Everlasting

Death or Beating

Sylrie's mind was groggy, like awaking from a daze. Streams of light filtered into her eyes and she opened them to slits. Then she gasped and wrenched then open. It was her worst nightmare. She was in the town square, strapped to the pyre, with her arms bound above her head. The entire town was before her, waving torches and pitchforks.

"Death to the scum! Death to the traitor! Death to the Mysteria!" they chanted, their vicious voices scratching her eardrums.

If she had the time, she would have thought, Ironic. Torches and pitchforks. Have we suddenly gone back to the olden days? This is 2108 people. Not 1905. But she couldn't think that. She was too concerned with her imminent flogging. She lifted her head, looking out at the crowd again. The only person with out a torch or a pitchfork was a young boy, who was standing right in from of her. The baker's son. Her eyes widened. His parents were there with him, but he barely seemed to notice them. His eyes stayed on her as the town sheriff strutted onto the stage.

"Okay, okay. Thank you everyone," he addressed the crowd. "Now as you all know, this young girl is a Mysteria, and that is punishable with flogging. She also destroyed the property of the town baker, Mr. Harley, not to mention attempting assassination on his wife and son. That is punishable with death. So I'm leaving it up to you. Flogging or death? Remember, a vote for death has to be unanimous, and a vote for flogging does not."

There was no hesitation in the crowd.

Every single person held up their torches and yelled, "Death!" as loud as they possible could. 

Sylrie's heart sank to her shoes. Death. After all her work. Death. After spending every single waking moment figuring out how to avenge her parents, by killing the person who lit the fire that killed them. Death. How could she avenge them now? Tears trickled down her face, running little rivers through the dust and dirt and grit on her cheeks.

"Stop," she choked. "I'm not Mysteria."

"Oh, what did you say, little missy?" said the sheriff, leaning in close to her and grabbing her chin. "You're not Mysteria, are you? Well, we'll see about that. Please, tell me what I am thinking. As we all know, that is one of the powers of the Mysteria."

She could smell his putrid breath as she closed her eyes.

"I know what you're doing," she said. "I'm not going to fall for it."

"Ah, but if you know what I'm doing, then you are a Mysteria, huh little missy?"

He smirked down at her.

"Bring the torches forward," he said to the crowd. "That is, if no one has any objection?"

The sharp silence that fell over the square made her ears ring and her vision blur with more tears.

"Well then," said the sheriff, smirking again. "If that's the case then we can..."

"I object!" called out the baker's son. "I object to her death."

Everyone fell into a stunned silence.

"Are you sure, Leif?" asked the sheriff quietly. "She did try to kill you."

"I am sure," he replied, holding his head high.

"Very well then," the sheriff sneered. "Flogging it is."

Then he spun around and pulled a coiled whip from his belt. Her struck her, hard, and her cry of pain rang out across the square. He struck her eleven more times, the whip hard and cold as it hit her back, cutting her skin, making her bleed. Normally, this wouldn't have hurt her at all, because of her healing powers, but the sedative that they had strapped to her neck had drained her powers, and they were useless. When her twelve strikes had been given, the sheriff loosed her ropes, letting her slump to the ground. The crowd gasped and cried out as they saw her wounds and the blood covering her from head to toe. Then they began to cheer, calling that justice had been served. Sylrie looked at Leif one last time.

"Thank you," she whispered, meeting his eyes.

Then, surprising everyone, she turned around and began climbing up the pyre. The crowd stopped cheering and started screaming. They thought she was going to jump down and attack them. Idiots, she thought wryly, reaching to top of the pole. She took a deep breath, looked down at the crowd, and jumped across to the nearest roof. She ducked and ran over the roofs, not stopping until she made it to her hideout. She barely managed to make it to the small pile of pillows in the corner before collapsing with the sheer pain of her wounds. The only thought in her head was, help, as the blood loss, starvation and dehydration overwhelmed her and she passed out.