WORDS

Written on October 27, 2024 (♏︎)

Author's Notes: Written for Whumptober 2024 for prompt No. 27: Voiceless (Muzzle).

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There were means to make him speak; Olan was sure of that. He understood well the particulars of what was to come and the various avenues for the treatment of heretics–regardless of what was or was not said. He understood the little courtesies that his blood and connections had afforded, and how–for all of them–a confession and statement were still expected. He would be led away to the same pyre regardless, but it was a point of ritual that sin should be acknowledged and writ down as such.

Mullonde, requiring already his body be remitted to the flames and his soul to perdition, desired ownership too of his words.

He could not suppress his fear when the examiner did appear–and he was sure that all the apparatus displayed was meant to frighten him. He said nothing, however: not when his questioner opened with a prayer for intercession, not when their statement was laid out alongside their evidence, not when he felt the first bite of an iron clamp as the device was fitted to him.

He gestured, mutely, to the little volume on the table, eyes defiant. It was the only testimony he wished them or anyone else to have.

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