THE PYRE | ONC2021

Ⅴ

THE JOURNEY WAS LONG, BUT it felt even longer because Frederick was with her.

Ingrid couldn't fathom how anyone was able to assume she had feelings for the horrid man. He was handsome, yes, and he had the creepy kind of charm that she knew some people were into, but he was... unnerving.

Something about him wasn't exactly... humane. 

Definitely not humane. 

Or human, for that matter.

Ingrid almost laughed when she thought about Frederick getting accused of being a witch. It wasn't unknown that men could be accused of being witches, but Frederick? It would be so cathartic to watch him burn.

Ingrid smirked as she thought of Frederick tied to a stake and set ablaze by a flaming arrow, his gold hair surrounded by equally golden fire. He would become the sun, the center of the sky, with the power he wanted, at least in death on the pyre. 

The pyre.

Ingrid had tried taking her mind away from what had happened at the village, but her brain would simply not let it go. Her nights, usually plagued by dreams of water and ropes and drowning, now had fire licking her skin like a lover. She felt kind of hurt, to be honest.

It was like the pyre was erasing Adelaide as her nightmare.

Ingrid didn't want to think that she had a new weakness now, one that wasn't Adelaide.

Adelaide's lips brushed against her cheek, "How many scars will you continue to carry, my wanderer?"

"When will we be setting up camp?" Frederick asked, softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His voice was almost drowned in the clamor and clatter of the travelling party. It was a habit of his, to speak like this.

In the beginning, Ingrid had thought he was just someone who operated from behind the scenes, the puppet master who didn't show his face but controlled every event from the tips of his fingers—one who didn't own a voice.

Then she realized. He liked the power of being quiet.

He liked people straining to hear him. 

He spoke softly, kindly, gently—only to pull the rug from under your feet when the iron hand under his velvety voice showed up.

She saw it in action last night when he had a page-boy whipped when he didn't hear his order properly.

Now everyone kept one eye on his mouth, waiting for any sign of words.

Ingrid found it disgusting—but she had no choice. She was at his mercy like every one else.

"Your grace, we can't just stop right now. If we alter the plans now, we might risk letting the Princess wait," Ingrid explained.

"And your point is?" Frederick replied. "Set up camp. The Princess can wait a day. It'll do her good. Teach her patience."

His grin told her it wasn't the Princess that needed to learn patience. 

But Ingrid stayed silent, and decided to make a mental note to send a pigeon informing the Princess's entourage to delay plans by a day.

They set up camp in a clearing near the river just as the sun was turning west. Soon, crude tents for the servants were set up while Ingrid and Frederick got their own private tents. Ingrid walked around, scouting the area for any signs of any animals.

All she found were birds screeching from between the trees, screaming at the intruder to leave their abode. 

Leave. Leave. Leave.