoved the first guard aside and pulled relentlessly on Alen’s arm, adding to the marks already marring his fair skin. Alen winced at the strength of the man’s grasp but said nothing, even though he felt as if he were being pulled in two directions by equally implacable forces. The kindly guard stood by helplessly, his expression uncertain. Alen saw the man glance toward his mother, but though his features clouded with helpless compassion at the stubborn obstinance on her face, he did nothing as his comrade finally succeeded in wrenching Alen away.

  “No!” she cried, as if that single word held the power to alter what could not be changed. She grabbed at the loose folds of his tunic before he could be pulled out of her reach. “No, Alen, please! I cannot bear that this must be your fate!” Stumbling as he was yanked from her, she fell forward, pulled along by the tightness of her frantic grip. No longer able to speak past the anguish tightening her throat, she keened her despair as she buried her head in his chest. “Truly, I am nothing but a selfish old woman.” Her tears wet the front of his ripped tunic with her sorrow. “I’m sorry, my love,” she cried, her sobs gaining in strength until they racked her tired body. “I cannot let you go. I will not!”

  Alen struggled to support her as best as he could since the guard holding him captive refused to release him. “It is alright, ma. It will be fine.” Alen pressed his lips to the top of her bowed head as he spoke the obvious yet comforting lie. Now that his course was set, he was unexpectedly content. No reservations remained save his reluctance to part from her. He owed his life to her, and as such, it was only right that she grant him permission to end it. “I do not wish to leave you, but I must.” He bent lower and laid his cheek against her wet face. “Please,” he whispered in her ear. “Let this be my final gift to you. Let me go.” She slumped in his embrace as though her sorrow had robbed her of all strength. Alen closed his eyes, feeling his mother’s weary acceptance as her boneless weight leaned against him.

  The priest’s strident tones cut across the yard, intruding into their uneasy peace. “Bring him now,” he yelled to the guards, “or face the wrath of the gods yourselves!”

  His mother made no sound as he was ripped from her arms. She stood in quiet defeat, her gaze dull and drained of all hope as he was quickly bound. Unable to bear seeing him mishandled by the rough, greedy hands that boorishly groped him, she instead fixed all of her attention on his face. He smiled at her, praying that the sight of his contentment would warm her heart. The sentiment was genuine, for at long last, he had found some measure of serenity. When he saw her lips move, he strained his ears to hear the words she whispered.

  “I have seen a vision of you, my beautiful boy, engulfed in terrible flames as though they intend to devour you whole. But now I do not fear them, for somehow, I believe that they will be your salvation. And for that at least, I am grateful.”

  Alen barely had time to try and comprehend her meaning as the odious priest spoke once more to pass judgment upon him.

  “You are hereby sentenced to be sacrificed as an offering to he who defeats the savage darkness and grants us life. You will be chained to a pyre on the top of the mountain and a fire will be set in your flesh, cleansing you of your sin and preparing you for what lies beyond.” The cleric smiled coldly at Alen’s mother as though determined to make her understand the full horror of her son’s fate. “You will be consumed by the flames until you are naught but smoke and ash. May the gods find you acceptable,” he concluded, “and smile upon the pious.”

  As Alen came to understand the brutal portent of the priest’s sneering pronouncement, his surprised gaze flew to his mother’s wearied face. He marveled as the cleric announced the sentence that she had just foretold. But his amazement at her foresight was no match for the joy that filled him. The vile cleric could never know that he had granted Alen his most secret wish: to be delivered by his beloved fire! If he had been given the option, he would have chosen no other punishment, for he had long craved the release of flame and the promise of the bright, golden eyes that lived within it. The mere hope that he might finally discover his lifelong companion was more than enough to support him as he contemplated his impending agony.

  Alen turned toward his mother with a beatific grin, and in the face of his elation, she couldn’t help the tiny smile that broke through her melancholy. As he was hauled away, leaving her behind to stand alone before the quaint cottage that had once been his home, her silent reassurance was the last thing he knew as he allowed his thoughts to drift toward that which awaited him.

  THE priest took great care to parade him directly through the center of village as the macabre procession wound its way toward the small town’s eastern border. The scornful jeers from the villagers were loud and vicious as many rejoiced that the demon child would at last be gone from their midst. Rocks pelted Alen as he passed through the market square, thrown by the dead farmer’s friends. The sharp edges of the stones cut his skin and raised welts where they landed, yet he felt nothing. Nor did he notice the bruising grips on his arms as he was hauled beyond the town limits and up the lower slope of the mountain, which had, till now, defined the boundaries of his experience.

  The occasional glances of sorrow and tearful remorse that regarded him likewise went unseen, for no words were raised in his defense. He was deaf to the commanding voice of the guard at his side as the man ordered the more audacious of his hecklers to keep their distance, for the guard’s hand guided him just as firmly toward his fate. A single bouquet of roses was tossed at his feet by an awkward boy who had once compared his skin to satiny petals, but the gesture remained unperceived as it was swiftly trampled beneath the boots of his escort. Soon, the raucous crowds were left behind, none but the guards and the priest willing to brave the mountainside in the darkness, not even to witness the demise of a creature both hated and beloved.

  Alen was consumed by the knowledge that the fulfillment of his most ardent dream was at hand. It quite escaped his awareness that, for the first time in his life, he had quit the unfriendly but familiar confines of the village. Far more
important considerations consumed his thoughts. Would he now, at long last, find the man for whom he had longed since childhood? Would the promise of love in those glowing eyes be fulfilled?

  Though he dared to hope, the difficult lessons of his life were not so easily set aside. Only one person had ever offered him approval, had ever given him reason to believe that his existence held some meaning. It was far too easy to let a shadow of doubt mar his anticipation. He fretted that the man in the flames—if he even existed at all—would find him unworthy, for how could such a perfect being want him when nearly everyone else in his life had treated him with contempt? To finally meet the mysterious entity who had haunted his dreams for so many years and to be rejected would be an agony from which he would never recover. How unbearable would his fate be without even the promise of that enigmatic smile to succor him?

  “Do you see it now, my boy? Behold your final resting place.”

  The procession came to a stop, obliging Alen to put aside the nagging apprehension that plagued him. Harsh fingers grasped his chin, forcing his gaze to meet the ugly, leering face that was mere inches from his own. Having captured his attention, the priest glanced sharply to one side, peering at something in the darkness. Alen followed the old man’s gaze and was unable to suppress a shiver as he found the source of the other man’s malicious glee. Despite himself, he could not help the bone-chilling apprehension that dampened his inevitable excitement.

  A large pyre loomed a short distance further up the side of the mountain, nearly hidden by the gloom of the encroaching forest that the torches struggled to illuminate. Sitting on an altar of black igneous rock engraved with peculiar sigils, the barbaric structure was weathered, yet sturdy, for all its long years of existence. Heavy chains curiously untouched by rust lay upon the arranged beams, the light of the sickly moon shunning the black metal as though the centuries of terror they had witnessed were too gruesome to illuminate. A strong gust whipped down the face of the slope and Alen heard the menacing clang of the shackles as they were buffeted by the wind.