Chapter Text
It was the duty of the knights to slay the witches. That was simply how it was. William had to remind himself of that, time and time again. Every time one of the women shrieked, or begged, or prayed to a God that would not hear them, William had to take a moment to remind himself that they were monsters.
Yet it ate at him, like a worm with an apple. It tore him up inside when he watched the light fade from those eyes–those eyes that seemed innocent. Time and time again, he watched these women die. Men, too, though they were fewer and far between. It seemed that only the women of this country were ever accused of being witches; only the women that were ever executed for their crimes.
Maybe, in the back of his mind, he knew that this was wrong. Maybe he knew that this was a farce–magic couldn’t be real, after all, could it? Yet the brat King had put a price on the heads of all witches within his kingdom. William, as a knight, had to play judge, jury, and executioner.
Especially the executioner .
That was how it was, and the thoughts that plagued his mind, as he looked down at the women at his feet. Both of them had blood red hair, one with green eyes rimmed with an unholy glow of yellow, and the other with eyes more crimson than the faucets of a ruby. Sisters? He wasn’t sure. The way that they clung to one another suggested something else, but he did not allow his mind to stray too far in that direction.
“By the order of King Ciel of the House of Phantomhive, you both have been accused of witchcraft and murder. I am a Knight of the Order of the Reaper. How do you plead?”
“Plead?” the smaller of the two snapped, her flame-red eyes glaring now at William. Burning through his armor to his heart. When she smiled, it was sickly and twisted up, gathered at the edges as though her mouth wished to escape her face. “That rat bastard King–ha! He cares nothing for his own flesh and blood, nothing for–”
William cleared his throat. “I do not know what you are going on about, honestly. Answer the question so I may return home this evening. Honestly, being sent out at this time of the day, and to a village so… slight.”
The second woman–the taller one, the one with the eyes the color of sickly emeralds–twisted her mouth up into a grin worthy of the devil himself. “Tsk. You’re handsome, hm? Too bad we couldn’t have met under better circumstances, pet.”
“Don’t call me that–”
Slowly, the two women drew themselves up to their feet, still holding hands. Their fingers were locked together, intertwined like tree roots. Something bright and red dripped down from their palms. Blood.
Stifling a gasp, William took a tentative step back. Blood? Had one of them cut themselves while he was chasing them down? There were plenty of places to scrap oneself in that old hut. Plenty of broken glass shards and jagged pieces of cobblestone jutting out of the ground. Yet this blood looked too bright, too hungry.
Before he could move, the two women–no, witches –were upon him. They were singing in unison, their voices crying out into the darkening evening sky. William tried to stop them, but he found that he could not move an inch. He could breathe and blink, but that was it. Not a sound escaped him as the women pressed their bleeding palms into his eyes.
“For your crimes,” they said mockingly as their hands blinded him, as their blood dripped down into his mouth. “For your crimes against the Scarlet Sisterhood–the oath of blood and bone–a demon shall make you his home.”
Panic. William tried and tried to move, to push away, to fight, but there was nothing he could do. His body was no longer his own. At least, not for that moment. A second later, the women disappeared in a flurry of laughter, and William felt himself collapse to the floor.
Blind. He was blind–he could not see. Everything was dark and misty, as though a fog lay behind the lenses of his eyes. All that he could taste and smell was blood. It was thick and pungent, tasting sweetly of stinging copper and heat. In a way, it was almost delicious. In a way, he knew it was poison.
William did not know how long he lay upon that floor, the torn up thatched roof above him parted just enough for the moon to caress his pale skin. He did not know how many minutes or days or even years he lay blind and silent.
When he awoke, finally, he was able to move. There was light again, though it was hollow and pale. He could see, he found, but not very well. There was a sort of film over his eyes. There had to be. Everything was a blur, like looking underwater.
Slowly, he forced himself to his knees. Everything within him ached and cramped. William opened his mouth to find his voice, calling out hoarsely for help. Then again. Again. Again. He cried out until his voice no longer carried out of his throat, until he tasted blood again.
This blasted little village! Surely someone had been sent for him. He was the captain of The Order of the Reaper! One of his guards, one of his men–they had to come for him. They had to.
Yet as he knelt there, alone and half blind, William knew that no one would heed his pleas for help. He hung his head, trying to gather himself, when a shadow lay across his own.
Something watching him grinned with sharp teeth and garnet colored eyes.