Angel on Fire
By C. A. T. Torres V
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I like to reinvent myself every few years. From molecular biologist, to lawyer, to writer. Often I’m a combination of these, but always a wife and mother.
By C. A. T. Torres V
“Why do you not answer? Look at me!” The Crusader pulled my ear. “I ask again-- shall you deny your Cathar faith, or burn in the bûchér with your heretic friends?”
I gritted my teeth. “Va be, esta be.” It goes well, it is good. Raimon d’Alfaro’s words, spoken when he murdered the twelve Catholic Inquisitors at Avignonet. Vendetta followed. Martyrdom became inevitable.
The Crusader spat on my face. “You little beast! You witch from hell.” He slapped my face. My ears rang as I fell to the ground.
But my flames rallied within me. I heard my guardian angel’s voice. They cannot hurt you, Méridien. Remain strong, remain true. What shall come to pass shall only make your fires stronger.
The Catholic soldier pulled my hair and banged my head against the ground. The grass bore most of the blow, but I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. I tasted the metallic flavor of blood, and for one moment it overpowered the stench of sweat and fear that permeated the air of Montségur.
The soldier kicked me in the stomach. I bent doubled on the grass. “Go and join your fellow demons,” he said. I smiled against the ground, my lips cracking as I did so. Demon to one, angel to others.
I stayed down. I could hear my friends and kin shouting, praying. Everywhere around me, other Cathars renewed their faith. Even as the Catholics battered against our walls, throngs of Cathars had traveled from all around Occitania to receive the consolamentum in Montségur. They came for the final rite that made us parfait, or Perfecti. Blessed, pure and whole. Merely a death away from salvation.
The firewood amassed at the foot of the castle called out to me. The flames within me smoldered at the thought of the bûchér.
Someone carried me off to join the others already on the pyre. Wood and kindling sparked beneath our feet. The Catholics poured oil upon us. We raised our voices high to the Lord, singing the words of martyred troubadour.
The fire crackled below. The odor of burning flesh filled the air. Our song became screams.
Darkness and silence. Then I floated with the ashes and smoke. Higher and higher I flew, until the earth was invisible. Until the sun shone from afar, as distant as a star.
Méridien, my guardian angel said, welcome home.
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I like to reinvent myself every few years. From molecular biologist, to lawyer, to writer. Often I’m a combination of these, but always a wife and mother.
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