Inside the Fire

Chapter 4: Sinners

   
Song to listen to: For Whom the Bell Tolls

    A beggar sits on the street among filth and garbage, a crowd is gathered around a man whose arms are raised above his head. Veins pulse thickly in his neck as he screams of the wickedness in the women of this town, citing his opinion and gesturing to the poor state of their once "prosperous" and "beautiful" town. The crowd murmurs in agreement, the women unknowingly admitting to their own wickedness in earnest to not seem like bigots. A man walks out of an Inn and pauses to watch, more people gather to listen. The yelling man gestures to one of his companions, who produces one of these wicked women, her dress revealing more than what was goddess permitted, and she's shoved to the ground of the stage.
    He declares she gas sullied herself by staring at another man, though she is engaged already, and pulls her towards himself by her hair, citing that it's natural color is not this brown, but a blonde and she colors it to hide amongst the good clean married women of the town.
    The Boaster releases her and she falls onto her hands, clenching them in defiance, but remaining silent, knowing one word would mean being pulled to the side and beaten. This was her third stage that day, she knew there was no escape from her kidnappers, her only respite is they are only interested in publicly shaming her, no man had touched her, too afraid to condemn their souls in the next life. He pauses, collecting himself, this is his favorite part, although it wasn't always, he still thinks himself a good man, but he feels pleasure as he asks the crowd how they should punish such women?
    A mind in the crowd is pricked, a thought that isn't their own but moves it's way to the forefront and before the unsuspecting woman knows it, she's proclaiming to burn the "child of ungodliness". The man who'd stopped out of mild curiosity feels the puppet strings strengthening, as more and more people, people who just moments before would've thought burning someone alive was a little extreme are starting to scream to burn her, and burn her now. The speaker is taken aback by the crowds verbosity, but shares in their enthusiasm, and calls for a torch to be brought.
    He tries to speak up, but his voice catches in his throat, and he feels a familiar mind nearby. Fear, and indignation fill his mind, he struggles against the vice on his voice, his mind trying to break free as someone with ultimate control over his body refuses to allow his lungs to breath the words. The condemned woman tries to rise to her swollen legs, and breaks her silence wailing that the punishment was too severe, and begged the crown for mercy. Someone from the raving crowd produces a torch, it gets passed forward to the stage.
    The watching man pushes his way through the crowd, feeling his body is slow and heavy, he pushes on, trying to reach the torch before it can be used on the innocent woman. Everything feels submerged in water, an unreal almost ethereal feeling to it, a power beyond the screaming man's imagination pulsating in the air, its tendrils wrapping around the hearts of the raving crowd, women who had sing their children to sleep the night before, men who rented gingerly to animals incapable of caring for themselves, mother's, fathers, relatives and friends screamed for the woman's blood to be spilt or burned. Her eyes search through the crowd in dismay, trying to find one friendly face to save her from this horrific death
    Every step is a mental argument with his own bones and muscles, but he refuses for this to be the innocent girls end.
    The yelling man pauses in his speech, and fails to hide a smirk when he crouches down to grab at the torch that is now being offered up to him, it slips from his fingers and lands on his burlap clothes. Almost as though there is an accelerant, the power pulsates in the air and he is engulfed in flames. The fire quickly catching the rest of the stage on fire, and the young woman uses that moment of shock in the audience to roll herself off the stage and run away from what would've been her final resting place.
    There screaming coming from the man on stage is inhuman in nature, but doesn't last long as his thought quickly swells up from the smoke he inhales. The crowd transfixed as the magic once so thick the bystander could almost see it, subsides. He feels the yelling mans last breath, his corpse thudding to the ground, the sound of his dead body hitting the stage jerks all the would be murderers to their senses.
    Most of them are disgusted and ashamed in themselves, but a few found to their great sense of guilt, that they enjoyed watching the man burn, and lesser still wondered in silent awe if they would witness another death soon enough.
    Control is returned to the bystander, and he almost feels relieved, if it weren't for the claw of control that had been clutching at his mind. He puts a hand over his beating heart, a faint memory of it being in someone else's hand, the fingers reaching around towards the back, slipped in between his veins, he'd known he hadn't survived his encounter with the dragon, but here he stood, alive and breathing, his only proof, memories. There was a moment he'd almost convinced himself it was a bad dream. The knight had gone back to the lord of the land to give a short report on what he had himself told him, with words that he didn't recall saying. No one was there to remind him of his death, his heart beat, breath still filled his lungs, he felt pain when it was afflicted on him, but this silent voice constantly pricked at the back of his mind, whispering that none of what he is experiencing now is real.
    The world is brighter, more colorful, truly his senses had never been stronger, but that's just it, his senses had never been this good. All food but meat had lost it's savor, even then, the rawer the meat, the more flavor he could taste from it, and on one odd occasion, he'd found himself staring at a live piglet being fattened for the slaughter, his mouth watering, and wondering what it'd feel like to bite into it's soft fuzzy skin. He'd been able to side step a woman emptying a chamber pot out of her window, and remembers the wince of pain from the woman tending to him, whose arm he'd grabbed when he'd first woken up after the incident, her arm had bruised horribly, when he'd only meant to pause her motion, wanting to ask his own whereabouts.
    Unease settles into his stumach, as his eyes search the departing crowd, he knows if he sees it, he'll recognize the dragon in human form. It's as though he can feel a pull to him, but it's in no particular direction, like a ribbon twisting pointlessly in conflicting winds. Either their too fat, a woman, or not quite the correct shade of blue veiny pale.
    He glances over the blind beggar and stops in his tracks, the beggar is pale, the rag tied over his eyes is bloody, his black hair messy, and in one hand he shakes a handless cup, a single coin rattles in it almost deafening now.
    The air is darker around him, what young children there are shy away from the beggar, their parents patiently pulling the doe eyed children. Other than the children, no one seems to notice the dirty "man". Feeling a little drawn, the traveler takes careful steps towards the "blind man", he knows if he can see this stranger's face, he'll have his proof. He stops in front of him, unsure how to address the "man" to get him to look up. The can stops shaking,
   "Money for the blind and homeless?" the man says in a deep Welsh accent, and the Traveler is taken off guard. This isn't the light, gravely German accent that had started in his nightmare. He pauses, feeling a little foolish, and takes a step away, when the "blind man" chuckles, and his blood runs cold. "Are you really that easy to fool?" Moran asks, his gravely voice soft, the German accent returned. The traveler turns back to him, Moran's facing up at him, his smile wide.
    "It, it is you-" the traveler whispers, then his anger overcomes him, and he lifts Moran by the ragged cloak he's wearing and presses him to the wall. "What have you done to me?!" He asks urgently, panic in his voice. Moran looks s little disappointed, his smile turning down a little,
    "Don't jest with me, you know the words, you know what I've done."
The Traveler's hands tremble, clutching the fabric so hard his knuckles are white.
    "No, but, there is no honor in that!" He exclaims, shaking the limp Moran.
    Another chuckle, Moran's smile returns, and there's a hint of his right eyebrow lifting beneath the bloodied cloth.
"When was honor something I should concern myself with?" Moran states vehemently.
    Some people on the street are stealing glances at the two, none of them care enough to step in and continue on with their day. The traveler's mind is rejecting the reality it finds itself in, his mentor had held honor highly, he thought it was a given with Dragonkind. But here he held in his hands the proof that they can be just as bad as humans, if not worse. Moran scoffs,
    "And who is this mentor that's taught you my language? My kinds' ways?" Curiosity hides under his mocking tone, but his question takes the Traveler by surprise.
    "You killed me, you should know my every thought and memory."
    Moran shrugs, not feeling the need to explain that with spiritually enslaving someone, you technically don't need to have and know all those things. That he was bored and wanted the Traveler to ease it by telling him those things himself.
    One person stops in the street, a little uncomfortable with how the Traveler was treating a disabled person, and debates whether or not it's worth the trouble to step in.
    "You are bold," Moran smirks, "Having this conversation in the street?" His tone disinterested.
    The Traveler turns to see the man staring, the man starts and walks quickly away, the Traveler looking too formidable for him and stops to whisper with a stronger looking male. Moran snickers
    "The other humans, they're afraid of you." Moran's smile is genuine again, the Traveler's grip loosens on Moran's clothes, staring at the men in disbelief as they stole glances at him, their eyes full of concern for the "blind man".
    "It can't be.." his grip tightens again and he whips back to glare at Moran, "But you are the monster here!" He spits, shaking Moran. Moran shrugs, a little annoyed by being shook, but willing to let it slide if it meant he could play with the human's emotions some more.
    "You can hear what they're saying, can't you? Tell me I'm wrong." He scoffs.
    The traveler felt the unheard command, and listens to the males conversation against his will. Moran sighs and contemplates how he can avoid forcing the human to do what ever he wants him to against his will. This new game is no fun if he does what I say when I say it, Moran thinks reluctantly to himself.
    "It-" the Traveler pauses his mouth opens without sound a few times, and he whispers, "It can't be true, it, it can't."