Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb Words: 266 Notes: Part of a series of River bubble AUs.
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“No quarter for witches,” Ortus spits. He’s brave enough, now that Harrow is bound and gagged. He had never dared to speak like this before. “Confess your sins and repent, and we’ll give you a merciful death. Persist in your wickedness, and you’ll be cleansed by fire.”
Harrow shakes her head, her voice muffled beyond recognition, and with a grimace Ortus releases the rough cloth binding her tongue.
“I confess that I am a sinner!” Harrow screams. “I am the basest of sinners, a crude beast atop the bones of two hundred graves! I have abused and oppressed all the days of my life, and whatever judgment is rendered against me for that, I confess that I deserve it! But of this thing you call ‘witchcraft,’ you know nothing! I have only ever practiced what the Kindly Lord has taught us. I have only ever used it for the purposes with which he tasked me. Judge me, but judge me righteously - let my other sins be laid at my feet, but relieve me of this burden!”
“That’s out of my hands,” Ortus replies. “The judge is coming now. Make your case to her, and hope that she will listen.”
He gestures into the torchlit night, and Harrow sees a figure approaching, tall, imposing, head bathed in orange as if she too is alight. Fear courses through Harrow’s veins - fear, and traces of hope, and shame, and something far more powerful whose name she doesn’t dare speak…
“Calm, it’s okay,” Abigail says from her place tied beside her. “You know this isn’t how it happens.”
FILL: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Words: 266
Notes: Part of a series of River bubble AUs.
——
“No quarter for witches,” Ortus spits. He’s brave enough, now that Harrow is bound and gagged. He had never dared to speak like this before. “Confess your sins and repent, and we’ll give you a merciful death. Persist in your wickedness, and you’ll be cleansed by fire.”
Harrow shakes her head, her voice muffled beyond recognition, and with a grimace Ortus releases the rough cloth binding her tongue.
“I confess that I am a sinner!” Harrow screams. “I am the basest of sinners, a crude beast atop the bones of two hundred graves! I have abused and oppressed all the days of my life, and whatever judgment is rendered against me for that, I confess that I deserve it! But of this thing you call ‘witchcraft,’ you know nothing! I have only ever practiced what the Kindly Lord has taught us. I have only ever used it for the purposes with which he tasked me. Judge me, but judge me righteously - let my other sins be laid at my feet, but relieve me of this burden!”
“That’s out of my hands,” Ortus replies. “The judge is coming now. Make your case to her, and hope that she will listen.”
He gestures into the torchlit night, and Harrow sees a figure approaching, tall, imposing, head bathed in orange as if she too is alight. Fear courses through Harrow’s veins - fear, and traces of hope, and shame, and something far more powerful whose name she doesn’t dare speak…
“Calm, it’s okay,” Abigail says from her place tied beside her. “You know this isn’t how it happens.”