Man

It is eleven in the evening, and smoke is rising from far east of the river, where the city is. Below, a faint glow, like a sunset, pierces the black sky. Across the city, hell spreads madly. In a used-to-be-cottage on the northern side of the city, a man drags his body out of the burning box. His legs are burned to the second and third degrees, but he doesn’t notice; his lungs are burning hotter, desperate for luxurious air. Next door, a mother wails while a father is unmoving as the flames approach. She cradles a child in her arms, screaming into his unbeating chest, drying her eyes on his charred tunic. The father can’t even look; he stares blankly at the flames, awaiting, his grip loosening on his longbow.

In the city church, a priest kneels shakily before a fiery cross, mumbling hymns and prayers, begging for forgiveness. The congregation behind him is empty. They were all faithless sinners anyway, unlike the priest, righteous and believing, a perfect follower. The cross denies his repentance and crumbles along with the rest of the church, sending the priest to hell.

In the palace at the center, it is empty. The flames grow hotter, but they don’t reach the platform behind the throne. The king kept safety measures for times like this: a tunnel was dug in secret behind his palace, connecting the imperial hall to a dock on the river, where boats lay afloat, always ready for a quick escape downstream. Unfortunately, halfway through the tunnel lay the royal family and high council, each one slain by hand.

On the village farm two blocks east and up the hill, a man wields a torch through the fields, setting ablaze the crops as he marches. Behind him is a trail of blood, just not his own. As he approaches the barn, the flame follows him to the red walls, and the man chuckles at the scent of a well-done steak. He gazes above, beyond the fields, resting his evergreen eyes against the warm orange glow before he vanishes into the night.