⇁ narrative for counted_stars

[singed]

You’ve been told not to move.

The sacrifice is for you – well, you and her more specifically, to bless your future together. Something nudges at the back of your mind, like maybe this is a bad idea (it’s sick, it’s wrong), but you ignore that like Francesca told you to. You don’t think without her, you don’t feel without her, you don’t exist without her. You are nothing until she wants you to be something. The words repeat like a mantra in your head, and you feel yourself calming, the odd tension seeping out of your frame. This is what she wants, so it must be okay.

You sit there placidly as the woman is dragged towards the altar, your legs folded under you and your hands on your knees. Stay where you are, you were told, and so you do, even though the woman is screaming, begging, pleading. Something about a child, and you frown, tensing again. Maybe you misunderstood what Francesca wanted? This could be a test, after all – it wouldn’t be the first time. You were trained to serve her will, to understand what that will is – which is not always what she says it is. Maybe she wants you to save the woman. That feels right. It feels like something that you should do.

“What are you doing, love?”

You freeze immediately, gaze snapping over to Francesca. Dark eyes bore into yours and you realise dimly that you’ve half risen, hands off your knees and preparing to stand before you lose yourself. She’s lovely, you think to yourself as you sink back into your assigned position, heart jumping as she smiles at you and continues her work, shaking her blonde hair back over her shoulders, raising the knife again and drawing it carefully across the other woman’s throat.

The blood is red as it spills onto the altar and the woman’s scream dies away into a sick gurgle as the nudging in the back of your mind becomes a shove, and you know you’ve done the wrong thing here. You struggle to your feet even though you were told to stay, because you’ve misjudged what she wants and you need to apologise, need to beg forgiveness, need to make it better somehow. You stagger forward, towards her, and it takes you a few seconds to realise that the sound you’re hearing is your own voice, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ spilling from your lips like the blood from the dead woman’s throat.

“I said stay.”

The shock is instant – literally, lightning flying from her fingers to punish you for a transgression you can’t understand, and the more painful surprise you feel at hearing the anger in her tone. You didn’t mean to upset her, don’t want her to be mad, but something is wrong here and you need to fix it, need to make it better.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself say, and the words sound broken as the dead woman’s eyes stare at you and you stare right back, frozen in place. Somewhere in your peripheral vision you’re aware of Francesca (you are always aware of Francesca), but even with her displeasure all but emanating off of her, you can’t seem to tear your eyes away. This is wrong. It’s wrong, and it shouldn’t have happened, and you should have done something to stop it, but you didn’t. Why didn’t you?

A rustle of skirts draws your attention, and you lower your gaze as expected when Francesca approaches you. A soft hand runs a gentle finger along the line of your jaw to your chin, tilting your head to crane back at a painful angle, looking up at her. “I told you not to move,” is all she says, the words themselves demanding an explanation.

You expression twists on your face as you take in hers. She looks kind, like she’ll understand, but you’ve seen that look cloud over like a sudden squall you can’t count how many times, and there is a body behind her that refuses to let you take any comfort from her.

“This is wrong,” you tell her, and the storm rolls in. Her face darkens with rage and lightning sparks again from her fingers, surging through your body until you might melt or burn or explode or do anything to escape the pain, and maybe that’s exactly what you tried to do because when it finally stops and your awareness seeps back, you’ve fallen on your side and are staring at nothing.

“This is a blessing,” she informs you. Skirts rustle, blood-stained material passing through your line of vision as she moves away and you stare at nothing. When she speaks again, it’s not you she addresses. “Bring in the other sacrifices.”