♥ shootingstella wrote 'The Burning Man' for jandjsalmon 1/2 ♥
Title: The Burning Man 1/2
Author: shootingstella
Summary: I could be martyred for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that. I could die for you. -Lord Byron
Spoilers/Warnings/ Triggers: References to cutting and bloodletting, mild sexual content, character death
Author’s Note: This is in no way supposed to be a reimagining of the first season. It is its own story for a reason.
The Burning Man 1/2
Salem Massachusetts
1692
Violet Harmon was perched on the edge of her bed, eyeing the folded tent of parchment that was waiting on her dressing table.
When she couldn't bear the anticipation any longer, she made a mad dash for the note, snatching it up and flopping back into bed with the paper clutched to her chest.
She stilled her breathing and slowly unfolded the paper.
Every thought of you feels like burning to my flesh, and every inch of you is heaven to me.
I could not sleep; thoughts of your lips kept my sinful mind awake.
It was from Tate; she knew it was. He was mysterious and sneaky and he liked to express those characteristics sometimes by climbing through her window at night to leave her sea shells and flowers and declarations of his love.
She felt the blood that should be staining her cheeks rush elsewhere as thoughts of her last encounter with Tate swirled in her mind.
As she let her hand creep lower and lower towards that unholy heat between her legs, she pushed all reminders of punishment and judgment from her mind, focusing instead on how wonderful he made her feel.
Violet Harmon had been raised to be a believer, a pilgrim of the Lord, but nothing could be further from her truth.
She was born into a community that would have hung her from the gallows just for the thoughts in her head.
The people around her wore her last nerve, blind sheep being lead around by their minister.
These people spent their lives surrendering their humanity in hopes of eternal salvation but she pitied them because a life free of sin wasn't very free at all.
Violet didn’t know how she would escape but she knew that one day she would need to, because this was not where she belonged.
For now though, she had to make do with the small freedoms she could enjoy behind closed doors.
Despite the fact that she had no idea what she was doing, she kept at it; relying on instinct and repeating whatever felt best until she was crumpling the letter in her hand; finally cumming in an explosion of his words and his eyes and dreams of his touch.
In all honesty it was a miracle that she had even found Tate; some days she went so far as too wonder if he was a gift from that God she barely believed in.
Their flirtation, or courtship, started out innocently enough. It had been a downright proper romance filled with walks around the edge of the forest and his smiling eyes, always already looking at her when she sought him out in a crowd.
But after a few months, they each began to slip up, usually in turn and raising the stakes just a bit higher each time.
During their last meeting, she wound up pressed in between a tree and his body, his hands sliding down her sides to grasp at her hips, while he whispered soft words in her ear. The way her breath blew hot and ragged across his neck should have left him without a doubt in his mind that she wanted more, and his letter confirmed the same for her.
His letter....
It was the type of thing that could land him in the stocks if anyone ever got their hands on it.
She hurried out of her dressing clothes and into something more suitable for chores, practically flying down the stairs and tossing the note into the open flue on the stove.
She watched it smolder into ash while she busied herself with the tea kettle.
Once she was satisfied that the evidence was destroyed and they were both safe, she took her tea and a seat at the table opposite her father.
Ben Harmon was a large intimidating man, a beacon of godliness in the community with a bitter and cold undertone that only his wife and child were privy too.
He was prone to hissy fits; never a sound the neighbors could overhear, but a silent tirade of rage that could have broken the strongest woman's spirit in two.
That being said, it usually left Vivien Harmon in shambles.
Ben's most recent explosion came on the heels of his political failure, when his campaign for assistant magistrate was cut off at the knees by Charles Montgomery. It was no secret in the town that Doctor Montgomery had his problems, namely an ether addiction and a wandering eye. Ben Harmon saw him as a charlatan and a threat to the righteous path he worked so hard to keep this town on.
Soon after this blow up, as a result of some obligatory gesture of reconciliation, her mother became pregnant for the eighth time in her life.
Everything was happiness and hope in the Harmon household for nine peaceful months, until Vivien gave birth to her seventh stillborn two days earlier.
It really was a shame, because there was a time when Vivien had been a wonderful mother; kind and warm and nurturing, but too much tragedy had left her a shell of her former self.
After Violet was born, Vivien had known only the heartache of losing children.
“How's Mother today?” Violet asked quietly, ignoring the breakfast set out in front of her.
“She's in bed, and she is not fit for visitors. Finish your tea and get on with your errands.”
Violet nodded, smirking inwardly as she considered hurling the cup at Ben Harmon's disgusting face.
The shock, the blood, and her eventual hanging that would surely ensue were enough to keep her mouth shut and her posture relaxed.
She drained her cup and fetched her basket, leaving without another word.
--
Once the door closed behind Violet, Ben Harmon pushed his nose out of The Good Book and his chair away from the table.
He knocked twice on Vivien's door but heard only whimpers in response. He entered and found her lying in the fetal position, sweltering beneath a thin sheet, soaked in equal amounts of tears and sweat.
“Vivien,” he said, without enough compassion in his voice. “You need to stop this.”
“If you’re going to mock me, just leave Ben!” she whined, before pulling the sheet up over her head, trying to disappear.
She was delusional in his opinion, deciding that seven still-births were too many to be natural. She was certain that dark forces were at play here. But the way she was acting, thrashing about and screaming made her seem more like a woman possessed than an innocent victim.
It was a dangerous game she was playing here, if anyone else saw her, she would be locked up for sure; maybe even put to death.
For the sake of his reputation, he could not allow his wife to be taken away.
He needed to either eliminate or validate her insanity, and he could only think of one way to do that.
This was something he had been praying about for the past forty eight hours; begging and pleading over. The pages of his Bible were wrinkled and damp to match his brow.
Lying was sinful.
Making false accusations was sinful.
But he needed to make things right, and he needed to remember that his wife’s hysteria, like everything else, was a message, maybe even a gift, from The Lord.
He needed to use it, for the sake of his community.
He took a deep breath, reassuring himself once more that any personal gains his actions might award him were unintentional and sat down on the side of his wife’s bed.
“It was that blasted Montgomery woman wasn’t it dear?” he asked in a soft whisper with a hand on her shoulder.
“I see the way she gives you the evil eye when we go into town. She’s unable to have children; I bet she did it out of jealousy.”
Suddenly Vivien was climbing out of bed, hanging onto his forearms just like she was hanging on his every word. She was so desperate to be listened to and understood that she would have gobbled up any accusation like a starving man.
Ben simply nodded along with his own words, vaguely aware of his wife’s reaction, but mostly focusing on the way Charles Montgomery would fall from grace once word got out of his wife’s bad habits. Then the position of assistant magistrate would be his.
--
Tate came staggering down the creaky wooden stairs and into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It was a quarter to noon and the women at the kitchen table clicked their tongues at him for sleeping so late.
His mother, Constance Langdon, the town’s midwife was sitting at the head of the table. To her left Billie Dean was cutting the deck of tarot cards and to her right Nora Montgomery was absent mindedly staring into a teacup filled with dregs.
“Out all night stirring up trouble?” Constance asked in a mischievous tone.
Tate pressed his lips together looking innocent, before assuring her that he never left his bed.
“Everyone in this room is perfectly aware of the fact that you’venever needed to.”
Tate smirked as he filled the kettle with water and placed it on the hearth.
Nora reached out for him and he walked into her embrace, peering into her cup and winking in response to whatever he apparently saw in there.
She giggled, remarking for the hundredth time how tall he was, and how she remembered when he couldn't see what was on the table in front of him.
He smiled and pulled up a chair next to hers so they could pour over her cup like they used to when he was a boy.
Nora had been like a second mother to Tate while he was growing up.
Well, no. If he was being honest, Constance had been like a second mother to him, because her pathetic excuse for child rearing paled in comparison to what Nora had done for him.
Constance used him, and would have kept using him until he was all used up if it hadn’t been for Nora.
She stepped in, too many times to count, and reminded Constance that Tate was a child, not just a tool.
It didn’t take long for the focus of the room to shift from Tate’s astral gallivanting to Billie Dean who was beginning to lay down her cards.
She turned over the first card; Judgment.
She and Nora exchanged looks.
The second; The Devil.
Constance sighed and drew in a long sip of what Tate knew was a lot stronger than earl grey.
And the third; The Hanged Man.
“Well then,” Tate said as he pushed away from the table to fetch the whistling kettle.
Before they could begin a much needed discussion about the significance of those cards, a knock at the door startled them all.
Tate was quick to pour some hot water into Nora’s cup, splashing away any trace of her divinations and Billie Dean collected her cards, burying them deep in her corset.
Constance tossed back her last sip of ‘tea’ and rose to open the door.
Outside, the Constable was standing beside an open wagon drawn by two sickly looking horses.
The prison carriage.
“We’re here to collect Nora Montgomery,” he said without any emotion.
“On what charges?” Tate demanded in an attempt to seem innocent through ignorance.
“Accusations of witchcraft,” the man answered harshly while he obviously sized up the situation in front of him.
It was accepted, it was unavoidable to some extent, but it still knocked the air out of the room. The women were lucky that Tate was home, because three unrelated women sitting alone in a kitchen, even though only one was being accused, would have landed them all in the stocks.
Tate tried to physically interfere as the man took Nora roughly by the arm and pulled her through the door, but Constance stopped him with nails that bit into his bicep.
When the door clicked behind his beloved aunt and the scum that took her away, he turned his rage on the other women.
“What is wrong with the two of you? How could you allow them to just take her?” he bellowed, shaking the house, but they didn’t flinch. They were used to his temper by now.
Billie Dean sighed deeply as she began sipping from Nora’s forgotten tea cup, probably eager to get to the bottom and look for clues.
Constance simply smoothed out the puckered dents that her nails had left in Tate’s shirt and spoke to him softly like she would an angry child.
“You know that we can’t risk exposing anyone else.”
His entire body stayed rigid, angry breaths puffing from his nose.
“And you know better than anyone else, that we can do more from the kitchen, than a team of wigs could manage from a courtroom.”
This was something he was willing to accept, and with a sullen nod he pulled away from his mother and headed out to the stables but not without a silent promise to himself that if the women didn’t handle this, he would make things right himself, like he so often found himself doing.
--
After an hour or so trying to clear his mind with chores, Tate realized that his dismal disposition wasn’t going anywhere. Leaving the rest of his work for later, he headed off into the woods hoping to find Violet.
She never failed to improve his day.
--
Tate walked straight into the middle of the town where the outdoor market dominated the majority of the square. He noticed her right away, filling her basket at one of the grocer’s stands.
He stayed about ten paces behind her, waiting for her to notice him on her own. He wondered if he was giving her that eerie sensation that can only be described as ‘being watched’.
He must have been, because he watched her head pick up from the strawberries she had been so intently focused on, and swivel in each direction until she spotted him.
Her reaction to seeing him was such pure excitement and joy that he had to laugh.
She whipped back around and finished paying for her fruit; he saw the way her movements were rushed now that she was eager to get to him.
He leaned casually against the wooden post of the blacksmith’s stall waiting for her to join him.
He only took his eyes off of her for a second, but when he looked back up, she was disappearing into the crowd away from him.
He lurched forward, unable to understand why she was leaving, but just in time, she turned her face towards him and gave him her best ‘come follow me’ look as she took off towards the outskirts of town and the impending forest.
She wanted him to follow her, and it made his gut twist up in the best kind of knots as he pushed away from his post and took off after her.
She weaved through the crowd, looking back coyly every so often, always seeming pleased when she saw he was following behind her.
When she finally made it through the crowd and into the clearing before the forest, she didn’t hesitate, but kept running; ducking behind trees and bushes to hide from him.
Outside the market, there were no clumsy bodies or curious eyes to keep his pace slow and careful, so he was closing in on her.
She swore under her breath when she reached a solid wall of rock formation, stretching at least twenty feet to either side of her and ascending upwards at too steep an angle to climb.
The chase was over and he proved it when he came to a quick and sudden stop against her, forcing her backwards into the stone.
She let her grocery basket slip from her fingers and land besides her feet as he pinned her wrists to the rock behind them.
“This isn't appropriate behavior,” she stated between gasping breaths.
She was stating the truth but she made no effort to free herself from his grip.
“Says who?” he whispered, his breathe still coming in labored puffs, warm and heavy against her neck.
“The law,” she answered vaguely, stifling a shiver.
“The petty laws of man don't matter out here Violet.”
He pulled back a few inches from her face so that he could look into her eyes while he spoke. “This is not the land of magistrates and ministers.”
She smiled; his words never failed to give her hope for a world beyond what she knew.
“There are more powerful forces in the forest then small boys playing dress up in wigs and overcoats.”
“What kinds of forces?”
“Good ones…. And ones that are dark.”
She was hanging on his every word.
“Magical forces Violet.”
“That's madness!” she exclaimed, shattering the glorious self-image that her previously rapt attention had built for him.
“You don't believe in magic?”
“Of course not.”
“Well do you believe in your father's religion? In his god?”
Despite all of the intimate moments they had shared, this one made Violet feel the most vulnerable. This was more dangerous than their little affair.
“I don't believe in much,” she answered simply, trying to keep it vague.
“Do you believe in me?” he asked.
Violet laughed, “No! Sometimes I think I've made you up.”
Tate was bringing his face closer to hers again; the importance of their conversation had past, her insulting disbelief was forgotten, and an opportunity for contact was presenting itself. “I'm here. I’ll always be here.”
“Show me?” her voice was tiny but she was angling her face towards his with all the confidence in the world.
He whispered her name as he released his grip on her wrists, sliding his hands up her arms and over her shoulders.
One climbed up her neck and the other wrapped around to the small of her back to hold her away from the wall and closer to him.
He kissed her cheek first, something they had done before, something that, while exhilarating, was familiar to her. He moved slowly, mildly aware that he might scare her away, pressing his lips into the very corner of her mouth.
Another kiss, closer to the center of her mouth, and she still showed no signs of running.
Finally his nose brushed against hers as their lips met full force.
She parted her lips and let him in, wondering how she could have gone so long without this.
--
Tate and Violet parted ways in the woods behind the Harmon estate. He left her with lips raw and swollen like bee stings from his relentless sucking and biting while she left him with the her taste on his tongue and a dull unsatisfied ache in his core.
The concept of ever really getting enough Violet was ridiculous but today gave him an idea of just how badly he needed her... more of her, all of her.
She was different, special even, the kind of person who could understand things that were outside the accepted normal of their world.
Lucky for him since he was far from normal.
If he hadn't gotten so distracted by her lips and her breath and her hands climbing up his bare back… and that ache was flaring again; angry for letting her leave him for even a second. But he needed to ignore it because if he hadn't gotten so distracted then maybe he would have been able to show her other things. Things that she would be able to feel and touch and believe in; the kind of things he dabbled in and had been steeping in since his birth.
It was important to him, despite the way it bound him to his bloodsucker of a mother, he valued his gifts above all else and he needed so badly for someone to understand them.
To understand him.
--
“I have a feeling that you aren’t being honest with me Billie,” Constance snapped as she paced nervously between the kitchen and sitting room.
Billie Dean was blowing out the candles in the center of the table and scrubbing at the intersecting chalk lines that had been drawn around them. “Not everything that needs to be told, needs to be heard.”
“Don’t give me that line of rubbish you reserve for the dammed and the dying,” Constance hollered, coming to an abrupt stop the second she heard her own words.
“Me?” She asked spinning around on her heal to face Billie.
“Not you,” Billie assured with an eye roll because Constance Langdon's first concern was always Constance Langdon.
“You? Nora? One of the other women?”
“No it's no one in the coven.”
“Then why should I ca-”
Billie Dean covered her eyes to avoid having to watch the painful realization dawn across her friend's face.
“No. Not Tate.”
She was clutching her chest and sinking into the nearest chair.
“Not my boy.”
Billie was shaking her head regretfully.
“When will it happen? Can we prevent it?”
“No. I haven't even seen how it will happen. We can’t prevent something we don’t expect.”
“You are a fool if you think I will stand by idly while he dies!”
“If we act, we could do more harm than good Constance. This is why I don’t tell people when I see misfortune in their futures. Desperate men make too many mistakes.”
Constance was silent.
She rose to her feet again. "If we cannot prevent it, will you at least let me prepare for it?”
Billie Dean had made her way across the room and was fishing a flask out from a dusty cabinet, pouring them each a teacup of tranquility
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“If we are unable to stop his death, we need to be sure that our powers won’t die with him.”
“I thought of that, but how can we possibly…”
“We’ll just have to hope that his gifts are transferable, the same way his fathers were,” Constance said with a grimace.
Billie sighed, “Where the hell are we going to find a virgin in this town?”
--
Violet didn't get home until the sun had already begun to set but things were finally beginning to look brighter.
Her hands had finally found where they belonged running across the skin beneath Tate's shirt and she couldn't help hoping that the rest of her body might join them soon.
She was giggling to herself in the kitchen, washing off whatever strawberries were left after her and Tate's make out session had dissolved into snack time, when an unfamiliar voice startled her.
“Leave those Miss Harmon, I'll be taking care of that now.”
She spun around to see an older woman with brilliant red hair and one vacant eye brewing a cup of tea.
“Who are you?” Violet asked, completely forgetting her manners.
The woman smiled tightly, “My name is Moira, I'm here to help your mother run the home while she recovers.”
“Oh,” Violet responded, not sure if the new help hinted towards an improvement or a decline in her mother's state of wellness.
“Why don't you take this in to her? She's just recently rejoined the living,” the older woman said, this time with a hint of compassion and Violet was relived, taking the tea cup into the sitting room where she saw her mother sitting in a rocking chair, happily knitting and humming to herself.
Ben was sitting across from her, reading the newspaper for a jovial change in material and as Violet sat down in her usual chair with her own needle point, for a moment, everything was perfect.
--
Tate rushed into his house with a flurry of excited energy, and found his mother and Billie Dean almost exactly where he had left them.
They both greeted him with sad, quiet little noises of acknowledgment; it made him stop short, forgetting all the joys of Violet, to examine them further.
Constance had bags under her eyes that hadn’t been there earlier this morning, and Billie Dean was stirring her tea absent-mindedly, looking like a dog that had just gotten the stick.
“Bad news?” he asked, taking an apple off the counter top and polishing it on his shirt.
Billie Dean just grimaced and tried to wave him and his questions away.
He quickly gulped down the bite he had just taken, “Is it about Nora?”
This made Billie Dean smiled a bit, despite her current melancholy mood. As cut and dry and Constance’s concerns were, Tate’s were even more predictable. It was probably the reason he reacted so poorly when Constance brushed off his question like it had been ridiculous and told him that he shouldn’t worry himself with such petty things.
The look in his eyes was pure rage as he began stepping back, away; putting as much space in between himself and his mother as he possibly could.
Billie Dean watched him leave through the back door, and all she could do was silently pray that he wasn’t going to make any mistakes that would cost him his life.
--
Once he was deep in the forest, Tate quickly located the dead hollowed out tree that the women used to store their magical tools.
He pulled out his mother’s crystals and Billie Dean’s Spirit Board, loading them into his bag and making his way to the clearing.
Once the five crystals were arranged and connected with chalk lines, he set himself and the board in the center.
Before he could do anything to help Nora, he would need to get some information. He was actually impressed with himself; thinking before acting. It was very out of character, but a situation like this called for it, especially since he was working alone.
He needed to know who had accused her and what the best way to get revenge might be.
Tate slowly lowered himself into a trance like state, letting the sounds of nature take over his mind and body.
His hands moved to the paddle instinctively and with a crack of his neck, he felt himself become taken by the spirits in the forest.
He watched as they moved his hands for him, answering all of his questions and slowly filling his dormant mind with a dull sense of panic.
In time, the spirits retracted and the fuzzy edges around his vision cleared. The sounds of the forest started to tinkle in, losing all traces of their former distortion, but he couldn’t appreciate them. He simply fell backwards onto the bare earth behind him; exhausted and completely miserable.
He knew everything now, and he wished he could erase it from his mind. He knew about Vivien’s miscarriage, he knew that Nora had truly been the one to cause it. He knew about Ben Harmon’s lies and coercion and selfish intentions disguised by devout nonsense.
He also knew that Violet was their daughter, and that no matter how much he craved her understanding, he needed to choose here and now between her love and his responsibilities.
Should he remain loyal to the woman who had been so much of a mother to him, or let everything go; let that horrible man walk free, coming out on top of his pathetic scheme.
Was Violet enough of a reason to turn his back on the coven? Maybe.
But trying to keep them both would only endanger her. He had wanted to show her his world once, but his world was quickly becoming something that he would be ashamed to let her see.
He had done bad things before of course, hurt people; good people. But the thought of betraying Violet’s trust, trust she so freely gave him as he hurt the people she loved, it turned his gut.
He wanted her acceptance so desperately, but after tonight it would be too much to ask, even from her contemporary mind.
He needed to let her go, before she dragged him any further away from his responsibilities, and before he could drag her into hell.
He returned the tools to their hiding place and headed home; he had work to do, but he wouldn’t need to go far.
--
Constance said a silent prayer of thanks when she got home that night and found Tate already asleep. She wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to have this conversation with him at the moment. His features looked drawn and she tried not to dwell on the possibility of his dropping dead from sheer exhaustion. That would be her fault and no one else’s.
After this, if he escaped his grim fate, perhaps she would make an effort to go easier on him.
She closed his bedroom door tight, a meager gesture of parental protection and headed off to bed.
--
He never needed to leave his bed.
Violet was asleep when he found her; she looked so calm, so peaceful.
That was how she deserved to be, always.
He stepped softly over to her desk, fishing a piece of crumpled parchment out of his pocket and smoothing it out against the wooden surface.
With a borrowed pencil, he scrawled the only words he could think of that would make letting her go okay.
Could he finish it with a simply written ‘goodbye’, could he get away with leaving it at that?
No, he decided she deserved more.
She was about to take away his choice anyway; waking with a start, and then starting again once she saw the boy in her room.
After the general shock wore off, she pulled herself up into a seated position with a big smile on her face.
“I caught you, finally!” she was whispering with as much excitement as she could manage, but when all he gave her in return was a sad, weak smile, her expression fell.
“What’s wrong?”
“Violet,” he whispered, his voice was thick with emotion, “Something’s changed Violet, for me.”
She tipped her head to the side, but even as he dropped his chin to his chest, he knew she was staring at him. He could feel her eyes burning into the crown of his head.
“I’ve, I’ve done things, bad things. And I need to leave you alone from now on.”
She was scrambling to meet him at the edge of her bed, “That’s not what I want though Tate.”
“It’s not what I want either,” he admitted shaking her hand off of him, “But it’s for the best and that’s what I care about. All I can afford to care about.”
Her tears spilled over once he rejected her touch and the words that followed sent her retreating back towards her pillow.
“I love you Violet, and I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you. Not even me.”
He saw the way she recoiled into herself; elbows locked into her palms and shoulders trying to swallow up her neck. She wasn’t okay right this second, but he knew she would be.
She would be fine without him and without her; he could be himself, no matter what that meant.
Tate crossed the room slowly fingering the note on her desk softly before making a show about climbing onto the window ledge. She watched him as he ‘climbed down’ but he simply let himself fall, waking up the next second with an imagined thud in his own bed.
He was only half done for the night.
--
Constance Langdon rolled over in bed, sandwiching her head in between the folds of her pillow. The sun wasn’t up yet but there was a persistent booming coming from outside her window. It continued for another two minutes, showing no sign of stopping, so she reluctantly rolled out of bed and into a dressing gown. A sleepy stumble sent her colliding with her window ledge. She gasped as her front half lurched over the sill, but when she saw what was beneath her, she dissolved into a groan.
She swore under her breath as her bare feet stomped down the stairs.
“Tate!” she hissed once she reached the backyard.
He looked up from his work, startled like some kind of wild animal.
His eyes were crazy and she instinctively took a step back from him until he let the axe fall from his hand.
“What are you doing dear?” she asked, adjusting her tone to handle what looked to her like a volatile situation.
He shrugged as he looked down at the weeks-worth of fire wood he had just chopped, “Couldn’t sleep.”
He picked the axe up again and brought it down swiftly on the chunk of wood left on the block.
Constance jumped, but collected herself quickly.
“Anything planned?” he asked her suddenly, almost hopefully and it startled her more than the swing of his ax.
“What do you mean Tate?”
He walked past her and tugged his shirt off the fence post, pulling it on. “You know what I mean. Any work planned?”
His tone was oddly agreeable.
“Well, there is one ritual, coming up, next full moon. We would greatly appreciate your help.”
Sometimes Constance couldn’t even blame herself for manipulating the people around her when they made it so damn easy all the time.
“Great,” he said with a hollow tone of satisfaction. This is what he needed. If he was going to turn his back on everything, living only for the craft, then he would need to submerge himself. Fully.
“Don’t you want to know what we’re doing before you agree to it?”
“Are you going to sacrifice me to the gods?” his voice held a note of humor but in all seriousness, it was an honest question.
Constance shook her head violently, “No, nothing of that sort.”
“Well then just tell me when and where.”
He noticed the way his mother’s jaw had fallen to the floor, “What?” he asked with a smirk.
“I just wasn’t expecting you to be so compliant.”
He shrugged, “I have a responsibility to the coven.”
She gaped at him, trying to figure out if he was being serious or not.
“And I need to start acting like it.”
--
When Violet woke up the next morning, she had a brief moment of oblivious bliss. But as soon as she rolled over and felt the dampness that was soaking her pillow the heartbreak of the night before came rushing back to the forefront of her mind.
Had he really even been here?
Could it have all been just a dream?
There was a familiar tent of parchment on her desk; Violet stumbled out of bed, reaching for it through bleary vision.
The finality of the sentiment on the paper confirmed her worst fears and sent her reeling into a fit of hysterics.
I love you,
Goodbye.
Violet fell to the floor with a thud. Not even Tate wanted her; she was too dark, wicked, and wrong for him. She should have known; shouldn’t have hoped that he was different, different enough to love her.
With her arms wrapped around her knees, she settled her cheek against her knees to cry it out.
It wasn't until she choked on a particularly vicious sob that she realized she was all alone.
Not in the scheme of things she guessed, but at the moment.
She had been carrying on like a child for the last fifteen minutes and neither of her parents had come to find her and scold her or perhaps comfort her.
Violet dried her tears on her sleeve and poked her head around her bedroom doorway.
Silence, but then a loud noise; it sounded like furniture moving.
She crept closer to the stairway where should could hear more, men’s voices.
Her father’s, but then another unfamiliar one drifted up the stairs.
Quick and quiet steps carried her down the stairs and into the small hall space before the kitchen where she stood for a few moments.
The strange man was arguing with her father, “Your wife’s death was no accident Mr. Harmon.”
Violet’s blood ran cold.
Was her mother dead?
“This was not my doing! How could you accuse me of such a thing? I love my wife!”
Violet, feeling not so much brave, as just unbearably curious, peaked around the corner of the wall to see what was going on.
The constable, Officer Warwick, a man she had only seen a few times around town, was bending her father over the kitchen table to tie his hands behind his back.
“Like I said Mr. Harmon, her death was no accident, and we know the kind of trouble she’s been giving you lately. You were alone in your chambers with her all night, and morning found her dead. You’re our only suspect.”
Violet retreated back up to her room as the Constable laughed darkly at her father’s misfortune and insistence of innocence.
As Violet sunk down onto the floor besides her bed, the sounds of Ben being hustled out the door and into the prison carriage poured in through her window.
She couldn’t cry though, she didn’t feel sad.
She didn’t feel anything.
She was only alone.
( The Burning Man 2/2 )
Author: shootingstella
Summary: I could be martyred for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that. I could die for you. -Lord Byron
Spoilers/Warnings/ Triggers: References to cutting and bloodletting, mild sexual content, character death
Author’s Note: This is in no way supposed to be a reimagining of the first season. It is its own story for a reason.
The Burning Man 1/2
Salem Massachusetts
1692
Violet Harmon was perched on the edge of her bed, eyeing the folded tent of parchment that was waiting on her dressing table.
When she couldn't bear the anticipation any longer, she made a mad dash for the note, snatching it up and flopping back into bed with the paper clutched to her chest.
She stilled her breathing and slowly unfolded the paper.
Every thought of you feels like burning to my flesh, and every inch of you is heaven to me.
I could not sleep; thoughts of your lips kept my sinful mind awake.
It was from Tate; she knew it was. He was mysterious and sneaky and he liked to express those characteristics sometimes by climbing through her window at night to leave her sea shells and flowers and declarations of his love.
She felt the blood that should be staining her cheeks rush elsewhere as thoughts of her last encounter with Tate swirled in her mind.
As she let her hand creep lower and lower towards that unholy heat between her legs, she pushed all reminders of punishment and judgment from her mind, focusing instead on how wonderful he made her feel.
Violet Harmon had been raised to be a believer, a pilgrim of the Lord, but nothing could be further from her truth.
She was born into a community that would have hung her from the gallows just for the thoughts in her head.
The people around her wore her last nerve, blind sheep being lead around by their minister.
These people spent their lives surrendering their humanity in hopes of eternal salvation but she pitied them because a life free of sin wasn't very free at all.
Violet didn’t know how she would escape but she knew that one day she would need to, because this was not where she belonged.
For now though, she had to make do with the small freedoms she could enjoy behind closed doors.
Despite the fact that she had no idea what she was doing, she kept at it; relying on instinct and repeating whatever felt best until she was crumpling the letter in her hand; finally cumming in an explosion of his words and his eyes and dreams of his touch.
In all honesty it was a miracle that she had even found Tate; some days she went so far as too wonder if he was a gift from that God she barely believed in.
Their flirtation, or courtship, started out innocently enough. It had been a downright proper romance filled with walks around the edge of the forest and his smiling eyes, always already looking at her when she sought him out in a crowd.
But after a few months, they each began to slip up, usually in turn and raising the stakes just a bit higher each time.
During their last meeting, she wound up pressed in between a tree and his body, his hands sliding down her sides to grasp at her hips, while he whispered soft words in her ear. The way her breath blew hot and ragged across his neck should have left him without a doubt in his mind that she wanted more, and his letter confirmed the same for her.
His letter....
It was the type of thing that could land him in the stocks if anyone ever got their hands on it.
She hurried out of her dressing clothes and into something more suitable for chores, practically flying down the stairs and tossing the note into the open flue on the stove.
She watched it smolder into ash while she busied herself with the tea kettle.
Once she was satisfied that the evidence was destroyed and they were both safe, she took her tea and a seat at the table opposite her father.
Ben Harmon was a large intimidating man, a beacon of godliness in the community with a bitter and cold undertone that only his wife and child were privy too.
He was prone to hissy fits; never a sound the neighbors could overhear, but a silent tirade of rage that could have broken the strongest woman's spirit in two.
That being said, it usually left Vivien Harmon in shambles.
Ben's most recent explosion came on the heels of his political failure, when his campaign for assistant magistrate was cut off at the knees by Charles Montgomery. It was no secret in the town that Doctor Montgomery had his problems, namely an ether addiction and a wandering eye. Ben Harmon saw him as a charlatan and a threat to the righteous path he worked so hard to keep this town on.
Soon after this blow up, as a result of some obligatory gesture of reconciliation, her mother became pregnant for the eighth time in her life.
Everything was happiness and hope in the Harmon household for nine peaceful months, until Vivien gave birth to her seventh stillborn two days earlier.
It really was a shame, because there was a time when Vivien had been a wonderful mother; kind and warm and nurturing, but too much tragedy had left her a shell of her former self.
After Violet was born, Vivien had known only the heartache of losing children.
“How's Mother today?” Violet asked quietly, ignoring the breakfast set out in front of her.
“She's in bed, and she is not fit for visitors. Finish your tea and get on with your errands.”
Violet nodded, smirking inwardly as she considered hurling the cup at Ben Harmon's disgusting face.
The shock, the blood, and her eventual hanging that would surely ensue were enough to keep her mouth shut and her posture relaxed.
She drained her cup and fetched her basket, leaving without another word.
--
Once the door closed behind Violet, Ben Harmon pushed his nose out of The Good Book and his chair away from the table.
He knocked twice on Vivien's door but heard only whimpers in response. He entered and found her lying in the fetal position, sweltering beneath a thin sheet, soaked in equal amounts of tears and sweat.
“Vivien,” he said, without enough compassion in his voice. “You need to stop this.”
“If you’re going to mock me, just leave Ben!” she whined, before pulling the sheet up over her head, trying to disappear.
She was delusional in his opinion, deciding that seven still-births were too many to be natural. She was certain that dark forces were at play here. But the way she was acting, thrashing about and screaming made her seem more like a woman possessed than an innocent victim.
It was a dangerous game she was playing here, if anyone else saw her, she would be locked up for sure; maybe even put to death.
For the sake of his reputation, he could not allow his wife to be taken away.
He needed to either eliminate or validate her insanity, and he could only think of one way to do that.
This was something he had been praying about for the past forty eight hours; begging and pleading over. The pages of his Bible were wrinkled and damp to match his brow.
Lying was sinful.
Making false accusations was sinful.
But he needed to make things right, and he needed to remember that his wife’s hysteria, like everything else, was a message, maybe even a gift, from The Lord.
He needed to use it, for the sake of his community.
He took a deep breath, reassuring himself once more that any personal gains his actions might award him were unintentional and sat down on the side of his wife’s bed.
“It was that blasted Montgomery woman wasn’t it dear?” he asked in a soft whisper with a hand on her shoulder.
“I see the way she gives you the evil eye when we go into town. She’s unable to have children; I bet she did it out of jealousy.”
Suddenly Vivien was climbing out of bed, hanging onto his forearms just like she was hanging on his every word. She was so desperate to be listened to and understood that she would have gobbled up any accusation like a starving man.
Ben simply nodded along with his own words, vaguely aware of his wife’s reaction, but mostly focusing on the way Charles Montgomery would fall from grace once word got out of his wife’s bad habits. Then the position of assistant magistrate would be his.
--
Tate came staggering down the creaky wooden stairs and into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It was a quarter to noon and the women at the kitchen table clicked their tongues at him for sleeping so late.
His mother, Constance Langdon, the town’s midwife was sitting at the head of the table. To her left Billie Dean was cutting the deck of tarot cards and to her right Nora Montgomery was absent mindedly staring into a teacup filled with dregs.
“Out all night stirring up trouble?” Constance asked in a mischievous tone.
Tate pressed his lips together looking innocent, before assuring her that he never left his bed.
“Everyone in this room is perfectly aware of the fact that you’venever needed to.”
Tate smirked as he filled the kettle with water and placed it on the hearth.
Nora reached out for him and he walked into her embrace, peering into her cup and winking in response to whatever he apparently saw in there.
She giggled, remarking for the hundredth time how tall he was, and how she remembered when he couldn't see what was on the table in front of him.
He smiled and pulled up a chair next to hers so they could pour over her cup like they used to when he was a boy.
Nora had been like a second mother to Tate while he was growing up.
Well, no. If he was being honest, Constance had been like a second mother to him, because her pathetic excuse for child rearing paled in comparison to what Nora had done for him.
Constance used him, and would have kept using him until he was all used up if it hadn’t been for Nora.
She stepped in, too many times to count, and reminded Constance that Tate was a child, not just a tool.
It didn’t take long for the focus of the room to shift from Tate’s astral gallivanting to Billie Dean who was beginning to lay down her cards.
She turned over the first card; Judgment.
She and Nora exchanged looks.
The second; The Devil.
Constance sighed and drew in a long sip of what Tate knew was a lot stronger than earl grey.
And the third; The Hanged Man.
“Well then,” Tate said as he pushed away from the table to fetch the whistling kettle.
Before they could begin a much needed discussion about the significance of those cards, a knock at the door startled them all.
Tate was quick to pour some hot water into Nora’s cup, splashing away any trace of her divinations and Billie Dean collected her cards, burying them deep in her corset.
Constance tossed back her last sip of ‘tea’ and rose to open the door.
Outside, the Constable was standing beside an open wagon drawn by two sickly looking horses.
The prison carriage.
“We’re here to collect Nora Montgomery,” he said without any emotion.
“On what charges?” Tate demanded in an attempt to seem innocent through ignorance.
“Accusations of witchcraft,” the man answered harshly while he obviously sized up the situation in front of him.
It was accepted, it was unavoidable to some extent, but it still knocked the air out of the room. The women were lucky that Tate was home, because three unrelated women sitting alone in a kitchen, even though only one was being accused, would have landed them all in the stocks.
Tate tried to physically interfere as the man took Nora roughly by the arm and pulled her through the door, but Constance stopped him with nails that bit into his bicep.
When the door clicked behind his beloved aunt and the scum that took her away, he turned his rage on the other women.
“What is wrong with the two of you? How could you allow them to just take her?” he bellowed, shaking the house, but they didn’t flinch. They were used to his temper by now.
Billie Dean sighed deeply as she began sipping from Nora’s forgotten tea cup, probably eager to get to the bottom and look for clues.
Constance simply smoothed out the puckered dents that her nails had left in Tate’s shirt and spoke to him softly like she would an angry child.
“You know that we can’t risk exposing anyone else.”
His entire body stayed rigid, angry breaths puffing from his nose.
“And you know better than anyone else, that we can do more from the kitchen, than a team of wigs could manage from a courtroom.”
This was something he was willing to accept, and with a sullen nod he pulled away from his mother and headed out to the stables but not without a silent promise to himself that if the women didn’t handle this, he would make things right himself, like he so often found himself doing.
--
After an hour or so trying to clear his mind with chores, Tate realized that his dismal disposition wasn’t going anywhere. Leaving the rest of his work for later, he headed off into the woods hoping to find Violet.
She never failed to improve his day.
--
Tate walked straight into the middle of the town where the outdoor market dominated the majority of the square. He noticed her right away, filling her basket at one of the grocer’s stands.
He stayed about ten paces behind her, waiting for her to notice him on her own. He wondered if he was giving her that eerie sensation that can only be described as ‘being watched’.
He must have been, because he watched her head pick up from the strawberries she had been so intently focused on, and swivel in each direction until she spotted him.
Her reaction to seeing him was such pure excitement and joy that he had to laugh.
She whipped back around and finished paying for her fruit; he saw the way her movements were rushed now that she was eager to get to him.
He leaned casually against the wooden post of the blacksmith’s stall waiting for her to join him.
He only took his eyes off of her for a second, but when he looked back up, she was disappearing into the crowd away from him.
He lurched forward, unable to understand why she was leaving, but just in time, she turned her face towards him and gave him her best ‘come follow me’ look as she took off towards the outskirts of town and the impending forest.
She wanted him to follow her, and it made his gut twist up in the best kind of knots as he pushed away from his post and took off after her.
She weaved through the crowd, looking back coyly every so often, always seeming pleased when she saw he was following behind her.
When she finally made it through the crowd and into the clearing before the forest, she didn’t hesitate, but kept running; ducking behind trees and bushes to hide from him.
Outside the market, there were no clumsy bodies or curious eyes to keep his pace slow and careful, so he was closing in on her.
She swore under her breath when she reached a solid wall of rock formation, stretching at least twenty feet to either side of her and ascending upwards at too steep an angle to climb.
The chase was over and he proved it when he came to a quick and sudden stop against her, forcing her backwards into the stone.
She let her grocery basket slip from her fingers and land besides her feet as he pinned her wrists to the rock behind them.
“This isn't appropriate behavior,” she stated between gasping breaths.
She was stating the truth but she made no effort to free herself from his grip.
“Says who?” he whispered, his breathe still coming in labored puffs, warm and heavy against her neck.
“The law,” she answered vaguely, stifling a shiver.
“The petty laws of man don't matter out here Violet.”
He pulled back a few inches from her face so that he could look into her eyes while he spoke. “This is not the land of magistrates and ministers.”
She smiled; his words never failed to give her hope for a world beyond what she knew.
“There are more powerful forces in the forest then small boys playing dress up in wigs and overcoats.”
“What kinds of forces?”
“Good ones…. And ones that are dark.”
She was hanging on his every word.
“Magical forces Violet.”
“That's madness!” she exclaimed, shattering the glorious self-image that her previously rapt attention had built for him.
“You don't believe in magic?”
“Of course not.”
“Well do you believe in your father's religion? In his god?”
Despite all of the intimate moments they had shared, this one made Violet feel the most vulnerable. This was more dangerous than their little affair.
“I don't believe in much,” she answered simply, trying to keep it vague.
“Do you believe in me?” he asked.
Violet laughed, “No! Sometimes I think I've made you up.”
Tate was bringing his face closer to hers again; the importance of their conversation had past, her insulting disbelief was forgotten, and an opportunity for contact was presenting itself. “I'm here. I’ll always be here.”
“Show me?” her voice was tiny but she was angling her face towards his with all the confidence in the world.
He whispered her name as he released his grip on her wrists, sliding his hands up her arms and over her shoulders.
One climbed up her neck and the other wrapped around to the small of her back to hold her away from the wall and closer to him.
He kissed her cheek first, something they had done before, something that, while exhilarating, was familiar to her. He moved slowly, mildly aware that he might scare her away, pressing his lips into the very corner of her mouth.
Another kiss, closer to the center of her mouth, and she still showed no signs of running.
Finally his nose brushed against hers as their lips met full force.
She parted her lips and let him in, wondering how she could have gone so long without this.
--
Tate and Violet parted ways in the woods behind the Harmon estate. He left her with lips raw and swollen like bee stings from his relentless sucking and biting while she left him with the her taste on his tongue and a dull unsatisfied ache in his core.
The concept of ever really getting enough Violet was ridiculous but today gave him an idea of just how badly he needed her... more of her, all of her.
She was different, special even, the kind of person who could understand things that were outside the accepted normal of their world.
Lucky for him since he was far from normal.
If he hadn't gotten so distracted by her lips and her breath and her hands climbing up his bare back… and that ache was flaring again; angry for letting her leave him for even a second. But he needed to ignore it because if he hadn't gotten so distracted then maybe he would have been able to show her other things. Things that she would be able to feel and touch and believe in; the kind of things he dabbled in and had been steeping in since his birth.
It was important to him, despite the way it bound him to his bloodsucker of a mother, he valued his gifts above all else and he needed so badly for someone to understand them.
To understand him.
--
“I have a feeling that you aren’t being honest with me Billie,” Constance snapped as she paced nervously between the kitchen and sitting room.
Billie Dean was blowing out the candles in the center of the table and scrubbing at the intersecting chalk lines that had been drawn around them. “Not everything that needs to be told, needs to be heard.”
“Don’t give me that line of rubbish you reserve for the dammed and the dying,” Constance hollered, coming to an abrupt stop the second she heard her own words.
“Me?” She asked spinning around on her heal to face Billie.
“Not you,” Billie assured with an eye roll because Constance Langdon's first concern was always Constance Langdon.
“You? Nora? One of the other women?”
“No it's no one in the coven.”
“Then why should I ca-”
Billie Dean covered her eyes to avoid having to watch the painful realization dawn across her friend's face.
“No. Not Tate.”
She was clutching her chest and sinking into the nearest chair.
“Not my boy.”
Billie was shaking her head regretfully.
“When will it happen? Can we prevent it?”
“No. I haven't even seen how it will happen. We can’t prevent something we don’t expect.”
“You are a fool if you think I will stand by idly while he dies!”
“If we act, we could do more harm than good Constance. This is why I don’t tell people when I see misfortune in their futures. Desperate men make too many mistakes.”
Constance was silent.
She rose to her feet again. "If we cannot prevent it, will you at least let me prepare for it?”
Billie Dean had made her way across the room and was fishing a flask out from a dusty cabinet, pouring them each a teacup of tranquility
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“If we are unable to stop his death, we need to be sure that our powers won’t die with him.”
“I thought of that, but how can we possibly…”
“We’ll just have to hope that his gifts are transferable, the same way his fathers were,” Constance said with a grimace.
Billie sighed, “Where the hell are we going to find a virgin in this town?”
--
Violet didn't get home until the sun had already begun to set but things were finally beginning to look brighter.
Her hands had finally found where they belonged running across the skin beneath Tate's shirt and she couldn't help hoping that the rest of her body might join them soon.
She was giggling to herself in the kitchen, washing off whatever strawberries were left after her and Tate's make out session had dissolved into snack time, when an unfamiliar voice startled her.
“Leave those Miss Harmon, I'll be taking care of that now.”
She spun around to see an older woman with brilliant red hair and one vacant eye brewing a cup of tea.
“Who are you?” Violet asked, completely forgetting her manners.
The woman smiled tightly, “My name is Moira, I'm here to help your mother run the home while she recovers.”
“Oh,” Violet responded, not sure if the new help hinted towards an improvement or a decline in her mother's state of wellness.
“Why don't you take this in to her? She's just recently rejoined the living,” the older woman said, this time with a hint of compassion and Violet was relived, taking the tea cup into the sitting room where she saw her mother sitting in a rocking chair, happily knitting and humming to herself.
Ben was sitting across from her, reading the newspaper for a jovial change in material and as Violet sat down in her usual chair with her own needle point, for a moment, everything was perfect.
--
Tate rushed into his house with a flurry of excited energy, and found his mother and Billie Dean almost exactly where he had left them.
They both greeted him with sad, quiet little noises of acknowledgment; it made him stop short, forgetting all the joys of Violet, to examine them further.
Constance had bags under her eyes that hadn’t been there earlier this morning, and Billie Dean was stirring her tea absent-mindedly, looking like a dog that had just gotten the stick.
“Bad news?” he asked, taking an apple off the counter top and polishing it on his shirt.
Billie Dean just grimaced and tried to wave him and his questions away.
He quickly gulped down the bite he had just taken, “Is it about Nora?”
This made Billie Dean smiled a bit, despite her current melancholy mood. As cut and dry and Constance’s concerns were, Tate’s were even more predictable. It was probably the reason he reacted so poorly when Constance brushed off his question like it had been ridiculous and told him that he shouldn’t worry himself with such petty things.
The look in his eyes was pure rage as he began stepping back, away; putting as much space in between himself and his mother as he possibly could.
Billie Dean watched him leave through the back door, and all she could do was silently pray that he wasn’t going to make any mistakes that would cost him his life.
--
Once he was deep in the forest, Tate quickly located the dead hollowed out tree that the women used to store their magical tools.
He pulled out his mother’s crystals and Billie Dean’s Spirit Board, loading them into his bag and making his way to the clearing.
Once the five crystals were arranged and connected with chalk lines, he set himself and the board in the center.
Before he could do anything to help Nora, he would need to get some information. He was actually impressed with himself; thinking before acting. It was very out of character, but a situation like this called for it, especially since he was working alone.
He needed to know who had accused her and what the best way to get revenge might be.
Tate slowly lowered himself into a trance like state, letting the sounds of nature take over his mind and body.
His hands moved to the paddle instinctively and with a crack of his neck, he felt himself become taken by the spirits in the forest.
He watched as they moved his hands for him, answering all of his questions and slowly filling his dormant mind with a dull sense of panic.
In time, the spirits retracted and the fuzzy edges around his vision cleared. The sounds of the forest started to tinkle in, losing all traces of their former distortion, but he couldn’t appreciate them. He simply fell backwards onto the bare earth behind him; exhausted and completely miserable.
He knew everything now, and he wished he could erase it from his mind. He knew about Vivien’s miscarriage, he knew that Nora had truly been the one to cause it. He knew about Ben Harmon’s lies and coercion and selfish intentions disguised by devout nonsense.
He also knew that Violet was their daughter, and that no matter how much he craved her understanding, he needed to choose here and now between her love and his responsibilities.
Should he remain loyal to the woman who had been so much of a mother to him, or let everything go; let that horrible man walk free, coming out on top of his pathetic scheme.
Was Violet enough of a reason to turn his back on the coven? Maybe.
But trying to keep them both would only endanger her. He had wanted to show her his world once, but his world was quickly becoming something that he would be ashamed to let her see.
He had done bad things before of course, hurt people; good people. But the thought of betraying Violet’s trust, trust she so freely gave him as he hurt the people she loved, it turned his gut.
He wanted her acceptance so desperately, but after tonight it would be too much to ask, even from her contemporary mind.
He needed to let her go, before she dragged him any further away from his responsibilities, and before he could drag her into hell.
He returned the tools to their hiding place and headed home; he had work to do, but he wouldn’t need to go far.
--
Constance said a silent prayer of thanks when she got home that night and found Tate already asleep. She wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to have this conversation with him at the moment. His features looked drawn and she tried not to dwell on the possibility of his dropping dead from sheer exhaustion. That would be her fault and no one else’s.
After this, if he escaped his grim fate, perhaps she would make an effort to go easier on him.
She closed his bedroom door tight, a meager gesture of parental protection and headed off to bed.
--
He never needed to leave his bed.
Violet was asleep when he found her; she looked so calm, so peaceful.
That was how she deserved to be, always.
He stepped softly over to her desk, fishing a piece of crumpled parchment out of his pocket and smoothing it out against the wooden surface.
With a borrowed pencil, he scrawled the only words he could think of that would make letting her go okay.
Could he finish it with a simply written ‘goodbye’, could he get away with leaving it at that?
No, he decided she deserved more.
She was about to take away his choice anyway; waking with a start, and then starting again once she saw the boy in her room.
After the general shock wore off, she pulled herself up into a seated position with a big smile on her face.
“I caught you, finally!” she was whispering with as much excitement as she could manage, but when all he gave her in return was a sad, weak smile, her expression fell.
“What’s wrong?”
“Violet,” he whispered, his voice was thick with emotion, “Something’s changed Violet, for me.”
She tipped her head to the side, but even as he dropped his chin to his chest, he knew she was staring at him. He could feel her eyes burning into the crown of his head.
“I’ve, I’ve done things, bad things. And I need to leave you alone from now on.”
She was scrambling to meet him at the edge of her bed, “That’s not what I want though Tate.”
“It’s not what I want either,” he admitted shaking her hand off of him, “But it’s for the best and that’s what I care about. All I can afford to care about.”
Her tears spilled over once he rejected her touch and the words that followed sent her retreating back towards her pillow.
“I love you Violet, and I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you. Not even me.”
He saw the way she recoiled into herself; elbows locked into her palms and shoulders trying to swallow up her neck. She wasn’t okay right this second, but he knew she would be.
She would be fine without him and without her; he could be himself, no matter what that meant.
Tate crossed the room slowly fingering the note on her desk softly before making a show about climbing onto the window ledge. She watched him as he ‘climbed down’ but he simply let himself fall, waking up the next second with an imagined thud in his own bed.
He was only half done for the night.
--
Constance Langdon rolled over in bed, sandwiching her head in between the folds of her pillow. The sun wasn’t up yet but there was a persistent booming coming from outside her window. It continued for another two minutes, showing no sign of stopping, so she reluctantly rolled out of bed and into a dressing gown. A sleepy stumble sent her colliding with her window ledge. She gasped as her front half lurched over the sill, but when she saw what was beneath her, she dissolved into a groan.
She swore under her breath as her bare feet stomped down the stairs.
“Tate!” she hissed once she reached the backyard.
He looked up from his work, startled like some kind of wild animal.
His eyes were crazy and she instinctively took a step back from him until he let the axe fall from his hand.
“What are you doing dear?” she asked, adjusting her tone to handle what looked to her like a volatile situation.
He shrugged as he looked down at the weeks-worth of fire wood he had just chopped, “Couldn’t sleep.”
He picked the axe up again and brought it down swiftly on the chunk of wood left on the block.
Constance jumped, but collected herself quickly.
“Anything planned?” he asked her suddenly, almost hopefully and it startled her more than the swing of his ax.
“What do you mean Tate?”
He walked past her and tugged his shirt off the fence post, pulling it on. “You know what I mean. Any work planned?”
His tone was oddly agreeable.
“Well, there is one ritual, coming up, next full moon. We would greatly appreciate your help.”
Sometimes Constance couldn’t even blame herself for manipulating the people around her when they made it so damn easy all the time.
“Great,” he said with a hollow tone of satisfaction. This is what he needed. If he was going to turn his back on everything, living only for the craft, then he would need to submerge himself. Fully.
“Don’t you want to know what we’re doing before you agree to it?”
“Are you going to sacrifice me to the gods?” his voice held a note of humor but in all seriousness, it was an honest question.
Constance shook her head violently, “No, nothing of that sort.”
“Well then just tell me when and where.”
He noticed the way his mother’s jaw had fallen to the floor, “What?” he asked with a smirk.
“I just wasn’t expecting you to be so compliant.”
He shrugged, “I have a responsibility to the coven.”
She gaped at him, trying to figure out if he was being serious or not.
“And I need to start acting like it.”
--
When Violet woke up the next morning, she had a brief moment of oblivious bliss. But as soon as she rolled over and felt the dampness that was soaking her pillow the heartbreak of the night before came rushing back to the forefront of her mind.
Had he really even been here?
Could it have all been just a dream?
There was a familiar tent of parchment on her desk; Violet stumbled out of bed, reaching for it through bleary vision.
The finality of the sentiment on the paper confirmed her worst fears and sent her reeling into a fit of hysterics.
I love you,
Goodbye.
Violet fell to the floor with a thud. Not even Tate wanted her; she was too dark, wicked, and wrong for him. She should have known; shouldn’t have hoped that he was different, different enough to love her.
With her arms wrapped around her knees, she settled her cheek against her knees to cry it out.
It wasn't until she choked on a particularly vicious sob that she realized she was all alone.
Not in the scheme of things she guessed, but at the moment.
She had been carrying on like a child for the last fifteen minutes and neither of her parents had come to find her and scold her or perhaps comfort her.
Violet dried her tears on her sleeve and poked her head around her bedroom doorway.
Silence, but then a loud noise; it sounded like furniture moving.
She crept closer to the stairway where should could hear more, men’s voices.
Her father’s, but then another unfamiliar one drifted up the stairs.
Quick and quiet steps carried her down the stairs and into the small hall space before the kitchen where she stood for a few moments.
The strange man was arguing with her father, “Your wife’s death was no accident Mr. Harmon.”
Violet’s blood ran cold.
Was her mother dead?
“This was not my doing! How could you accuse me of such a thing? I love my wife!”
Violet, feeling not so much brave, as just unbearably curious, peaked around the corner of the wall to see what was going on.
The constable, Officer Warwick, a man she had only seen a few times around town, was bending her father over the kitchen table to tie his hands behind his back.
“Like I said Mr. Harmon, her death was no accident, and we know the kind of trouble she’s been giving you lately. You were alone in your chambers with her all night, and morning found her dead. You’re our only suspect.”
Violet retreated back up to her room as the Constable laughed darkly at her father’s misfortune and insistence of innocence.
As Violet sunk down onto the floor besides her bed, the sounds of Ben being hustled out the door and into the prison carriage poured in through her window.
She couldn’t cry though, she didn’t feel sad.
She didn’t feel anything.
She was only alone.
( The Burning Man 2/2 )