"Bring them in, quickly!" A man dressed in dark black robes hurriedly gestured at his comrades. He led them through a dank encompassment of mangrove to a small lamp-lit clearing hidden behind a thicket of swamp.
Other figures dressed in a similar manner loitered about the place, already having completed their assigned preparations.
Five wooden stakes were hoisted in a circular manner, patiently awaiting their sacrifices.
The full moon shone clearly in the sky, making the thick blanket of fog that obscured the land glow with a soft, ethereal silver light.
"Hurry up," that same voice spoke up, "...do not test the Goddess' patience."
"Right away, Father." A young man responded, who , alongside several other robed figures, led a trail of five shackled slaves behind him.
These slaves were covered in all manner of grime— their bodies bruised, blotched, and broken in various places.
With a simple glance, one could infer the agony that they had to endure. Yet, their faces showed no sense of apprehension
. It was as if they had resigned to their fate. After all, who wouldn't see death as an act of mercy after experiencing such a life?
At the very back of the line was a boy, who only wore a tattered filth-stained shirt with holes ripped through the fabric. His skin was rough and pallid, and a helping of dark, messy hair obscured his eyes.
He was the youngest of the slaves.
"Ikarus…" the woman in front of the young boy - a fellow slave dressed in the same lacklustre garments - spoke his name with a sympathetic gaze. There wasn't much she could offer him but comforting words. "It will be all over today…"
"Shut up, filth!" A robed figure reached out and smacked the woman's cheek, leaving a sour red print ingrained into her skin.
She recoiled back, stumbling into the filth and falling onto the muddy floor. The rest of the slaves felt the jostle on their chains, and patiently waited for her to get back up on her feet.
Through the whole ordeal, the woman didn't even bother to look at her attacker. Instead, her gaze was focused on Ikarus.
The searing pain that was spreading across her cheek was a mere afterthought. It couldn't compare to the agony they were set to endure later in the night.
Ikarus slowly raised his head, watching as the woman slowly rose to her feet. "Recca…" his voice was quiet enough to go unheard. He had been a slave his entire life.
He had gotten used to beatings. That much was evident on the scars lacerating his skin.
However, seeing Rebecca slapped to the ground like a misbehaving animal surged up a complex torrent of emotions. But still, there was nothing he could do. At the end of the day, he was a slave.
The slaves were all brought to the circular arrangement of stakes, where they were promptly separated and restrained. Ikarus' stake was at the apex of the clearing— it was the largest stake of the bunch, brimming with jagged kindling that prodded at his ankles.
"It's all set," the woman behind Ikarus shouted out as she tightened the fastenings that secured him onto the stake.
The other cultists nodded at her words, spreading out in a circular formatting around the clearing. The one that had been referred to as 'Father' earlier was at the forefront of the formation, standing behind Ikarus' stake.
"We are gathered here today to display our endless gratitude for our beloved Goddess, Rogue…" He got down onto his knees. "Her bountiful gifts have kept us fed and healthy in this desolate marsh for countless centuries. We will never be able to repay her graciousness… yet, we provide her with these humble offerings as a token of our unyielding love. For the Goddess!"
"For the Goddess!" The others called out in unison.
Ikarus' gaze swept over the stakes. All of his fellow slaves wore the same blank expression on their faces, except Rebecca.
Her lips were curved into a soft smile. Even in her final moments, her attention was focused on comforting Ikarus.
"Recca…" Ikarus called out again, "No." He didn't want her to die. Anyone could die, but not Rebecca. The person who had taught him how to speak. The person that had shown him how love could persevere, even in the depths of a world akin to hell.
Just then, he recalled a memory.
——————————————————————————————————————
"This one is called a sheep." Rebecca pressed at the picture book with a chipper fingernail, watching Ikarus' reaction as she traced the outline of the large, fluffy animal.
Ikarus watched her finger with parted lips, his small fingers holding onto the orange braid that fell across Rebecca's shoulder.
"Shpeep." He spoke out, sniffling as he leaned closer toward the picture book.
"That's right. It's a sheep. You can get all sorts of things from sheep, like milk and wool. When I was a little kid like you, Ikarus, I used to live on a farm."
"Farm?" Ikarus' eyes widened.
"Yes, that's right. We had a big, giant sheep like this one right here." A small wistful smile played out across Rebecca's features.
She was only a teenager at the time - fifteen years old - but the harsh reality of her condition had forced her to mature.
She had met Ikarus as a shy boy who knew nothing of the world but the evil it held. He was only five years old at the time, but he barely knew how to walk, and his body was wracked with injuries that should never have been seen on a child.
Rebecca never had a younger brother, and she had renounced her own family. She, much like Ikarus, had seen the worst the world had to offer.
Yet she endured, for his sake. Children should get to experience the bliss of childhood innocence, after all.
Ikarus had lost his innocence, yet he was still a little boy. His eyes lit up whenever she talked about the grassy plains where she used to live - though they were only a vague memory in her head - and he unintelligibly babbled and giggled in his sleep.
Night had long pressed down on the slaves' quarters. Rebecca shut her picture book. "We've been reading all day now, Ikarus. I think it's time we ought to get some sleep."
Ikarus rested his head down on Rebecca's lap, his small eyelids fluttering closed as he felt the comfortable weight of her fingers threading through his hair.
"Recca…" he breathed, "...tell more… about shpeep."
——————————————————————————————————————
"Let us begin."
A few cultists broke away from the formation, carrying lit torches in their hands. Embers flickered into the night sky, wafted away by a chilly wind that prickled the hairs on Ikarus' back.
When he saw the glowing light of the flames, the heavy weight of realisation finally settled in. Rebecca was going to die. But why - even knowing her impending doom - was she smiling? Why did her eyes still shine with that comforting light?
Would Ikarus ever feel the sensation of her fingers through his hair again?
Would he ever get to hear her soft voice, recounting the beauty of her homeland?
Would he be forced to watch as Rebecca - the only person he loved in this world - burst into flames, screaming and flailing?
"Recca!" He yelled out— this time hard enough to scratch his own throat. His legs tried to kick free, but he only managed to tear his own flesh on the kindling. "Recca! Stop! Don't!"
For the first time, Rebecca's smile began to falter.
The first stake was lit. An old woman, who had already been close to death, was engulfed by thick, orange flames. Her small body was engulfed by the inferno as a shrill scream rose up into the night.
Her blackened, charred silhouette could be made out through the torrent of heat, where flakes of melted skin were whisked away by the wind as boiling blood and pus steamed and spattered to the ground.
The cultists watched with hidden grins.
Ikarus didn't care. Everyone else in the world - including him - could burn forever if it meant that Rebecca could be saved. "RECCA!" He called out, feeling the lining of his throat begin to swell.
How much more screaming before he burst his own vocal cords? How much more flailing before he tore off his own legs?
Unable to gather coherent words, Ikarus broke out into animalistic yells, feeling tears rush down his dust-stained cheeks.
WOOSH.
Then, came another series of blood-curdling screams as the second slave was set alight. This time, it was a young man with fair skin, golden hair, and well-built proportions.
He seemed to carry the blood of a noble lineage.
He would have been considered attractive once. But after the flames engulfed him, he was left as a charred mangle of purple, cooked, scab-covered flesh
"Ikarus…" Rebecca couldn't hold back her own tears, which began to spill out from the corner of her eyes.
Her chest trembled with every breath. It took everything she had not to break down in front of Ikarus… but she could only withstand so much.
Rebecca's head sagged down as she let out a terrifying scream— snot and saliva and tears dripping from her face as her mouth contorted into an ugly shape.
"I don't want to die…" she whispered, as if saying some sort of prayer.
WOOSH.
The third slave was set alight. The cultists continued on, indifferent.
Ikarus continued with his fruitless screaming, watching as tears dripped down from Rebecca's downturned head. It felt as if his whole world was coming undone.
The fourth fire-bearer walked up to Rebecca's stake, holding out their torch toward the kindling.
Ikarus kicked his legs as hard as he could, feeling stray branches splinter and poke against his muscles.
"RECCA!" He called out in one last, sullen attempt. But it was too late. The embers drifted into the firewood, and before Ikarus knew it, Rebecca was engulfed in fire.
Whilst her body was being burnt to a crisp, she made not even the faintest sound.
Ikarus froze. He watched as Rebecca burnt away. He couldn't bear seeing her body roasted and charred. He couldn't bear seeing those eyes that looked at him with such love turn into empty hollow sockets.
He yelled out, a deluge of tears streaming down his cheeks as he jerked his whole body forward, feeling the skin of his legs tear as rope scraped his torso. None of it could compare to the pain of seeing Rebecca in such a state.
What had she done to deserve death? Why couldn't she have just stayed at her farm, with the rest of her family?
She could have been happy. She could've been comfortable. Is this truly what she was fated— does The Goddess really take pleasure in seeing her dead?
Does The Goddess take pleasure in seeing him broken?
It was all just so unfair.
The last cultist approached Ikarus' stake, carrying the final torch. Ikarus' shell-shocked face watched Rebecca's charring body, refusing to register his own impending agony.
Then, all of a sudden— a figure appeared deep within the mist. Ikarus didn't realise it, but time itself was slowed to a halt. The raging inferno that obscured Rebecca's body was frozen in place, revealing the disgusting state of her unrecognisable skin.
Ikarus felt his throat close up as a mouthful of vomit retched out of his mouth, spattering across his feet and the firewood below.
His pupils trembled violently, like his brain itself was being violently shaken.
"My, my…" A feminine figure, donned in pearlescent white robes stepped out into the clearing. Her hair was jagged and argent, flowing down to her ankles.
She didn't bother to cover up her front, revealing a mutilated and grotesque body, where her ribcage, heart and internal organs pulsated, alive and comfortably exposed to the chilly night air.
The woman brought a finger to her puckered lips as she glossed over the vomit-stained Ikarus with her eyes. "Hmm…" she hummed, "...I have an idea."