She woke up again in the same bedroom. Everything was just as before: the hem of a maid's dress, an exclamation in an unfamiliar language. Her body no longer jerked from terror, but the pain of death remained unbearable. Yet something was different. When the girl spoke, there was something strange in her speech...
"ɛяøʟɛʋа Ϸʀи… ca…me…"
Came? She flinched. She hadn't caught the entire stream of words, but she recognized one of them. Without waiting for the phrase to end, she sat up and spoke first:
-Listen. I'm not dangerous. I... I just want to understand. Where am I? Who are you? What's happening?"
The maid froze. Her gaze faltered, as if she had caught something... familiar... in these words.
-ʂøʐʋ… ηɛ… i… Ϸø..." (what... not... i... why...) - fear already creeping into her replies.
-I'm not an enemy! I... I'm not here of my own will. I died, but- She leaned forward and fell silent. Too late.
The maid recoiled sharply, knocking over a jug, then rushed into the corridor. Chasing her made no sense. Right? Maybe it was better to stay here. Maybe if she stayed, she would pass for a sane person.
Footsteps sounded beyond the door. People. Guards. The whispering grew louder. The doors swung open. Yes, it was the guards. The maid stood beside an officer.
-She... Ϸøϯøʐɯ...-(She... whispers something...) - the maid muttered, bowing.
-ʂʋϓʋн… кøʂʈø… чужϯʋϯøϯø...- (Bone language... foreign...) - the soldiers behind her muttered.
The officer entered in armor, asking no questions. He crossed himself. She could hardly believe her eyes. Did they see a ghost? She thought they were simply scared. But he ordered her hands to be bound.
-No! You don't understand! It's a mistake! I just- But again, her words sounded foreign. Even she didn't recognize some of them. As if her own speech no longer belonged to her. The maids wept. The soldiers raised their swords. Someone began whispering prayers. They're going to kill me again. Only this time, like a monster.
Circumstances, fears, evidence, and panic worked against her. It all led to accusations of witchcraft, and now she stood at the block, surrounded by clerics and the approaching pyre. The echoes of the crowd's screams rang in her ears. She didn't understand their words, but countless movies she had seen, countless fairy tales she had read, told her what the angry cries meant. Witch! Burn her!
The chains were heavy, rusty, clanking. The metal left marks on her wrists, and each movement sent pain rippling through her shoulders. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She only asked:-Why?.. Why don't you hear me?..
But even her voice now sounded wrong. The words seemed to slip through cracks between worlds, and no one could catch them. In the castle's inner courtyard, a crowd had gathered. Some averted their eyes in fear. Others stared with greedy curiosity. Ahead, near a massive wooden platform, stood the clerics. Dressed in black, with staffs and rings. The wind swayed their robes like shadows on a flame.
The palace gates swung open. A man entered. The cause of her two deaths. Ha! Of course, how could I die without you?
But she noticed he was furious. His eyes burned. His cloak was unfastened, his hair tousled — as always when interrupted in the middle of important matters.
-What кere ʂøϲʋʌʈɛ?!" (What is happening here?!) - his voice thundered like a gunshot. The officer stepped forward and bowed.
-Your ѴɛʟιͲнøϲͷʋø, she ʂκʋζʌ ϯøʐʋʋ… ʋøηα ʂøϲʋʌʈʋʌ ʌ ϯɛηιʌ…- (Your Majesty, she was whispering... to shadows.)
Theodor cast a glance at the bishop already standing at the foot of the scaffold.
-What ʂʋϲʋʋʌ you ʈʋζ sʋø?(What are you trying to say?)
The bishop gripped his staff with both hands, his voice even, practiced:
- She ʌζøʌʌʋʌ то, ʂø ηɛ ʂʋϲʋ ʋ ʂøʂʋʌ. She Ϸʋɯitch.(She uses what is not heard in words. She is a witch.)
Realizing what was being said, she inhaled sharply.
-I'm not a witch! This is a mistake!- But again the words sounded distorted. Her voice trembled, as if the air itself squeezed her throat.
The maid standing in the crowd whispered:
-She ɖøϯø ʂɖʋζʌ… ʌκ ϯø он øζʋʌ…(She spoke to the air… as if it answered…)
-That is enough to prove it…- the bishop continued.
A tall man stepped toward the scaffold. His face was frozen. He looked her in the eyes.
-My Ϸøʀøʟɛva… I ηɛ ϯøʂʋ, ʌκ ʂø ʂøʂʋʌʂʋʌ…(My Queen... I don't believe you could do this...)I do not believe you could...)
She wanted to say something. To explain. To scream. But no voice came out. Not a single word - as if the world itself refused to let her be heard. She saw regret and sorrow in his eyes. How do I explain it to you, you fool!
The bishop raised his hand.
-ʂøʂʋʌʂʋʌ ʂøɯɛζʋ ʌ ʋʋnight. ʌηζɛϯʋζʌ of Ϸʀɛζɛнʋɛ.(Light her at midnight. Cleanse the throne of corruption.)
The fire was already prepared. The wood dry. The boards soaked in oil.
Midnight.
The boards creaked underfoot. The clerics murmured prayers, but their voices blended with the noise of the crowd, the crackle of torches, and the smell of oil. She did not resist. Her hands were tied, her shoulders bare. Smoke was already rising along the edge of the scaffold, lightly caressing her ankles like a foreboding. She did not look at the people. She looked at the sky.
-ϯøʂʋʌ she ηɛʂʋʌʂʋʌ ʌκ ϯø… Ϸøζʋʌʂʋʌ be… (Let her not suffer like the others… May her soul be cleansed…) - pronounced the bishop.
The torch slid downward, almost solemnly. The dry branches caught fire with terrifying eagerness. The flame began to climb the circle. She felt the heat… then the pain. At first, light, like a burn from a stray spark.
Then growing, spreading across her body. She screamed. For the first time, truly. It was not the scream of a witch. It was the scream of a human being.
-Please…-tore out of her in an unknown language, but maybe someone heard. - I want to see my son! Show me my son... Bring him back… Why did you take him from me!
The fire rose higher. Her hair began to smolder, her skin crack to burn. Breathing became harder and harder, but her eyes did not close. She kept looking downward.
And there he was. He stood, as if shackled by fear. His hands clenched into fists, his face like stone. Eyes fixed on the fire. As if forcing himself to watch and remember every moment, as if he had invented a punishment for himself.
Her final breath was ragged, torn, like a burnt letter.
The world collapsed onto her - in the crackle, in the fire, in the voices disappearing one after another.
And then again, it all turned black.
Darkness retreated reluctantly, as if trying to hold her, but even it, this time, could not. She woke up. Her body was trembling. Everything burned. Not from heat, but from healing pain. Her chest, shoulders, neck, it felt as if every tissue, every nerve was trying to become part of something whole again. But instead of relief , only hell. She arched on the bed, breathing raggedly. Her fingers clenched convulsively into the bedsheets. It seemed her flesh was fusing together in real time. Only to burn again. From helplessness, tears welled up in her eyes. She did not scream. Not anymore. She simply got up. She knew where the curtain cord was in the room. Where the sharp edge of the tabletop was. Where the vase that could be shattered was.
At first cautiously. Timidly. Then quickly. Coldly.
On the first morning, she jumped out the window. The fabric of the nightgown flared like a white flag. The stone pavement met her like an old acquaintance. She did not scream. She simply closed her eyes.
Death. Darkness. She woke up. Again in the same bed. No bruises. No blood.
The second time - she reached for a shard of the mirror. Sharp. Straight. She knew where the vein was. Her hand trembled, but did not hesitate. The pain was light. Almost liberating.
Again. It all started over. Burning. Veins intact. Neck clean. The air breathing into her face again, like mockery.
Repeat.
She didn't know on which attempt she began doing it consciously. Maybe the third. Maybe even earlier, when she realized she was not screaming from pain, but from helplessness.
And again.
And again.
She pressed the pillow against her face until everything darkened. On the seventh time - she simply went out into the night corridor, stood before the guards, and began to scream in unknown words. Mixing all the languages she knew. She wanted to be killed for madness.
Killed. By anyone. Anyhow.
She didn't even count anymore. How many times? Eight? Ten? Twenty? Each time - pain, hope, darkness. And then - again that same room. The servant. The voices. The world would not allow her to die.
They beat her. Kicked her. Cut her.
She woke up.
Once, she found a pin in the folds of the dress and stabbed it into her heart, slowly, desperately, as if offering a sacrifice.
She woke up.
She stopped counting. Her world became a wounded loop.
It returned her, as if believing she had not yet paid enough. How many times must I die to deserve peace? She no longer cried. Her eyes had dried out. She just stared at the ceiling. It seemed to her that if she was persistent enough, the world would give up. Or she would. Was death not supposed to be peace? She began doing it silently. Almost calmly. Like washing. Like a prayer. Like a tradition. Death became an action, not an event. Her way to breathe. But every morning, the same:
Body -whole.
Room - the same.
Maid - the same.
And her soul - more and more cracked.
Maybe on the hundredth time it would surrender. This world. Or me.