The guards ushered her into a windowless carriage, shielding her from the outside world. Yet, the voices of the people outside pierced the silence within, a cacophony of curses and accusations. The heavy silence inside the carriage juxtaposed the chaos beyond its confines.
At long last, the carriage came to a halt. Guards in black attire pulled her out, forming a protective circle around her. The square was teeming with people, their faces contorted with anger and disgust. The crowd was so dense that rows of guards had to stand between the carriage and the tall pole erected on a podium at the square’s center. Doubts about the guards’ purpose surfaced in Wallona’s mind; perhaps they were there not to imprison her but to shield her from the wrathful mob.
Amidst the jeering crowd, Wallona felt a sharp push from behind, propelling her forward. The voices of the idle onlookers pierced her ears, and she fervently wished she were deaf from birth.
A man’s voice cut through the air, proclaiming, “Good riddance! The world should be purged of such monsters who cold-bloodedly slay their parents.”
“I think her punishment is too lenient,” interjected another voice. “She should have been subjected to the torment of bathing in boiling oil for her crimes.”
A woman chimed in, “But what can we do? The All-Mother, in her kindness, has decreed such a fate even for sinners like her. I’ve heard that in Nhur, criminals are whipped and nailed to crosses, left to rot and be devoured by crows.”
Wallona’s stomach churned at the thought of such cruelty. Was their crime truly deserving of such a fate?
Another woman added, “And in Iliora, even petty thieves, if caught, have their hands severed. Compared to those barbaric practices, our All-Mother’s punishment seems merciful.”
“Well, we are her children, after all,” someone else remarked. “How could a mother be cruel to her own kin?”
“Parents should shoulder the blame too,” argued another voice. “They fail to educate their children properly, and the consequences are plain to see.”
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Aware that they were discussing her, Wallona kept her eyes fixed on the ground, attempting to block out the cacophony around her. Despite the anger brewing within her, her eyes remained lifeless, as if a barrier prevented any mortal emotions from penetrating her soul.
She hastened her steps, desperate to escape the relentless voices, fearing she might succumb to her rage and further besmirch her parents’ memory.
Upon reaching the central podium, she came to a halt. At its core stood a dark pole, entwined with chains, bearing the ominous inscription, ‘MAY THE MERCIFUL MOTHER CLEANSE THEIR DARK SOULS.’
A wave of terror engulfed her, paralyzing her limbs. She hesitated to climb the short stairs leading to the pole, her fear undefined, perhaps of death or the boundless darkness beyond, a realm she might never enter due to her actions in this life.
A firm hand gripped her arm, pulling her onto the podium. Elevated, Wallona could see the multitude surrounding her more clearly. Thousands of men and women of all ages encircled her, their collective energy palpable.
Their unified chant pierced the air, “Burn her, burn her,” as if her impending demise thrilled them more than it horrified her.
Chained to the pole, her legs turned to jelly, goosebumps covering her arms, and her teeth chattering uncontrollably. The crowd’s fervor, their relentless cries for her death, terrified her.
In that moment, she longed for her parents—those comforting smiles and protective hugs. Just one last glimpse to reassure her that everything would be alright, that there was nothing to fear.
But her solace was fleeting. Liquid splashed over her, drenching her from head to toe. Its oily stench and sticky texture left no doubt in her mind. She recalled the agony of burning her finger accidentally at the age of eleven, a pain that lasted for days. Now her entire body was to be engulfed in flames, and she anticipated the excruciating pain that awaited her.
Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of the agony to come. Thoughts of resistance flickered in her mind, and she struggled against the chains binding her. “No! Please, no!” she pleaded. “Grant me a swift death. Spare me this torment.”
Her words seemed to invigorate the crowd. Their shouts grew louder, echoing with renewed fervor, the crescendo of their zeal reaching its peak. Their collective roar reverberated across Alyur, a symphony of torment.
Looking down at the people below her, she met eyes devoid of sympathy or pity. She knew she didn’t deserve their mercy, yet a glimmer of hope lingered—perhaps one person might intervene.
In her heart, she wished she could reverse time, willingly taking her parents’ place that fateful day. If only she could rewrite history.
Lost in her thoughts, she felt the heat on her skin. Glancing to her side, she saw a woman bearing a torch approaching. Her struggle intensified, but it proved futile, leaving her arms marred with shallow cuts and blood flowing freely.
A trickle of oil streamed across the platform from her body. The woman brought the torch closer, and just as Wallona screamed, “NO!” it fell onto the oil. Wallona’s eyes widened in horror, her struggle ceasing as despair overtook her. She watched as the torch ignited the oil, drawing closer with alarming speed.
Her brain barely registered the cheers of the crowd as the fire consumed her shoes, her legs, reaching relentlessly upward. Pain enveloped her, excruciating and all-consuming. Wallona’s scream pierced the air, her vocal cords strained beyond their limits. The world blurred into a haze of red and yellow, engulfing her entirely, swallowing her whole.