And Then She Burned, 1/1, R, Original/Supernatural
I don't do things like this, but for those in the Supernatural fandom, you might enjoy this.
I also don't generally write this dark, but the story sort of called for it.
Title: And Then She Burned
Rating: R for dark themes and violence
Chapter: 1 of 1
Fandom: Original/Supernatural
Spoilers: Up through 3x09: Malleus Maleficarum
Disclaimer: What characters are mentioned, I don't own. They're Kripke's.
Summary: It starts with a book, and ends with fire.
WARNINGS: Minor character death, implied rape, gore, implied violence, sort-of OFC/sort-of OFC (woman/woman interaction, albeit briefly).
This story takes place somewhere around 1665, England. If you know my Supernatural stuff and you've enjoyed it, then PLEASE trust me and take a read. This is my spin on minor characters we've been introduced to.
Apologies in advance to my possible butchering of an English accent and to England's history concerning the Bubonic Plague. I did my best.
The book was old and black beneath her fingertips. She could feel each and every dip and curve the pattern on the front took. When she allowed her fingers to be replaced by her whole palm, she could feel a low heat, a prickling beneath her skin.
Isabelle wasn't stupid enough to open it here, though. Nor was she stupid enough to get rid of it completely. When there weren't so many church elders around, she'd take a glimpse inside.
“'Belle!” her sister called from below her. Isabelle quickly shoved the book beneath the hay and brushed off whatever was clinging to her skirt. “'Belle!” was called again, more impatiently this time.
“Give me but two moments,” Isabelle muttered, moving to the ladder. She glanced down to make sure there was no one below her, then turned to put her feet first on the wood, making her way down to the ground.
“For someone who doesn't want to smell, you're always up in that loft,” her sister's voice chastised from behind. “Really; what could be so fascinating up there? Are you building a husband out of the hay?”
Isabelle finally set foot on the dirt floor and turned around, hands on her hips. “Mary Ann, I swear to you, you have the manners of a horse.”
“Only with you,” Mary teased, before laughing. “We're going to be late to church, and Mother never would've stood for it.”
Only when Mary's back turned did Isabelle roll her eyes. It was always 'Mother' this and 'Father' that, whenever Mary wanted her way. Never mind that their parents had long been deceased, and were now buried under moss in the church yard.
Mary was already outside in the yard, hair nearly golden in the sunlight. Not as light as Isabelle's, though Isabelle wished for her sister's hair most days. Isabelle reluctantly followed, after making sure she hadn't missed any stray straw that could be clinging to her woolen skirt. Though they were poor, she always wanted to look her best for church. She didn't want to give the church elders another reason to look at her oddly, anyway. Her garden already had caught the eye of the whole community, and if her herbs hadn't been helping keep the black spots away, she more than likely would've been tried for being a witch of sorts.
She wasn't, really. She was a healer, had learned from Mother how to do things and help people. So what if she knew Latin as well as the scholars in London, or the church elders here, who'd studied abroad?
Mary was almost too far ahead of her for Isabelle to run and catch up, but when she saw the horses approaching and Mary obviously didn't, Isabelle pushed her shoes into the mud as hard as she could, hurrying forward to pull Mary out of the way. Mary gasped as she was pulled backwards, and Isabelle took a few harsh breaths before turning to the riders. “We apologize for...”
As soon as caught sight of who the riders were, however, she stopped. Thomas Weatherton smiled and tipped his hat towards her. Adam Lockson and William Bradsworth were beside him, both smiling in the same way that made her shudder. “No need for apologies, Miss Chouster,” Thomas said smoothly, before turning his gaze to Mary. He looked hungry, and Isabelle took an involuntary step in front of her sister. Thomas's eyes swung back to her, anger flickering briefly, before he pasted his smile back on. “None at all. You'll be late for church; we'd be more than happy to have you both ride with us.”
Isabelle gaped at their boldness, before shaking her head rapidly. “Thank you kindly, but no, we'll walk.”
Thomas gazed at them for a moment more, then shrugged carelessly. “Be as you wish,” was all he said, before he urged his horse onward. Grinning lecherously, Adam and William followed behind.
Isabelle shuddered and turned to Mary, who looked as white as a ghost. “How many times must I tell you to stay with me, Mary Ann?” Isabelle scolded.
“I'm a grown woman, 'Belle,” Mary said, rolling her eyes. The move put color back in her cheeks, so Isabelle didn't complain.
“But you'll always be my little sister,” Isabelle said softly, brushing hair from Mary's face. “It's my job to look out for you; it always has been. So please, don't make my task more difficult? As if I wasn't worried enough about what they're calling the Black Death upon us, and of you catching it, and then of those three who eye you like a wolf eyes a lamb-”
“Then I'll stay close, if just to soothe your nerves,” Mary said with a smile, before she turned her eyes back to the path. “We are going to be late to church, though, if we don't hurry.”
“Bossy little thing,” Isabelle muttered, but contained a grin when Mary began to giggle.
She was beginning to wonder why she went to church anymore, the way the community acted. “There is a witch among us!” had been cried from the pulpit. “We shall find her, try her, then burn her for her crimes!”
It sounded like it'd be a very fine, fair trial. Isabelle rolled her eyes, then turned to gaze at her sister. Mary was already asleep, and soundly so. Carefully and quietly Isabelle took her candle to the ladder that led to the loft.
Once she was up, she set the candle down, then began to dig through the hay. Her fingers finally brushed something solid, and with her heart beginning to race, Isabelle pulled the book back out. The heat was more this time, but not too hot. It was like the warmth of a loving embrace, the feeling of pride that grew in the chest, the love of knowing a family and home. Of being loved and adored by that family and home, and it was that feeling that urged Isabelle to open the book at long last.
She'd found it be accident, when they'd gone up to the markets in London two years before. An old book that had been tossed in a pile of rubbish, and the cover had intrigued her enough to rescue it. Gold ribbons wound around the cover, black leather surrounding the yellowed pages, and small, tiny, red gems woven here and there throughout the leather.
At the very least, she could remove the gems and gold ribbons, then fetch enough to last her and her sister for a time. When she'd touched it, though, she'd felt the warmth and something that had made the hairs on her arms stand up. There was something special about the book, something that called out to her in a way. When Mary had touched it, upon Isabelle's request, she'd merely frowned.
“It feels like a book, and a cold one at that,” she'd said. “Toss it out, 'Belle.” So she had, forgetting about it until she'd found it up in the loft a few days ago.
Her fingers trembled now as they slid beneath the heavy cover, before she pulled her hand up to open it.
Suddenly her candle went out. Isabelle gasped as the breeze picked up, slamming the book open and flipping through page after page in a dizzying sight. Finally it stopped, near the center of the book from what she could tell. The flame from her candle suddenly leapt back up, as if it'd never been blown out. Isabelle stared at it for a long, good while, then leaned forward to the text.
Symbols she'd never seen before greeted her vision. The book was written in Latin, something she understood, but still it was garbled and made no sense to her. “Fire of night”? “Rage of tempest goddess”?
It was witchcraft, and dark witchcraft, that much was obvious. Some of the ingredients called for the blood of a child, the skin of a fawn. This was something she shouldn't be touching, something she should be burning or taking to the church elders for them to do away with. She shouldn't be reading it or even looking at it.
Yet her eyes were drawn to each page, which she flipped through now with great speed. It intrigued her, all these spells, and she wondered if they worked. Most called for certain herbs, and she was surprised to find that they were herbs she herself had in her garden.
Maybe there was a reason she'd been allowed to find this book.
Her lips began to form the Latin silently beneath her breath, and the night passed on.
“Have you 'eard about th' witch, Isabelle?” called Wellington's wife when she went into the town three days later. The plump but merry woman was laying out straw near the gate Wellington had put up just two weeks before.
Isabelle stopped, then stepped over to the gate. “What witch? The witch they spoke of in church?” she asked.
The woman nodded. Clarence, that was her name. Clarence Wellington. “They say she's in the town, Isabelle! Right here, 'neath our noses! Can scarce b'lieve it.”
“What are they saying about her? Does anyone know who it is?” Isabelle pressed.
Clarence shrugged, then turned back towards her home. “'Lizbeth! You leave your brother 'lone, you hear? Michael, do help your lil' sister, dear?”
Chorused voices of agreement were heard from inside. Isabelle chuckled. “Five of them must be a handful.”
“And a blessin', that's for sure, God save 'em,” Clarence said with a sigh. “But no, none know who she is. They say she's growin' a garden wi' poison, and she's got a magic book she reads from!”
Isabelle's blood ran cold. “But they don't know who it is? I-I'd like to know, to keep watch,” she added, hoping she looked fearful for a completely different reason.
Clarence smiled and patted her arm. “There, there, dear. It'll be over soon; they're going huntin' this night for 'er.”
Tonight. Tonight. She had to hide the book, hide her garden-
“I'm glad to hear it,” Isabelle said, before bidding Clarence farewell. She made her stop in the town brief, gathering the supplies Mary would need for a good few weeks, then headed home.
She'd leave. She'd have to leave, but she knew she wouldn't make it anywhere by tonight. They'd be suspicious if she did.
But if they came hunting tonight, and it was for her...
What was she to do? What would she do about Mary?
Mary. She couldn't leave Mary. She wouldn't. It was her job to watch out for her, to keep her safe. Mary was her little sister, and she wouldn't abandon her. Not when the rest of the world had.
She made it home in record time, calling for Mary but receiving no answer. Isabelle frowned, searching the home, then the loft above. “Mary?” she called again. No answer.
Perhaps she'd gone to visit friends. That would actually be a good thing; it was nearing supper time, and once that was done, they'd surely come hunting for her.
She hurried up to the loft and found her book, which she'd been reading for the past few days. She thought she even had a few of the spells memorized, but she hadn't tried anything. A good thing, too, but it had to go now. She didn't know where to hide it, though. Back in the woods, beyond the house? No, they'd look there, too.
As she was pretending to weed her garden while secretly pulling the herbs into a pouch, the idea struck her. She'd hide them behind someone else's house. That was what she'd do. If they were coming for her, then they'd search all around her. They'd never search someone else who wasn't on their list.
It would keep Mary safe, too. And where was her sister? Supper time was nearly here; Mary was never out this late.
She'd search for Mary as she searched for the perfect hiding place for the book and herbs; that was all. She gathered up her things, pulled her black cloak around her, then headed out to town again. Once she was close enough, she ducked out into the fields, coming up behind the small row of houses that were on the edge of town. Somewhere out here, she could hide it. Somewhere-
A scream caught her attention, and she forgot all about hiding anything. Her eyes caught on Thomas Weatherton's house, and her belly began to twist with the thought of something awful. She began to walk steadily towards the house, then began to run, her hair streaming out behind her.
When she came to the edge of the house, she could hear nothing from within. Laughter caught her attention, causing her to duck behind the house. Thomas emerged a few moments later, with Adam and William right behind him. They headed into town, and Isabelle crept to the door to step inside.
She'd barely set a foot in when her eyes and nose caught up with her, and she stopped, staring in horror at the scene. Her gut churned and she turned back outside to heave, nearly choking herself as she did so. When nothing more would come up, she finally turned back inside, tears streaming down her face.
Mary lay in the center of the room, clad in nothing but her bloody skin. Her face was bruised, her hands were bound, and between her legs flowed blood. Her eyes were open but sightless, the fear she'd died with still on her face.
Isabelle made her way over to the body, kneeling in the dirt slowly beside her. She tried to speak her sister's name, but nothing came out. She brushed hair tenderly from her sister's face, then reached out and closed her eyes. She hung her head, closing her own eyes and fighting to breathe.
Mary had been her responsibility. While Isabelle had been worried about her own life, Thomas had taken Mary's. She'd been selfish and foolish, and she'd gotten Mary killed. A death without dignity, with cruelty and torture committed by three men who obviously had enjoyed it.
She reached out and gathered Mary's frail, limp body to hers, resting Mary's head against her chest. “I'm sorry,” she managed to whisper, before she forced herself to stand and head back out to the field.
She laid her sister amongst the flowers in the field, carefully and tenderly arranging her body. Her own black cloak was pulled from her shoulders, and laid across her body, covering her from the world one last time.
The book was gathered, along with the herbs, and placed beside Mary. Then she turned and set out for the town once more.
She knocked on Wellington's door, watching as Clarence answered gaily, only to gasp and retreat at the sight of her. “Isabelle, what's 'appened?” she asked, staring in horror. “Did you meet th' witch?”
Isabelle stepped inside, pausing to glance at the family's single valuable item: a pewter platter to hold a tea set. It was leaned against the wall, and Isabelle could make out her own reflection in it. Her eyes looked dead and hollow, her arms, white blouse, and skirt covered in Mary's blood.
“Take your children and run,” she said, her voice unlike her usual own. When she turned back to Clarence, she could see the shock of realization in her eyes. “I'd ask you to take Mary, but they've murdered her,” she added, and the grief that swelled within her was quickly pushed down.
No tears now. It was too late.
Clarence slowly began to nod, before asking hesitantly, “May I gather th' others?”
“Yes; the women and children, take them and go,” Isabelle agreed. She sounded dead. She wondered if she really was. “Go to Oxford, someplace far. Tell them the plague took the town nearby, coming from London, so you all fled.”
“Children, come,” Clarence said, her voice steady. Five little ones peeked out from behind a wall, then hurried to their mother's side. Clarence glanced back at her, then nodded. “I've no love for what you are, but more understandin' then I'd like,” she said, then took her children and left.
Isabelle would think it was funny, later, that Clarence hadn't fought her more on saving the men, or what she had to know Isabelle would do. Perhaps Wellington had been guilty of a few sins of his own. Perhaps he'd been wicked and vile to Clarence or the children.
They were all wicked and vile in her eyes, yet it was she who was hunted with a vengeance.
If they were going to hunt her, she'd give them a reason to do it.
She stepped out into the muddy path, slowly making her way down to the center of town. Women and children ran past her, children stopping to stare before their mothers pulled them along. Isabelle ignored them all, her eyes set on the church. Up ahead, she could see the men gathered with swords, torches, and pitchforks.
She stopped in the center of the path, a single, solemn figure bathed in blood and tears and power. The men all turned, and Thomas stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear.
“She's come to us!” he said, raising his torch. “We've no further to look for our witch!” He lowered the torch to point it at her, then said, “We'll burn you for what you've done.”
“No, Thomas,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. She raised her head, her light hair falling before her face. “It'll be you who burns for what you've done. Hell will ensure that.”
She closed her eyes then, closed her fists and felt the same warmth flood through her. Gasps and yells were heard, but she blocked them out. She focused on the warmth creeping through her, slowly but steadily burning to an inferno.
When she opened her eyes, all she could see was red. “I'll burn you first,” she said, before she cast out her hand.
On a hill above the town, she watched as the flames flew into the sky. The screams of those still dying echoed in the air, accompanied by the crackle of the flames as they continued to gather.
She was covered in more than Mary's blood now. Mary had been pulled away from the destruction, along with the book and the herbs. Mary was buried now, and the book and herbs were at Isabelle's side.
“I have to say, it's a beautiful picture.”
The voice sounded foreign, an accent she'd never heard before. Isabelle slowly turned, clutching her blood stained fingers together. A woman with short, black hair moved towards her, dressed in a sinful nature. Her blouse hung off her shoulders, her breasts nearly exposed to the air. Her skirt was short, and her feet were bare. “Ruby red flames lighting the sky, punctuated by the breaths of dying men,” she continued, before closing her eyes and happily sighing. “You, my dear, have done incredible work with my book.”
Isabelle stared. “Your book,” she said. Her voice sounded rough; she'd done some screaming of her own as she'd torn Adam and William apart. Thomas she'd saved for last.
“My book,” the woman agreed, before turning to Isabelle. Her eyes were as black as the hair on her head, and Isabelle knew she should've been afraid. All she did, however, was turn her entire body towards the woman.
The woman's smile broadened. “I like you,” she said simply. “Enough that I want to make you mine. A follower to help me out. Do some more of this.”
“Why?” she asked. The woman shrugged.
“Like I said, I like your style. So...what'll it be, Isabelle?” She reached out, brushing Isabelle's blood stained hair from her face. “I'll give you anything you could want if you'll only come with me,” she breathed.
It should've been making her sick, making her recoil when this woman began to even suggest something like that between two females, but it didn't. She only felt numb, no horror, no arousal, no fear, no anger. Mary's death had been the death of her, too.
Isabelle gazed at her long and hard, before glancing behind her, to where Mary was buried. “I want Mary to live again,” she finally said. “In a time when she can find love from a good man, have children, be happy.”
“Isabelle, that's easy,” the woman said, hand reaching out to cup her face. When Isabelle didn't move, the woman smiled. “I can do that for you, but like I said, you have to come with me.”
“And I'll be yours,” Isabelle said.
“All mine,” the woman agreed, leaning in close enough to let her breasts rub against Isabelle's. Isabelle still didn't move, but the touch brought a warmth to her she didn't think she could feel anymore. She felt, and that in itself was amazing. “But the name has to go. You deserve something more royal, more dangerous, than 'Isabelle'. You'll be someone new; the name should fit.”
Isabelle turned and glanced out over the town. The screams had tapered off, but still the fire licked away at buildings and bodies.
She turned back to the woman, meeting black eyes that were close enough to see that no light shone from them. There was no going back from here. And she knew it was wrong, so wrong according to everything, but everything was burning in the little town beside her, so it didn't really matter anymore after all.
Isabelle leaned forward and crushed her mouth to hers, feeling the woman's tongue slip inside before ducking back out to lick at the blood that had splattered onto Isabelle's skin. The warmth flooded through her again, increasing with each touch from the woman.
When she pulled away, Isabelle immediately followed to keep the contact. “Well?” the woman asked, holding her at bay. “Will you follow?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said without hesitation. The warmth was already fading, and she only wanted to feel again. She stepped forward, but was once again met with resistance.
“Will you be mine?” the woman asked.
“I'll be yours,” Isabelle agreed softly. “For as long as you'll have me.”
The woman smiled. “Then Mary will have her second chance, and you will as well.” She moved her hand from keeping Isabelle back to offering to pull her in.
She didn't look at the town, now. She had eyes only for the pristine white hand in front of her. She glanced down at her own hands, blood stained, seeing them forever stained as red as the flames that kept burning. “Then I'll take my new name from what you said.”
Her bloody skin met clean skin as she took the woman's hand in her own.
“I'll be Ruby.”
---------------
A/N: I have a few more story ideas to fill in between this and when the episodes of season 3 occur, but it just never made sense to me why Ruby was helping them, you know? (You watch, and the season'll turn so she's evil and totally out for her own good.) This was my idea of why she's looking after the boys and so concerned about Dean as the older brother trying to save the younger one.
Again, this is really out of my usual range, so please let me know what you thought?
~Nebula
I also don't generally write this dark, but the story sort of called for it.
Title: And Then She Burned
Rating: R for dark themes and violence
Chapter: 1 of 1
Fandom: Original/Supernatural
Spoilers: Up through 3x09: Malleus Maleficarum
Disclaimer: What characters are mentioned, I don't own. They're Kripke's.
Summary: It starts with a book, and ends with fire.
WARNINGS: Minor character death, implied rape, gore, implied violence, sort-of OFC/sort-of OFC (woman/woman interaction, albeit briefly).
This story takes place somewhere around 1665, England. If you know my Supernatural stuff and you've enjoyed it, then PLEASE trust me and take a read. This is my spin on minor characters we've been introduced to.
Apologies in advance to my possible butchering of an English accent and to England's history concerning the Bubonic Plague. I did my best.
The book was old and black beneath her fingertips. She could feel each and every dip and curve the pattern on the front took. When she allowed her fingers to be replaced by her whole palm, she could feel a low heat, a prickling beneath her skin.
Isabelle wasn't stupid enough to open it here, though. Nor was she stupid enough to get rid of it completely. When there weren't so many church elders around, she'd take a glimpse inside.
“'Belle!” her sister called from below her. Isabelle quickly shoved the book beneath the hay and brushed off whatever was clinging to her skirt. “'Belle!” was called again, more impatiently this time.
“Give me but two moments,” Isabelle muttered, moving to the ladder. She glanced down to make sure there was no one below her, then turned to put her feet first on the wood, making her way down to the ground.
“For someone who doesn't want to smell, you're always up in that loft,” her sister's voice chastised from behind. “Really; what could be so fascinating up there? Are you building a husband out of the hay?”
Isabelle finally set foot on the dirt floor and turned around, hands on her hips. “Mary Ann, I swear to you, you have the manners of a horse.”
“Only with you,” Mary teased, before laughing. “We're going to be late to church, and Mother never would've stood for it.”
Only when Mary's back turned did Isabelle roll her eyes. It was always 'Mother' this and 'Father' that, whenever Mary wanted her way. Never mind that their parents had long been deceased, and were now buried under moss in the church yard.
Mary was already outside in the yard, hair nearly golden in the sunlight. Not as light as Isabelle's, though Isabelle wished for her sister's hair most days. Isabelle reluctantly followed, after making sure she hadn't missed any stray straw that could be clinging to her woolen skirt. Though they were poor, she always wanted to look her best for church. She didn't want to give the church elders another reason to look at her oddly, anyway. Her garden already had caught the eye of the whole community, and if her herbs hadn't been helping keep the black spots away, she more than likely would've been tried for being a witch of sorts.
She wasn't, really. She was a healer, had learned from Mother how to do things and help people. So what if she knew Latin as well as the scholars in London, or the church elders here, who'd studied abroad?
Mary was almost too far ahead of her for Isabelle to run and catch up, but when she saw the horses approaching and Mary obviously didn't, Isabelle pushed her shoes into the mud as hard as she could, hurrying forward to pull Mary out of the way. Mary gasped as she was pulled backwards, and Isabelle took a few harsh breaths before turning to the riders. “We apologize for...”
As soon as caught sight of who the riders were, however, she stopped. Thomas Weatherton smiled and tipped his hat towards her. Adam Lockson and William Bradsworth were beside him, both smiling in the same way that made her shudder. “No need for apologies, Miss Chouster,” Thomas said smoothly, before turning his gaze to Mary. He looked hungry, and Isabelle took an involuntary step in front of her sister. Thomas's eyes swung back to her, anger flickering briefly, before he pasted his smile back on. “None at all. You'll be late for church; we'd be more than happy to have you both ride with us.”
Isabelle gaped at their boldness, before shaking her head rapidly. “Thank you kindly, but no, we'll walk.”
Thomas gazed at them for a moment more, then shrugged carelessly. “Be as you wish,” was all he said, before he urged his horse onward. Grinning lecherously, Adam and William followed behind.
Isabelle shuddered and turned to Mary, who looked as white as a ghost. “How many times must I tell you to stay with me, Mary Ann?” Isabelle scolded.
“I'm a grown woman, 'Belle,” Mary said, rolling her eyes. The move put color back in her cheeks, so Isabelle didn't complain.
“But you'll always be my little sister,” Isabelle said softly, brushing hair from Mary's face. “It's my job to look out for you; it always has been. So please, don't make my task more difficult? As if I wasn't worried enough about what they're calling the Black Death upon us, and of you catching it, and then of those three who eye you like a wolf eyes a lamb-”
“Then I'll stay close, if just to soothe your nerves,” Mary said with a smile, before she turned her eyes back to the path. “We are going to be late to church, though, if we don't hurry.”
“Bossy little thing,” Isabelle muttered, but contained a grin when Mary began to giggle.
She was beginning to wonder why she went to church anymore, the way the community acted. “There is a witch among us!” had been cried from the pulpit. “We shall find her, try her, then burn her for her crimes!”
It sounded like it'd be a very fine, fair trial. Isabelle rolled her eyes, then turned to gaze at her sister. Mary was already asleep, and soundly so. Carefully and quietly Isabelle took her candle to the ladder that led to the loft.
Once she was up, she set the candle down, then began to dig through the hay. Her fingers finally brushed something solid, and with her heart beginning to race, Isabelle pulled the book back out. The heat was more this time, but not too hot. It was like the warmth of a loving embrace, the feeling of pride that grew in the chest, the love of knowing a family and home. Of being loved and adored by that family and home, and it was that feeling that urged Isabelle to open the book at long last.
She'd found it be accident, when they'd gone up to the markets in London two years before. An old book that had been tossed in a pile of rubbish, and the cover had intrigued her enough to rescue it. Gold ribbons wound around the cover, black leather surrounding the yellowed pages, and small, tiny, red gems woven here and there throughout the leather.
At the very least, she could remove the gems and gold ribbons, then fetch enough to last her and her sister for a time. When she'd touched it, though, she'd felt the warmth and something that had made the hairs on her arms stand up. There was something special about the book, something that called out to her in a way. When Mary had touched it, upon Isabelle's request, she'd merely frowned.
“It feels like a book, and a cold one at that,” she'd said. “Toss it out, 'Belle.” So she had, forgetting about it until she'd found it up in the loft a few days ago.
Her fingers trembled now as they slid beneath the heavy cover, before she pulled her hand up to open it.
Suddenly her candle went out. Isabelle gasped as the breeze picked up, slamming the book open and flipping through page after page in a dizzying sight. Finally it stopped, near the center of the book from what she could tell. The flame from her candle suddenly leapt back up, as if it'd never been blown out. Isabelle stared at it for a long, good while, then leaned forward to the text.
Symbols she'd never seen before greeted her vision. The book was written in Latin, something she understood, but still it was garbled and made no sense to her. “Fire of night”? “Rage of tempest goddess”?
It was witchcraft, and dark witchcraft, that much was obvious. Some of the ingredients called for the blood of a child, the skin of a fawn. This was something she shouldn't be touching, something she should be burning or taking to the church elders for them to do away with. She shouldn't be reading it or even looking at it.
Yet her eyes were drawn to each page, which she flipped through now with great speed. It intrigued her, all these spells, and she wondered if they worked. Most called for certain herbs, and she was surprised to find that they were herbs she herself had in her garden.
Maybe there was a reason she'd been allowed to find this book.
Her lips began to form the Latin silently beneath her breath, and the night passed on.
“Have you 'eard about th' witch, Isabelle?” called Wellington's wife when she went into the town three days later. The plump but merry woman was laying out straw near the gate Wellington had put up just two weeks before.
Isabelle stopped, then stepped over to the gate. “What witch? The witch they spoke of in church?” she asked.
The woman nodded. Clarence, that was her name. Clarence Wellington. “They say she's in the town, Isabelle! Right here, 'neath our noses! Can scarce b'lieve it.”
“What are they saying about her? Does anyone know who it is?” Isabelle pressed.
Clarence shrugged, then turned back towards her home. “'Lizbeth! You leave your brother 'lone, you hear? Michael, do help your lil' sister, dear?”
Chorused voices of agreement were heard from inside. Isabelle chuckled. “Five of them must be a handful.”
“And a blessin', that's for sure, God save 'em,” Clarence said with a sigh. “But no, none know who she is. They say she's growin' a garden wi' poison, and she's got a magic book she reads from!”
Isabelle's blood ran cold. “But they don't know who it is? I-I'd like to know, to keep watch,” she added, hoping she looked fearful for a completely different reason.
Clarence smiled and patted her arm. “There, there, dear. It'll be over soon; they're going huntin' this night for 'er.”
Tonight. Tonight. She had to hide the book, hide her garden-
“I'm glad to hear it,” Isabelle said, before bidding Clarence farewell. She made her stop in the town brief, gathering the supplies Mary would need for a good few weeks, then headed home.
She'd leave. She'd have to leave, but she knew she wouldn't make it anywhere by tonight. They'd be suspicious if she did.
But if they came hunting tonight, and it was for her...
What was she to do? What would she do about Mary?
Mary. She couldn't leave Mary. She wouldn't. It was her job to watch out for her, to keep her safe. Mary was her little sister, and she wouldn't abandon her. Not when the rest of the world had.
She made it home in record time, calling for Mary but receiving no answer. Isabelle frowned, searching the home, then the loft above. “Mary?” she called again. No answer.
Perhaps she'd gone to visit friends. That would actually be a good thing; it was nearing supper time, and once that was done, they'd surely come hunting for her.
She hurried up to the loft and found her book, which she'd been reading for the past few days. She thought she even had a few of the spells memorized, but she hadn't tried anything. A good thing, too, but it had to go now. She didn't know where to hide it, though. Back in the woods, beyond the house? No, they'd look there, too.
As she was pretending to weed her garden while secretly pulling the herbs into a pouch, the idea struck her. She'd hide them behind someone else's house. That was what she'd do. If they were coming for her, then they'd search all around her. They'd never search someone else who wasn't on their list.
It would keep Mary safe, too. And where was her sister? Supper time was nearly here; Mary was never out this late.
She'd search for Mary as she searched for the perfect hiding place for the book and herbs; that was all. She gathered up her things, pulled her black cloak around her, then headed out to town again. Once she was close enough, she ducked out into the fields, coming up behind the small row of houses that were on the edge of town. Somewhere out here, she could hide it. Somewhere-
A scream caught her attention, and she forgot all about hiding anything. Her eyes caught on Thomas Weatherton's house, and her belly began to twist with the thought of something awful. She began to walk steadily towards the house, then began to run, her hair streaming out behind her.
When she came to the edge of the house, she could hear nothing from within. Laughter caught her attention, causing her to duck behind the house. Thomas emerged a few moments later, with Adam and William right behind him. They headed into town, and Isabelle crept to the door to step inside.
She'd barely set a foot in when her eyes and nose caught up with her, and she stopped, staring in horror at the scene. Her gut churned and she turned back outside to heave, nearly choking herself as she did so. When nothing more would come up, she finally turned back inside, tears streaming down her face.
Mary lay in the center of the room, clad in nothing but her bloody skin. Her face was bruised, her hands were bound, and between her legs flowed blood. Her eyes were open but sightless, the fear she'd died with still on her face.
Isabelle made her way over to the body, kneeling in the dirt slowly beside her. She tried to speak her sister's name, but nothing came out. She brushed hair tenderly from her sister's face, then reached out and closed her eyes. She hung her head, closing her own eyes and fighting to breathe.
Mary had been her responsibility. While Isabelle had been worried about her own life, Thomas had taken Mary's. She'd been selfish and foolish, and she'd gotten Mary killed. A death without dignity, with cruelty and torture committed by three men who obviously had enjoyed it.
She reached out and gathered Mary's frail, limp body to hers, resting Mary's head against her chest. “I'm sorry,” she managed to whisper, before she forced herself to stand and head back out to the field.
She laid her sister amongst the flowers in the field, carefully and tenderly arranging her body. Her own black cloak was pulled from her shoulders, and laid across her body, covering her from the world one last time.
The book was gathered, along with the herbs, and placed beside Mary. Then she turned and set out for the town once more.
She knocked on Wellington's door, watching as Clarence answered gaily, only to gasp and retreat at the sight of her. “Isabelle, what's 'appened?” she asked, staring in horror. “Did you meet th' witch?”
Isabelle stepped inside, pausing to glance at the family's single valuable item: a pewter platter to hold a tea set. It was leaned against the wall, and Isabelle could make out her own reflection in it. Her eyes looked dead and hollow, her arms, white blouse, and skirt covered in Mary's blood.
“Take your children and run,” she said, her voice unlike her usual own. When she turned back to Clarence, she could see the shock of realization in her eyes. “I'd ask you to take Mary, but they've murdered her,” she added, and the grief that swelled within her was quickly pushed down.
No tears now. It was too late.
Clarence slowly began to nod, before asking hesitantly, “May I gather th' others?”
“Yes; the women and children, take them and go,” Isabelle agreed. She sounded dead. She wondered if she really was. “Go to Oxford, someplace far. Tell them the plague took the town nearby, coming from London, so you all fled.”
“Children, come,” Clarence said, her voice steady. Five little ones peeked out from behind a wall, then hurried to their mother's side. Clarence glanced back at her, then nodded. “I've no love for what you are, but more understandin' then I'd like,” she said, then took her children and left.
Isabelle would think it was funny, later, that Clarence hadn't fought her more on saving the men, or what she had to know Isabelle would do. Perhaps Wellington had been guilty of a few sins of his own. Perhaps he'd been wicked and vile to Clarence or the children.
They were all wicked and vile in her eyes, yet it was she who was hunted with a vengeance.
If they were going to hunt her, she'd give them a reason to do it.
She stepped out into the muddy path, slowly making her way down to the center of town. Women and children ran past her, children stopping to stare before their mothers pulled them along. Isabelle ignored them all, her eyes set on the church. Up ahead, she could see the men gathered with swords, torches, and pitchforks.
She stopped in the center of the path, a single, solemn figure bathed in blood and tears and power. The men all turned, and Thomas stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear.
“She's come to us!” he said, raising his torch. “We've no further to look for our witch!” He lowered the torch to point it at her, then said, “We'll burn you for what you've done.”
“No, Thomas,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. She raised her head, her light hair falling before her face. “It'll be you who burns for what you've done. Hell will ensure that.”
She closed her eyes then, closed her fists and felt the same warmth flood through her. Gasps and yells were heard, but she blocked them out. She focused on the warmth creeping through her, slowly but steadily burning to an inferno.
When she opened her eyes, all she could see was red. “I'll burn you first,” she said, before she cast out her hand.
On a hill above the town, she watched as the flames flew into the sky. The screams of those still dying echoed in the air, accompanied by the crackle of the flames as they continued to gather.
She was covered in more than Mary's blood now. Mary had been pulled away from the destruction, along with the book and the herbs. Mary was buried now, and the book and herbs were at Isabelle's side.
“I have to say, it's a beautiful picture.”
The voice sounded foreign, an accent she'd never heard before. Isabelle slowly turned, clutching her blood stained fingers together. A woman with short, black hair moved towards her, dressed in a sinful nature. Her blouse hung off her shoulders, her breasts nearly exposed to the air. Her skirt was short, and her feet were bare. “Ruby red flames lighting the sky, punctuated by the breaths of dying men,” she continued, before closing her eyes and happily sighing. “You, my dear, have done incredible work with my book.”
Isabelle stared. “Your book,” she said. Her voice sounded rough; she'd done some screaming of her own as she'd torn Adam and William apart. Thomas she'd saved for last.
“My book,” the woman agreed, before turning to Isabelle. Her eyes were as black as the hair on her head, and Isabelle knew she should've been afraid. All she did, however, was turn her entire body towards the woman.
The woman's smile broadened. “I like you,” she said simply. “Enough that I want to make you mine. A follower to help me out. Do some more of this.”
“Why?” she asked. The woman shrugged.
“Like I said, I like your style. So...what'll it be, Isabelle?” She reached out, brushing Isabelle's blood stained hair from her face. “I'll give you anything you could want if you'll only come with me,” she breathed.
It should've been making her sick, making her recoil when this woman began to even suggest something like that between two females, but it didn't. She only felt numb, no horror, no arousal, no fear, no anger. Mary's death had been the death of her, too.
Isabelle gazed at her long and hard, before glancing behind her, to where Mary was buried. “I want Mary to live again,” she finally said. “In a time when she can find love from a good man, have children, be happy.”
“Isabelle, that's easy,” the woman said, hand reaching out to cup her face. When Isabelle didn't move, the woman smiled. “I can do that for you, but like I said, you have to come with me.”
“And I'll be yours,” Isabelle said.
“All mine,” the woman agreed, leaning in close enough to let her breasts rub against Isabelle's. Isabelle still didn't move, but the touch brought a warmth to her she didn't think she could feel anymore. She felt, and that in itself was amazing. “But the name has to go. You deserve something more royal, more dangerous, than 'Isabelle'. You'll be someone new; the name should fit.”
Isabelle turned and glanced out over the town. The screams had tapered off, but still the fire licked away at buildings and bodies.
She turned back to the woman, meeting black eyes that were close enough to see that no light shone from them. There was no going back from here. And she knew it was wrong, so wrong according to everything, but everything was burning in the little town beside her, so it didn't really matter anymore after all.
Isabelle leaned forward and crushed her mouth to hers, feeling the woman's tongue slip inside before ducking back out to lick at the blood that had splattered onto Isabelle's skin. The warmth flooded through her again, increasing with each touch from the woman.
When she pulled away, Isabelle immediately followed to keep the contact. “Well?” the woman asked, holding her at bay. “Will you follow?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said without hesitation. The warmth was already fading, and she only wanted to feel again. She stepped forward, but was once again met with resistance.
“Will you be mine?” the woman asked.
“I'll be yours,” Isabelle agreed softly. “For as long as you'll have me.”
The woman smiled. “Then Mary will have her second chance, and you will as well.” She moved her hand from keeping Isabelle back to offering to pull her in.
She didn't look at the town, now. She had eyes only for the pristine white hand in front of her. She glanced down at her own hands, blood stained, seeing them forever stained as red as the flames that kept burning. “Then I'll take my new name from what you said.”
Her bloody skin met clean skin as she took the woman's hand in her own.
“I'll be Ruby.”
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A/N: I have a few more story ideas to fill in between this and when the episodes of season 3 occur, but it just never made sense to me why Ruby was helping them, you know? (You watch, and the season'll turn so she's evil and totally out for her own good.) This was my idea of why she's looking after the boys and so concerned about Dean as the older brother trying to save the younger one.
Again, this is really out of my usual range, so please let me know what you thought?
~Nebula