Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night is thick with conspiracy, and it harbours a silence that not even the birds dare break. All song is cut from their throats and all movement is stripped from the townsfolk and nature alike as the world lays sound asleep, with no indication that any life was ever there in the first place. Apart from one man, resembling a solitary shadow, flitting between trees and foliage like he could ride the wind itself, a storm of horses and other men followed him with an equal urgency as he trekked up a steep, lonely hill to his destination, his motives unbeknownst to anybody but himself. The houses he slipped by would feel a gentle, chilling breeze blow under their doors in his wake, any candles that still burned in the late night air flickered as he passed, his presence bringing with it a wind that held the foul remnants of execution; with blood that drips off calloused fingers, a mourning solemnity struck across his face, and a gait created from the colossal weight of all he’s ever done broken across his back.

He approaches the top of the hill, a solitary house with the candlelight blown and the door shut fast, bolted tightly as if whoever was inside was anticipating his arrival. He knocks sharply.

Once.

Twice.

Silence.

He hears subtle whispering from behind the door, before the locks click out of place and it is gently pulled open to reveal a small woman, shrinking into herself with nothing but terror behind her gaze. Her lip trembles as she opens her mouth to question the stranger at her door, but he interjects almost instantly.

“Goody Abbott?”

His voice cuts the silence as if it were a blade, the shadow his hat casts across his face sharp and dark, leaving only his thin, razor-like lips visible. The woman nods, and he takes a breath.

“Good,” he says, gesturing to the man directly behind him, “Reverend, the chain?”

A long, heavy, black chain is passed into his open palm, and with his free hand he swiftly clamps both her wrists in the chain bound cuffs, indicating for his reverend to hand him the key. The woman stammers out apologies, misunderstandings and confusions, and he does not budge.

“You are the final woman who has not been trialled for witchcraft. And in all sincerity, ma’am,” he clicks the locks into place, letting her freshly fastened wrists hang down in front of her with a painful jolt, “We’re left with no other choice.”

“W-What?” she stammers out as he picks up the chain’s end, dragging it over to the nearest horse and fiddling with the strap on its saddle. 

“You’ve either been lying to our entire town, your justice system, and potentially yourself, indirectly led to half of your fellow citizens’ death and - worst of all - defied the will of your one lord and heavenly father who has nothing but your best interests at heart, and therefore your definitive witchcraft should be punished.” He successfully attaches the chain to the horse, turning his attention back to the woman. “Or…” he steadily approaches once again, hands neatly folded behind his back, and head gently bowed, “We were wrong, and there was never a witch to begin with.” He stops and tilts his head, a seething grin of teeth and steel too shallow to reach his eyes spreads across his face, “Which do you think is more likely?”

“B–But–” she lurches forward, attempting to grab hold of his arms, “But I promise I–”

“Take her.”
One man takes hold of the loose chain, wrapping it around her wrists as he leads her from the front door as another mounts the horse, preparing to set off back down the hill with their cargo, “Instruct Jones to set the gallows. We’ll take her measurements from the jail where she shall spend the night, and tomorrow morn…” he takes a breath, “She shall hang.”

Her head perks up at the declaration, and as she is dragged away from her home she spins to stare at the man who seems to be their leader. “No–no, please–n–no please, I–I’m not–” she spits back, attempting to resist.

“Get moving,” is all he cares to return.

“Y–You’re a monster, y’hear? A monster! N–Nothin’ less!” she starts to scream as all her captors start down the hill, taking her with them, “You’ve killed us all! You’ve doomed yourself! You will burn for this, I can assure ye–” her voice begins to crack, break and strain as she continues to yell in shrill and painful bursts, “God does not reward the murderers of innocent hearts!”

“Well then!” he cries in a temporary flash of agitation, finally turning to face her and almost immediately regaining his composure.

“May God have mercy on my soul.”

—

“Cholmondeley?”

A knock came at his office door, audibly timid but still with a firm fist, the voice on the other side sharp, but still with relaxed intonations. “May I?” they called again, and Charles sprung up from his stack of papers.

“Yes–yes, come in!” he stammered out as they pulled the door open and slipped through, swiftly shutting it behind them. He could barely spare a second to peer up at who’d just walked in, but the moment he did, his face immediately lit up; “Leslie!”

They straightened up, gently smiling at Charles to greet him, “Hello.”

The reverend, to the town, was a man of unusual stature – they paled in comparison to the regular sized doors and bookshelves of the pastor’s office – with an almost feminine figure that complimented their height. Some might even say it was difficult to believe that they were actually a man, but it wasn’t like a woman could ever obtain such a high status in a court of this manner, so nobody would dare question it much, even if they had their… suspicions . 

“How did it go, then?” Charles continued as he lowered his pen, neatly folded his arms on the desk and leant on his elbows.

“Fine,” Leslie replied, “That case is settled and we shouldn’t see either of them for at least another couple of months.”

“Thank the heavens,” he sighed, “I don’t think I could deal with those two on my back for much longer.”

Leslie laughed, “I’m sure that won’t be the last of them. You know how they are.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Charles muttered, before briefly shaking his head and beckoning Leslie once again, indicating he wanted to change the subject, “You have your papers from today, yes?”

They suddenly shot upright. “Ah, yes—” they started, before speeding out of the office and back down the hall, returning a minute or two later with the requested notes, significantly more out of breath. “Here,” they announced, pushing the documents towards Charles, who graciously pried them from their fingers, “Apologies, I forgot them by the stand.”

“Thank you so much,” Charles smiled, and began to rifle through them, faintly muttering questions, personal remarks and occasionally questioning Leslie on their penmanship as he rattled off his observations.

They sat and talked for a while, as you would expect colleagues to do, only having their idle talk come to an abrupt halt at the sound of a loud bang at the window paired with something dark, solid and heavy slamming against the glass, causing both men to painfully flinch into themselves in surprise, share a timid glance of equal confusion before hearing the resounding thump of whatever object it was slipping from a height and crashing to the floor.

"What..." Charles started, after a second or two of stunned silence, "What exactly...was that?"

"I have-" Leslie blinked, "Absolutely no idea."

Charles rose from his chair and slinked over to the window, gently peering into the outside and scanning all he could see of the street from his office, before prying the window open a fraction, reaching down and gingerly grabbing whatever was now lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, quickly retracting his hand back inside with the retrieved projectile.

"Good god," Leslie muttered, inching closer, "Is that a-?"

Charles gave a tiny nod in their direction, keeping the mystery object as far away from him as he could while still clinging onto it with a very delicate grasp. "I am… very confused," was all he returned. 

At the end of his fingers, dripping what he could only hope was water from every square inch of its surface into a steadily swelling puddle by his feet, were the sodden remains of a leatherbound bible, the aforementioned binding holding it together the only thing still intact, as whatever liquid had soaked through the pages left it completely illegible, and entirely ruined. Charles frowned at the thing as Leslie bent down and began lifting the pages themselves, peeling them apart from one another and unintentionally ripping a few as they went.

“...what happened to this?” they asked, trying their best to decipher parts of the pages.

“Don’t ask me, I’ve no clue,” Charles shrugged, “Can you see anyone out there?”

“Uh—” Leslie dropped the book and rushed to the window, taking a brief look at the outside before returning with a shake of their head; “No.”

Cutting their conversation in two, a knock sounded at the door, and with a sharp “Come in!” that was far too loud from Charles, it opened and in stepped Bevan; another reverend, like Leslie, but a far higher power in the court than them. Charles threw him a sheepish wave, and he returned it with a small nod as he stood in the doorway, holding the entrance open.

“Sirs?” he asked, now Leslie’s turn to glance at him.

“John,” they returned.

“...I see you’ve already been made aware of the issue,” he claimed, gesturing to the sodden tome, and Leslie nodded.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Charles asked, and Bevan answered with a shake of his head, slightly bowing it in apology.

“Unfortunately I do not, only that something that began as nothing more than a petty argument has now started to heat up,” he claimed “A few strong accusations are being made…if you catch my drift.”

He nodded towards the book, and Charles frowned, taking a slightly better hold of its spine and properly opening it to the front few pages, slightly taken aback by what he found.

Engraved in the cover with crude, scratchy marks that had obviously been done with the broken tip of a quill, was the word “WITCH” in shaky capitals that Charles could tell had been done in a rush. The rest of the book seemed untouched, including the front of the cover, but the inside had been essentially ruined, with the linear incisions almost piercing the leather completely, and the book itself was barely holding up by the twine its spine was bound by.

“Ah,” he sighed, voice audibly unstable, “Right. I do.”

“ Oh… ” Leslie remarked, shifting closer, “That–that’s not—”

“It’s alright, I doubt it’s really that serious,” Charles dismissed with a swift slam of the book, setting it down on his desk, “I’ll go and have a word with them, maybe scare some sense into whoever’s at fault.”

Bevan gave another affirming nod, before slipping through the door and leaving Charles to catch it, attempting to follow him out of the room before Leslie grabbed him by the wrist and caused him to turn; “Sir?”

“Hm?” Charles answered.
“Do you think that it’s actually—” they stopped, “You’re certain this is a joke?”

“Definitely,” he affirmed, “You know there be no talk of magic in this town, Leslie.”
“I know, but…” they trailed off, “Well, you can’t trust everyone all of the time. Maybe someone—”

“ No. ” Leslie drew back a little at his firmness; “Sorry?”

“It’s nothing like that, I can assure you.”

They sighed, letting him go and stepping back slightly, “I wish I could trust you, sir.”

“You’re going to have to,” Charles continued, “Because we never go that far.”

Leslie hesitated, locking eyes with him for nothing more than a second, and just about seeing through his typical demeanor of cold, hard authority, and instead catching sight of the fear they knew settled within them all. No one deserves so much pressure, and power of this kind should not be given to the wrong authority.

“...right,” Leslie resigned, letting Charles slip from the room.

—

A church hall; a sermon, Aside from the man standing at the altar, the usual preach just about audible from him, the room is dead silent. Nobody would dare interject when it came to the presumed word of God. Even if it is known that the town pastor is not particularly well liked, the people will still decide to gather every Sunday to listen to him speak - it's almost frightening how they follow when their Lord claims to be at the helm.

It is peaceful, quiet, ordinary, until it begins to draw to an end, the congregation only halfway through the typical closing hymn, when a young girl who has been perched on the end of a pew to the far right and front of the hall, fiddling with the edge of her skirt in clear anxiety suddenly shoots upright and stands tall, all eyes now drawn to her. The pastor looks over as the people continue to sing, and subtly gestures for her to sit back down. She refuses, and as the song goes on, she abruptly cuts it all off by clasping her hands over her ears and shrieking in immense pain, falling to her knees and tearing at her hair, flailing around on the ground like the wounded body of a hunted animal, her cries just as strained and sickening at the mention of Christ's name. Almost instantly, the girl's mother rushed to her side, grabbed for her hands and attempted to cover her mouth, silence her, rather, as soon as she possibly could while the reverend at the back of the hall swiftly pushed open the large double doors and began to usher the remains of the crowd - thoroughly disoriented - out into the street, muttering faint apologies for the inconvenience and and promising no disturbances like this will ever happen at future sermons or religious gatherings ever again, as the problem will certainly be dealt with immediately and efficiently.

The pastor stepped down from the altar and was at the girl's side in an instant, commanding her to shut her mouth, stop playing at whatever game she thought this was, and as he took hold of her shoulders and began to violently shake her in irregular bursts, he felt her go limp in his arms, slumping to his left as her eyes drooped close, her screams subside and everything falls deathly quiet.

Her mother utters her name, gently at first while delicately taking her hand and squeezing it in an attempt to wake her, and yet she does not stir, even as the pastor forcefully sits her up and watches her fall not seconds after he releases her. He frowns, and he turns to her mother to ask if she knows what she gets up to when not being taught how to weave, or praying, and with a practically inaudible croak, she says she does not, but he shouldn't be so alarmed. Spells of fainting are not uncommon, she says, claiming she's, "only gone silly somehow," and is probably favourable to the attention. The pastor looks beyond the girl and catches eyes with the reverend still positioned at the back of the hall as they share a prolonged glance of clear, abject concern.

—

A bedroom on the upper floor of a small farmer's house, the aforementioned owner kneeling by the amicably sized bed in the centre of the room, the covers thin and threadbare, and the girl beneath them completely inert. The farmer clasps his hands together in a mix of prayer and demand, begging for anything to come and save the likes of his child, while a young boy watches from a chair in the corner, face buried in a book to hide his curiosity.

The pastor enters, alone this time, with a new, significantly more intact bible tucked under his arm, and a neatly folded letter - the seal already sliced open, and every word thoroughly taken it - nestled in his trouser pocket, all the details of the desperate man’s pleas.

As soon as he steps into the room, the boy immediately straightens up, holding the book higher to cover his face, and pushing his legs together in an attempt to disguise his sudden fear. The pastor catches on, and asks him if he's alright, startling the farmer by the bed who rushes to his side, a grief-stricken wreck of a man. He takes the pastor by the arm and leads him to the bedside, shakily reciting all he wrote in his letter as the pastor nods along with great sympathy. He takes a look at the girl's face, taking her hand in his; she is pale, ashen, and her eyes are ringed with black. Her hands are cold, and her lips are a purple that is steadily fading into a much darker blue. If it weren't for the soft rise and fall of her chest, and the quiet, pained rasps he heard from her throat, he would have assumed she were dead. He asks the farmer what happened to her, and he replies that he does not know as the boy interjects from behind, saying she'd always had something like this coming.

Both the pastor and the farmer snapped up to look at him, and as his father began to berate him for such blatant blasphemy, the pastor stops him by asking what he means. The boy says the last he saw her, she was with three other girls in the very depths of the woods, playing and dancing together while chanting something he could not understand. The pastor asked why he was there, and said he was looking for her at their father's command. He glanced down at the bible beneath his arm, just as the boy exclaimed how he wasn't surprised in the slightest; it's only natural for her to turn out as a witch when her mother was exactly the same.

The pastor glares at the farmer while he tells his son there is no need to stoop to such extremities. The boy rebukes, and the pastor chooses to agree. Witchcraft is a deadly serious matter, and accusations of that kind are not to be thrown around as an expression of distaste. The boy scowls, accusing the pastor of taking the devil's side over the town's, and the pastor says he would never commit such a heinous act of disservice; he only believes he is doing what is right. The boy asks what kind of a pastor he is, and he says he hopes he can be a fair one.

—

Time has gone on since the first unusual event, and they appear to have only increased in severity. Several mothers claim their daughters are falling ill after nights alone in the woods, men say they have been robbed come the dead of night and the local milkmaids always seem to be responsible, sermons are being cut short by little girls screaming out in debilitating agony at the sheer mention of the Lord’s name, and various holy scriptures and places of worship are turning up vandalized with crude, satanic lettering and imagery, all pointing to the women of the town as the culprits.

One after another after another; the town continues to fall victim to a number of crimes and petty disturbances that all seem to claim that witchcraft is the cause, and yet Charles still stood his ground. It was a last resort, the final explanation, it was only on the table when nothing else was. The last thing he would ever want to do would be to let an innocent hang thanks to public opinion and favour. The majority would not shake his opinion, and he didn’t care how that made him look, he didn’t care if the people liked him or if they wanted him dead; he held his morals higher than his life.

And so, a few minutes before noon around a month since accusations began to fly, when Leslie bashed open his door – not bothering to close it behind themselves – clutching something he couldn’t quite make out from where he sat in both their hands before tossing it across his desk, causing him to jump upright in shock, he was very close to the end of his tether. He looked up to Leslie with a frown, a trembling hand hovering over his desk as the mangled, sodden remains of what he thought to be a bird was tossed towards him, a streak of blood and water trailing it over the paper clutter as it landed with a slight squelching thud. 

“This is getting out of hand,” Leslie stated, discreetly wiping the remaining viscera off their hand and onto the back of their trousers as Charles gave a shaky nod.

“I can… see that…” he returned, averting his eyes in not-so-subtle disgust, “Given it’s… here… and not in your hand .”

“You need to do something about this,” Leslie said, folding their arms, “You know the public have already got quite a bit to say about you, and if you refuse to do anything about this so-called ‘witchcraft’ , not even God’ll have your back.”

“You cannot seriously think that…” he hesitantly gestured towards the clump of bones, meat and matted feathers before him, “ ...this… is the result of witchcraft? Surely it’s some adolescent's pathetic plea for attention, or a spiteful farmer’s half-baked attempt at revenge?”

“Not according to the town, sir. They’re demanding a search.”

Charles sighed, before gingerly prodding at the animal’s body with a tentative forefinger, visibly grimacing every time he even brushed against the soft but limp mass as he tried to delicately shove it away from him.

“Can you–” he spat out, indicating the bird to Leslie once again, “Can you get rid of–” 

“Oh, certainly.” They grabbed the corpse by its legs, whipping a grey cloth from inside their cloak and furiously wrapping it around the body as they sheepishly lifted it off the desk and scurried out of the office, returning a minute or two later with the bird nowhere to be found, and their hands significantly filthier. “Apologies,” they uttered, dusting themselves down with a faint jab at a smile that Charles tried to return, albeit much more haphazardly.

“What, um…” he cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, “Can you explain what happened?”

“Well, I don’t remember who, but about a week ago someone came to me claiming their livestock all mysteriously vanished in the night, and – of course – started crying witch,” Leslie explained, “I didn’t do much, only started a small investigation and after nothing came of it, I told the man he should increase the security of his fencing as they might have slipped away in the night. These things happen, you know?” Charles nodded along, subtly nudging the bloodied papers to one side, stacking them up and shuttling them under his desk to temporarily get rid of them, gesturing for Leslie to keep talking. “But apparently he wasn’t having any of that, as today – Lord knows why it took him a week –  he came crying witch again. But this time; he’d actually brought a name. Words flew like bullets, and before I knew it every woman in the village suddenly had a black mark against their name; it was frankly impossible to keep track by the end.”

After a long pause, Charles gave a gentle sigh, and folded his arms across the table top, leaning on his elbows as he raised an eyebrow up at Leslie in slight scepticism, “And so, in an act of protest at how difficult the townspeople are making it for you to do your job…” he nodded to the pile of documents now under his desk, “...you threw a dead chicken into my office?”

“I dragged it from the well, sir,” Leslie returned, tilting their head, “We’ve no clean water ‘till we can clear it out, and we both know just how long that’ll take.”

His face, and heart, both dropped in sync. With no drinkable water in that well, the only option would be to empty it and wait for it to refill, which – to get it up to a level that meant people could retrieve it – would surely take days. Days without fresh, clean, palatable water, and a town that was starting to grow hysterical. He could tell, it was so easy to see; the number of complaints that had been reported to the court was only going up, and he could feel the air starting to thicken with speculation the longer this carried on. The seeds of distrust had already been sown, and he hated to admit that – to stop anything from daring to grow – he would have to step in.

“ ... oh,” was all he managed to give.

“The people need their pastor, Cholmondeley,” Leslie said, taking a small step forward, “I know you’re no mayor, but in a situation like this, they tend to want the court to take the lead. Especially if…” they trailed off, their words running from them, “...well.”

It took Charles a moment to catch their drift, but as soon as he did he snapped upright, his expression hardening to one of obvious disapproval; “We don’t go that far. Never, ever do we go that far.”

“We’re running out of options here,” Leslie hardly flinched, standing their ground with equal intensity as Charles rejected them, “I’m not saying you have to do the hanging—”

“ No . Under my watch, nobody will be hanged in this village, no matter the crime.”

“Then what do you propose we do instead?” Leslie raised their voice – not so loud that it would hurt, but it was certainly an audible change – and Charles froze. “We’ve been dodging the problem staring us in the face for months now, and we’re not getting anywhere. The people are up in arms, livestock are actively being killed meaning we will swiftly run out of necessary resources to survive , and if we just sit around and do nothing like we’ve been doing since we first found out, word’ll get out that we’ve let witches run amuck in this town with no punishments available, and whether you like it or not; people will die when that happens.” They spat out a shaky breath, “I don’t care if you believe in any of this, but they do, and they are terrified. So do what you know you have to do to bring order back to the streets, or watch your beloved townsfolk tear each other to shreds, and once they’ve got no one left to bite, they’ll come for your head next,” they turned their head with a mockingly apathetic shrug, “But it’s your choice, really.”

Charles kept his eyes firmly fixed on the side of Leslie’s face, picking apart their stone cold expression. He’d known them long enough to notice when they were putting on a brave face; masking their concern with explosive, fiery anger, and today was seemingly no different. He didn’t doubt that they were frustrated with him, he knew he could be infuriatingly persistent, but that worry he was so convinced hid behind those layers of spikes reassured him a little; they hadn’t changed, they were just scared for his – and potentially their own – safety.

“...fine. Fine,” he resigned, and they visibly perked up, “I’ll get someone. To help. We hardly know what we’re doing in that aspect.”

A tiny grin began to spread across their face, “Thank you—”

“But hear me, Leslie;” he interjected, both verbally and physically, by holding a hand between them as he spoke, “Under no circumstances will anybody die for this. No matter what. Nobody innocent loses their life to this search,” he lowered his hand, glaring over the frames of his glasses, “Am I clear?”

Leslie gave a sharp nod, “Yes sir.”

“Good,” Charles returned with a tight lipped smile, “Now, hurry along. If we’re going through with this I’ve got a letter to write.”

“Shall I get someone to take it for you?” they offered, “Or will you go yourself?”

“You needn’t worry, I know exactly who will receive this,” he started, turning to the nearest stack of clean, empty paper to pull a fresh sheet from, bringing forward his pot of ink and quill slotted neatly within, “I’ve heard nothing but good from the likes of Windsor.”

“You’re reaching out to Windsor? ” Leslie scoffed, “How on Earth would you have got word from there?”

“You’d be surprised. Apparently, he does the work of legend, ” Charles started, “Even the most corrupted towns can emerge entirely anew. No unholy word will ever slip under his nose, no liars or cheats have ever gone unpunished under his watchful eye, and no witch has ever managed to escape his grasp.” Charles turned back to his letter with a smug “He’s a walking miracle.”

“ Ooh, well,” Leslie returned with a playful smirk, “You must be ecstatic. ”

Charles let a small laugh slip with a gentle raise of his eyebrows, “Now now, play fair.”

Leslie bent down, chiming in with their own jovial laugh before reaching under Charles’s desk to collect the tarnished papers he’d discarded. “I’ll rewrite these onto fresh parchment for you,” they said, spinning on their heels from the desk and swiftly slipping from the room without another word.

—

Officials of Windsor, and whom else it may concern,

I do hope I am not taking up too much of your time. My request is not a complicated one, and I assure you I will make this as quick as I can.

From neighbouring towns and counties, I have heard word of an exceptionally efficient and talented – albeit self proclaimed – witchfinder within your walls, and while I do not expect our situation to require his assistance, I reach out to you regardless in the hopes of you sending somebody our way, as I assume this fabled witchhunter is not your only asset.

Over the past few months, both I and the other reverends of the court have been hearing word of witchcraft. It be nothing more than petty arguments getting out of control, but recently it has been actively disrupting the peace of day to day life; livestock turning up slaughtered in the bottom of wells, buildings partially torn to bits in the name of protest, and even severe damage done to both townsfolk and holy places of worship. Even if it comes out that nothing satanic hangs in the air, it is safe to say Reverend Leslie and I would greatly appreciate your help in calming the public down. Whatever this is, we must admit we do not know what we are doing, and are politely asking for the experts to step in.

We do not expect a hasty reply – even if one would be pleasant – however as soon as you have made your decision we anticipate your response.

Faithfully,

Charles Cholmondeley, pastor of St. Martin-In-The-Fields’ church, London.

CHAPTER END

Chapter Text

“Charles?”

Upon the immediate arrival of a distinct, foreign voice, his head shot up to its source, catching sight of the door to his office banging against the thin wooden wall by its frame, and the trembling, slightly shaken figure of Leslie with their arm held forward, their jaw tightly clenched and their chest heaving with every strained exhale. They just about managed to pry their mouth open, their voice sounding in broken bursts, laced with apprehension; “I hear horses.”

He immediately came to his feet; “Is it him?”

“I–I don’t know. From up here, I can just about see a man at the front but…obviously I cannot see their face from this distance,” Leslie glanced over their shoulder, “For all we know, he could be leading a funerary procession. I mean, it certainly feels like one.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, “...I haven’t heard news of any deaths in the neighbouring villages?”

“Well, then it’s even more of a reason for you to come and see, sir.”

“Yes, yes…” he stammered out, making his way out from behind his desk and joining Leslie at the door, “That would be wise.”

They nodded and stepped aside, letting him slip past and out into the body of the courthouse, Leslie swiftly shutting the door behind him and following his lead. They were out in a matter of seconds, and from just across the street they could see the town centre flooded with the remaining court officials – Bevan at the head – and any curious villagers who’d stopped by to investigate the commotion. The crowd parted around them like the ocean would over a ship’s hull, and once they’d reached the front, they gazed out at the approaching enslaught and suddenly felt a cold shiver creep down their spines as their hearts started to pound against their tightening ribcages.

“What’s this now?” Charles announced, gently nudging Bevan to get his attention.

“Couldn’t tell you,” he said, “I can’t exactly see clearly from here, so I suppose we’re stuck waiting.”

Charles nodded, and turned to face the end of the street, the plains of grass and vast countryside sliced in half by the progressing arrow of blackness. With the advance, there came a gust of chilling wind, its edge as sharp as a dagger, and the intention it held just as imposing; each horse a void shade of black, and each man atop them in equally dark cloaks that caught in the air and bathed their bodies in thick, opaque shadows. With it came a dreadful sense of solemnity, as if, on the backs of the stallions, they'd find a wooden casket, adorned with flowers and farewells etched into the planks that carried the bare body of some innocent soul taken far too soon, and leave nothing but a town of devastated citizens behind.

At the head of the crowd was a figure that, from this distance, appeared as black and murky as the tall shadows that grow in the night and stretch across every inch of the ground they can reach, and they moved with just as much grace as the wind catches the leaves. His stride was easy, but purposeful - not so slow that the steady trot of the horses in his stead could potentially pass him, but not with such haste that he seemed skittish, as if he'd calculated every step, every breath, every minute detail to make him seem as imposing as he possibly could. At the mere sight of his approach, Charles immediately straightened himself, neatly folding his hands behind his back as the hooves of the horses only grew louder and Leslie visibly tensed next to him. He shot them a small look of concern, and saw their eyes fixed on the advancing swarm with no clear intention of shifting their gaze anytime soon. He reached for their shoulder, but almost immediately lowered his hand once he heard the horse’s hooves slow to a gradual stop, the man they’d seen at the head having stopped his advance a fair distance from those by the church hall. He turned to one of the men mounted on the nearest horse, muttering something no one could make out from over here, before making his own way over, the rest of his following now motionless, the men on horseback dismounting their animals and waiting where they’d stopped.

He stopped a couple feet before Charles, tilting his head upwards to catch his eyes as Charles stared down at him with equal vigour. He seemed to be a small, slender man, dressed in a long black cloak he draped over his shoulders to obscure the rest of his clothes, and a tall, wide-brimmed hat that bathed the top half of his head in shadow. His face was angular and pointed; his nose had a gentle hook to it and a pink scar that slashed right across the bridge, with a thin smirk painted on his lips made of mocking power and metal that could easily twist the favour of an entire room. Despite his rounded cheeks, every bone was as sharp as the blade beneath his coat, his jawline looked as if it could slice paper with ease, and as his eyes caught the tiniest spark of light, Charles feared their icy blue hue would freeze beer.

“Pastor?” he asked, voice deep and raspy, but it still ran through Charles’s ears as smoothly as velvet would over his hands. He took a shallow breath before allowing himself to speak.

“Yes,” he replied, sticking his hand out for the man to shake, “Charles Cholmondeley, Pastor of St-Martin-In-The-Fields.”

“Reverend Ewen Montagu,” the other man answered, firmly taking his hand, “Witchfinder General.”

“I suspected as much,” Charles returned with a sheepish smile, “I am honoured you decided to take up my request.”

“Oh, please,” Montagu sneered, releasing his hand, “Anything to be of service.”

Charles smiled, funnily enough. He had not relaxed in the slightest, heart still thumping so loud he feared the other man may hear, and eyes still darting between the ground and the collar of his cloak, but the way his voice was laced with gentleness, and his intonations indicated interest, and an actual want to help, Charles couldn’t help but let him metaphorically pull him in, be enticed by his foreboding charm of mist and fog, even if a deep well of fear was starting to boil within him. He didn’t like how easy it felt to be around this man. Despite the fact he terrified him to seemingly no end, this odd draw was worrying him – something about him almost seemed intoxicating, and it was frightening how much he wanted to go along with whatever he said, just from this one interaction.

The pull that one man could have over him after they’d known each other for mere seconds was alarming, to say the least.

Montagu’s smirk softened; its harsh edges melting into something tender, and Charles could have sworn he looked him up and down with a swift flick of his eyes, and he also would have sworn – on his life, mind you – that it made his heart come to a temporary stop. 

And then, with no further acknowledgement of what he’d just done, his smile sharpened again, and he turned to Leslie, raising a single eyebrow at them in obvious, silent inquiry.

“Second in command;” Leslie clarified, also holding out their hand, “Reverend Leslie.”

Montagu drew back, a frown of cast iron replacing his quiet grin, “…I wasn’t aware you ran…that…kind of society, Mr Cholmondeley.” He turned back to Leslie, “I haven’t seen a woman in any high court before.”

They smiled; it did not reach their eyes, “I’m no woman, sir. You mistake yourself.”

He narrowed his eyes, subtly leaning towards them to take a better look, before springing upright in exaggerated realisation.

“Of course!” he remarked, “How could I have mistaken you for anything else? My apologies, sir, I—”

“You are not the first,” Leslie laughed, swiftly cutting him off; “No hard feelings.”

He gave another small, stern grin, before turning back to the pastor with a tilt of his head, indicating he should continue. Charles cleared his throat; “Will you come through, sir?” he proposed, gesturing to the left of the church hall and back down the street, the courthouse at the other end of town, “I presume you’ll want some kind of briefing?”

“Yes,” Montagu said, turning to his men at the town entrance, “One moment.”

Without any further ceremony, he sped off, stopping at the shore of his arrival to issue inaudible commands to his company – ensuring they all gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement – before, in an instant, he was at Charles’s side again, flashing him another smile of nothing more than sharp, white steel.

“Thank you,” he announced upon his return, brushing between the two men to stride through the parted crowd and down the street as Charles had indicated earlier, the people he came with starting to dissipate throughout the rest of the commune. But before he could follow the witchfinder, Leslie shot him another glance, beckoning with their eyes, and he managed to pull his eyes away from Montagu for just a second, so he could lean in and listen.

“Tread carefully around that man,” they whispered, eyes still focused on the other new arrivals, “I see something in his eyes that I think is the knowledge you sought from him, but it does not come to me as I thought it would. Instead of a hopeful, glittering spark…it rages like a fire upon a distant moor, destroying all that came before it.” They met Charles’s gaze, jaw tense, brow gently knit; “I have a horrible feeling that this will not end well.”

Charles gave a gentle smile in an attempt at reassurance.

“Surely that’s good, though?” he reasoned, “A passion, no matter how far away, is a passion nonetheless?”

Leslie did not falter, nothing in their gait shifted, they did not let their guard down, they did not look away. They could not have been any less convinced.

“I fear it,” they muttered, barely louder than a whisper once they realised Montagu had noticed Charles was not following.

Charles sighed. He gave a nod, and let a hand rest on their shoulder, the only thing he returned; “I know.”

—

“So, would you like to tell me of any further developments since your letter?”

Over the course of their relatively short walk from the town centre to the courthouse, Charles had noticed that Montagu had begun slipping closer and closer to his side. They hadn’t started very far apart – with there being around two or three feet between the two of them as they walked in parallel to one another – but now they were noticeably closer, as Charles definitely didn’t remember Montagu being able to brush the back of his hand with the side of his cloak, and he absolutely certain he hadn’t always been so close that, had he wanted to, he could reach out and take his chin in his hand with almost no issue. He didn’t particularly mind the difference in distance, though, even if it was making it much harder to think straight than before. He couldn’t imagine why.

Charles blinked; “Since my—?”
“I know it took a while to get back to you, and I am sorry about that; I should be better, really, I know, but I’m here now, so…” Montagu turned to him, “Care to explain your issues?”

“Right. Yes, o–of course…” he answered, pausing for a few seconds, “You needn’t apologise.”

Montagu sounded a gentle laugh, meeting Charles’s gaze and, for the first time, letting a smile reach his eyes. “You’re far too kind to me,” he beamed.

Charles let out a slightly surprised scoff, Montagu’s silky smooth tonality and almost perfect mannerisms lodging themselves in his mind, and completely derailing his train of thought. This was odd. What was this, exactly? Was this the fear Leslie so clearly expressed? Was he just scared? He’s never wished harder to have been just scared. He wasn’t quite prepared to think about what this meant if he wasn’t scared.

“So, um–problems, yes–” he stammered out, “Well…let’s start with the fact that all of this is very recent. I think the earliest incident was about two, three months ago, as of last Wednesday? S–So, everything should still be fresh for any investigation you’d like to do.”

“Good to know you were quick.”

“Well, we thought to leave it a while – just in case it was a couple of minor disputes that got a little out of hand – but once it dragged on past the month we figured we ought to do something, if not because there might be an actual supernatural problem, but also for the town’s safety. You understand, surely?”

Montagu nodded, “Of course.”

“Right.”

“Could you show me some of the specific things that made you change your mind?”

“Y–Yes, yes, um…” Charles stopped walking, letting himself think for a moment before swiftly turning on his heels and marching back the way they’d come, beckoning for Montagu to follow; “Right this way.”

They navigated the town together, taking a route filled with plenty of sharp turns down darker, less travelled streets, and many thin gaps that were practically invisible from the front between the tightly packed houses that hardly ever saw the light of day to reach the back of the church hall without needing to either disrupt the crowd that was gathering around the front, or without needing to enter through the cemetery.

“The first major warning sign were these inscriptions appearing around town at random intervals, seemingly only on holy grounds or on holy objects,” Charles began to explain as they trailed the back wall of the church, gesturing for Montagu to look at the stones, “When we return to my office, remind me to tell you more about this, I have another example.”

Montagu ran his fingers over the walls, passing over the lettering that had been both crudely etched into the cobble and painted on with some thick, pale substance that he didn’t dare name. “It reached the courthouse?” he muttered, still focusing on the writing.

“Not…exactly,” Charles replied, thinking back to the vandalised bible sitting idle on his desk, before sighing in slight defeat.

“Oh, just wait, I’ll explain later. Come;” Charles called, once again beckoning for Montagu to follow as they slipped between the fencing of the graveyard and the wall of the church, already halfway to another alley that would surely take them to another equally useful part of town.

“There have been multiple reports of respectable men catching young girls dancing in the forests late at night, then those same girls falling ill – or sometimes even unconscious – the next day, many farmers have had crops destroyed and animals stolen in the night, rendering unable to do their jobs or provide for the community, and countless people have interrupted sermons and prayer at the mention of the Lord’s name in hymn.”

“Good lord,” Montagu exclaimed under his breath as they walked, “And that wasn’t your tipping point?”

“It was close,” Charles admitted, “But I am very hesitant to operate in the way most towns do.” He heard Montagu come to a stop behind him, and he turned over his shoulder, “I do not want to be responsible for the deaths of innocent women.”

“Oh, Charlie…” the witchfinder leered, slinking over to him and sliding an arm under his cloak and around his waist, “Can I call you Charlie?”

“Wh–” Charles started, failing to see the relevance, “Well I suppose, but—”

“Charlie, then,” he interjected, “You can’t dodge it forever, you know.”

He frowned; “...what?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right;” Montagu continued, pushing them both forward a little, as if to say ‘we should carry on’, “No sane man wants to kill an innocent, but in the pursuit of an invisible threat that hides amongst the innocent, we have no choice but to pick off a few suspicious individuals, even if they turn out to be harmless,” he threw up another crooked grin of cold, cast iron, “It’s inevitable, you can’t run away from that.”

“How can you say that?” Charles retorted.

“How can you disagree?” he replied, almost sounding hurt, “You want to fix this, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you will listen to me.”

He stopped their stunted advance, releasing Charles and stepping back. Charles couldn’t stand the fact that he almost leaned in, to try and uphold the touch for longer. 

“There is a reason I am the general, not you, Cholmondeley,” Montagu snarled, adjusting his head so the brim of his hat cast another sharp shadow over his face, leaving only one piercing blue eye visible to Charles, and he could hardly stand the way it seemed to stare right through his chest of glass.

“...sorry, sir,” was all he found he could utter, as he averted his eyes and continued to walk.

There was a pause. A long, painful pause, and for a moment, Charles feared the other man wouldn’t follow him to their destination, but with a swift readjustment of his hat, he picked up the pace and was almost instantly back by his side.

“That’s alright,” he answered, “Now, carry on, you were saying something about your tipping point..?”
“R–Right, yes,” Charles said, recalling their prior conversation, and realizing that – by the sheer power of aimless wandering – they had ended up at his final piece of damning evidence. The well.

“Actually, it was this;” he started, pointing to the structure behind him and asking for Montagu to look inside. With a hesitant glance at the pastor, he obliged, stepping over to the edge, and he almost immediately wanted to recoil in disgust.

At the bottom of the well, from what he could make out, there seemed to sit a muddy, matted mass of fur and bone, the darkness that came with depth entirely obscuring whatever it had once been, but he assumed, from the size, it couldn’t have been a human. Blood ran crimson dyed what remained of the water a startlingly bright red, given just how far away it was, and the nauseating stench emanating from the rotting remains indicated whatever carcass lay inert in the town’s water supply had been there for a while, festering and decomposing in the spring air.

“Bloody hell,” Montagu spat back, and Charles gave him a shaky nod of agreement.

“The first one was bad enough, I didn't think it could get worse frankly, but…” he shrugged, “Here we are.”

Montagu snapped up to him in horrified revulsion, “The first one?”

“That was when we decided to get in touch,” Charles clarified, “We’re not that daft.”

“Thank the stars…” he sighed, reluctantly staring back down the well.

“We started the draining process when we found it, but given how–um–thick…the water is now, it’s taking a lot longer than last time,” Charles continued, “We’ve been asking the neighboring town to use their well until we can fix this, but I anticipate the day their kindness will run thin.”

Montagu leaned a little closer, careful not to bend too far over, “What…is it?”

“...your guess is as good as mine, sir.”

“Eugh…” he grimaced, pulling himself up and dusting his front down, “So, do you have any names of potential culprits?”

“Leslie has the list,” Charles answered, “I will ask him to write up another copy for you come morn.”

Montagu smirked again, “...this Leslie chap seems to do a lot for you,” he proposed, “I ought to speak with him properly.”

“I’m sure he’d be more than open to that,” Charles returned with a shaky smile, and Montagu raised an attentive eyebrow.

“Why on earth wouldn’t he be?”

“I—” Charles began, his words suddenly catching in his throat as he noticed what kind of hole he’d unintentionally started to dig, “I have no idea.”

They held eyes for a moment too long, Charles looking away a little too fast, and starting to play with the hem of his cloak with a little too much vigour. He could sense Montagu’s inquisitive eyes boring into his side, that typical head tilt he was certainly doing as well he felt almost as clearly as he took a step closer, and Charles’s breath hitched once more.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and Charles perked up; “Hm?”

“You seem on edge.”

“It–” he blurted out, still refusing to look down at him, “I’m fine, I—”

Montagu placed a hand on his shoulder, subtly starting to rub soothing circles that would only be noticeable to the two of them with his thumb, “Did I scare you?”

“No,” Charles admitted, “No, it’s okay.”

He tried his best to muster up a convincing smile, but the lack of eye contact clearly didn’t sell it, as Montagu shuffled in closer, tilting his head up so as to prevent the brim of his hand from knocking Charles’s glasses, and almost started to whisper.

“You do trust me, right?”

Finally, he glanced back over to him; “What?”

“Well, if we’re going to work together like this, it’s probably important for you to have faith in me,” Montagu stated, “I’m just making sure.”

He firmly stared down at the man before him.

Did he?

He didn’t exactly have a reason to – they were complete strangers, all his fondness for the man had been based off rumours and very charming first impressions, and his right hand man had been exceptionally wary of him to a concerning degree, even if this was their suggestion – but he was also aware that they had just met, and, if all was to go how either man anticipated, they would have a lot of time to get closer to one another.

So he couldn’t exactly expect to trust him wholeheartedly immediately, and that couldn’t possibly be what he was expecting either.

Right?

“...I suppose,” he resigned, much faster than he probably should have.

“That’ll have to do,” Montagu scoffed, inching a fraction closer. “I promise, Charlie,” he squeezed his shoulder, and Charles flinched a little at the touch; “I don’t bite.”

—

The town square was empty now; the villagers had all dispersed into their respective houses and workplaces, Charles had, obviously, whisked Montagu off faster than he'd arrived to relay all the information necessary for maximum efficiency, Bevan has long since left to show some of the witchfinder's men to the courthouse where they would be based until this ordeal was resolved – while the rest were ushered into temporary accommodation by whichever court officials had been available, and in the area – which left Leslie still frozen in the town centre, the world seemingly spinning without them. Something was preventing them from getting the general’s whetted smile from their mind; the very thought of that alloy grin made their skin crawl in ways they had dreamed they would never feel. No amount of telling themselves that this was all their plan so they were in control here, and that this unease comes with meeting every new person in a position of power and it’s natural to be so unsettled, and that if Charles could learn to trust him so quickly, surely they should be able to as well was managing to convince them that this situation would bring any good of any kind. Even if Montagu was only here to help, that didn’t mean Leslie could put any more faith in him than what they were desperately struggling to now. Nothing bad had happened yet, they knew that, and deep within their mind they knew that this unnerve really meant nothing in the grand scheme of things…but there was still a tiny, nagging voice rooted even further in their head, in their heart, in their soul, telling them exactly what they did not want to hear;

You have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

The day had passed long ago, the sun just beginning to step down from the heavens – leaving in its wake the night’s icy chill – as a voice came from a few feet behind them, its owner’s hard shoe soles tapping on the sizable paving stones underfoot as they approached.

“Leslie?”

They turned, meeting eyes with a tall, neat, and significantly older woman who’d positioned herself next to them, with a gait that read clear intrigue and slight concern. Goody Leggatt – Reverend Bevan's wife to most, but Hester to the likes of Leslie – was clearly not planning to leave the house again tonight, as her hair was no longer pulled back and fastened neatly under its typical coif, leaving a solitary curl upon her forehead, but was instead long and loose, freely flowing down her back and shoulders, a sight people weren’t used to seeing out in public. It wasn’t like that particularly mattered to Leslie though; this woman was like a mother to them, who were they to police her?

“Ma’am,” Leslie smiled, “Your husband said he shall be back within the hour.”

“Good to know, thank you,” Hester nodded, “But that isn’t what I wanted to say.”

Leslie squinted, tilting their head“...might I ask what you are after, then?”

“I am asking after you.”

“I’m fine,” they dismissed, turning away.

“Then why are you still here?” she pressed, “Surely your wife is waiting for you?”

“I’m waiting for Charles to return.”

“You mean the witchfinder?”

“No, I mean my—”

“Jean.”

Leslie stopped. They’d forgotten she even knew that was their name. They’d forgotten she even knew that about them. They’d forgotten anyone knew that. For a second, they felt their heart leap as they gave their surroundings the most skittish scan, only once they were assured they were completely alone did they peer over to Hester as she raised a single eyebrow, looking down at them with an unchanging expression of hardened curiosity. They sighed, turning back to the cobbles and the leather of their shoes, aimlessly tracing the angles of the paving with their eyes.

“Do you think…” they started, “Do you think I’ve made a mistake?”

Hester tilted her head, and gave them a nudge to continue.

“Perhaps I’m wrong, but,” they trailed off, “That man just gave me such a strange impression. I do not understand how the pastor can trust him so quickly.”

“How so?” Hester asked, 

“I do believe he’s good, really…but the way he makes him swoon so obviously with such subtle influence worries me,” they looked back at Hester, “I dread to think what could happen if he were to gain ulterior motives.”

Hester placed a hand on their back, the familiar warmth of her palm a soothing, grounding feel. “I doubt you need to worry about that,” she smiled, “We can be certain his lead comes from a place of good intent, if he truly has God to back his decisions.”

“I hope that’s right, Hester,” Leslie admitted, letting her slide her arm fully around her shoulders, “Perhaps I will warm up to him in time.”

“We can only hope,” Hester resigned.

The sky began to darken, the blue of the afternoon fading into the pink of the evening, the purple that comes with night only just dabbing at the horizon, the clouds still bathed in lingering orange hues that dripped into the rest of the cosmos as both Hester and Leslie watched on, aimlessly.

“You should go,” the older of the two suddenly sounded, releasing Leslie from her hold, “I will tell Charles – if he returns – that he will find you at home, should he need you.”

“I want to wait,” they answered.

“You’ve been here hours, Jean,” Hester replied, “And you know he will be fine. He doesn’t need you to protect him.”

“I–” they blinked; they almost couldn’t believe Hester had thought that about them. “I know—”

“Go home.”

With a final confused frown, they could tell they weren’t convincing her. There had been times where it felt like she knew their mind better than they did, and if that was their true subconscious thought, then it was probably for the best that they put that to rest. She was right; Charles was an adult, just like them, and he was more than capable of thinking for himself. He could tell when he was in danger, they knew that too, and they were certain he was sensible enough to get himself out of it once he realised. 

“...fine,” they sighed, and with a quick, tired glance in Hester’s direction, they slinked off back up the street, just as the final slivers of sun slipped from the sky, and all blue that had once come with the day had now been fully consumed by the oncoming red of the night.

CHAPTER END