A Witch Convicted

The castle walls loomed. I’d already been here a month and nobody would tell me the date of my trial. So I spent another day sitting in filth.
Witchcraft.
That was my crime. But who knew what my punishment would be, or even who accused me. They just took me from my house and dragged me to the Castle Dungeons. It was only the mutter of Witch given to me by the guard that I found out my crime.
Witchcraft was such a vague term. Did a visiting Baron think I’d bewitched them? Did a local farmer think I’d cursed their cattle? Or was it my own family accusing me of dark rituals? Maybe I’d actually find out one day.
That day came around a week later. Dancing with the Devil and cursing the Lady of the house to never bear children. I scoffed internally – her husband had done that, not me. But I held my tongue. And, as the gavel went down, the charge of guilty began to sink in.
As I sat in my cell on my final night alive, I recalled the itinerary of my death day. I was to be marched through town, with a small stop at the Golden Lion for my final pint, before heading up to Hanging Hill.
My feet felt surprisingly light as I took my final walk through the cobbled streets. Entering the inn, the barkeep nodded knowingly at the guard with me and looked down at me, wearing a soft smile,
“You’re a bit young but last rites are rites. Pick yer poison”
I smiled and picked a strong beer – I didn’t want to feel sober at the hill.  Sipping the bitter, I grimaced slightly at the taste and decided it would be better to drink it quickly and get it over with. I handed the tankard back to the barkeep who leant in slightly,
“I will pray for you” I swallowed as so to not tear up in front of my guard,
“Thank you sir” and he nodded, turning away to serve another customer as the guard led me back out onto the street.
My head, feeling light from the alcohol, floated with my feet and I followed the path up to the Hanging Hill and to where hung the rope. The guard marched me up to the tree and another I had not seen before adjusted the rope and stool. I stood up on the box and calmly accepted the abrasive hemp around my neck. I looked across the hill. Though I was a lowly Witch, I had gained quite the audience. The thought filled me with a twisted sense of pride. They would see me pass into the arms of my Creator. As they burned in Hell for their bloodlust. I held my head a little higher.
And as the command to hang rang out, I looked up at the sky and prayed alongside the barkeep. I felt gravity take a hold as I was whisked away into the whiteness. Then there was nothing. But Paradise.

Published by Hannah Rachel

I am a Writer from the North West of England with a passion for books, writing, art and everything creative.

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