A Tale Of Rituals

Fyn.

The macabre flower crown, which Fyn had always associated with death, was placed on his head by the old woman, causing him to panic. He couldn't shake the image of the unbearable pain he would face once he reached the woods.

What if he never witnesses the break of dawn?

What if the demon changed his mind and wanted to die as soon as we entered his domain?

Anxiety consumed Fyn, and tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

Fyn exhausted every possible solution in his search for relief. He either ignored it, worked through it, or used it to fuel his strength. Every attempt was made, but nothing proved successful. He repeated the comforting rhyme, but the words now seemed to be scrambled in his mind.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and let his muscles go limp. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. As he slowly opened his eyes, he could see the old woman studying him with a worried expression.

"This is not the time to run away," The woman reprimanded him firmly, using her hand to lift his chin up. "You've got a lot of people depending on you. It's high time you proved your worth to the town, Fyn."

Fyn struggled to keep his lips from trembling as he spoke, his voice shaking with every word. "You... You know I'm not the one supposed to do it."

"Whoever wears the crown is the bride." The old woman's attention was drawn to the small white flowers adorning Fyn's hair as she spoke. The small, white flowers in his hair resembled delicate snowflakes. If it didn't mean certain death, he would have appreciated it more. "Apart from you, no one here is donning the crown."

Fyn looked away and stared down at his wrists, tracing the lines of his veins. He had been tied down for what felt like hours, but the chief finally relented and set him free. The welts on his skin were a deep, angry red that made him wince just looking at them. The old woman had applied ointment to the area, but the pain persisted. Slowly, he trailed his fingers along his wrist, wincing at the pain it caused. It felt sore and all he could do was sigh.

"It's time," Fyn was startled by the sound of Hana's voice coming from behind him. She entered the room silently, and he was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice her arrival. "We're all looking forward to meeting the bride on this new moon."

Fyn had never considered himself an aggressive person. He had never felt truly angry until he caught a raven dropping pebbles into his pitcher jar, allowing the contents to spill out. The sun had beaten down on him all day, and he eagerly reached for his water jar, only to find it empty.

At that moment, he was filled with anger.

But the rage building up inside him was pure, fiery, and intense beyond comparison.

There was a strong urge in Fyn to smash something. Hana's outward appearance should reflect her rotten inside, so it has to be porcelain, prone to cracking and potentially injuring her face. He felt a rush of anger throughout his body. With a scowl, he tightened his fists.

Teeth clenched, Fyn hissed out his words.

"There will come a day when you'll wish you hadn't done this."

With a flick of her wrist, Hana tossed her hair back, the strands grazing her bare shoulders as she examined her nails.

"Maybe one day, but not today."

With her sharp nails, she yanked him out by the collar. Fyn lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, its warmth enveloping him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he took in his surroundings. He felt like an outsider as he walked through town, and the curious glances from the townsfolk only confirmed it. His face flushed with embarrassment as everyone's attention focused on him. Their gazes bore down on Fyn like a heavy weight, making him wish he could disappear.

"Well?" Fyn stumbled forward as Hana pushed him roughly, her breath hot on his neck "Head over to the platform and raise the torch."

Pushed from behind, Fyn stumbled forward, his balance thrown off. He steadied himself, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him, and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. His heart racing, he felt a sudden coldness throughout his body as he gulped. Only a few steps were needed to reach the platform where the concave mirror stood. With all his emotions, the platform appeared to be miles away from him.

He forced his mind to concentrate on the platform ahead and propelled himself forward. He fought to keep his strength, even with the cold sweat trickling down his forehead and back.

He hoped that in his final moments, they would remember him as a courageous person. Even though he felt like he was drowning, he would force himself to keep his head above water.

As he listened to the townsfolk murmuring to themselves, he grew increasingly uneasy.

"Isn't that... a man?"

"Do you really believe the demon won't punish us if we send him that?"

"Look at that man with flowers on his head, Mama. Would the demon even want him as a bride? Can a man and a man even get married? Mama?"

The platform grew larger with each step he took, and he could hear the roar of the crowd. Finally, he arrived at the bottom, his eyes fixed on the mirror atop the rickety stage. With a nod to himself, he ascended the climb and took hold of the torch that was prepared by the men. He placed it just below the mirror and moved it so that it could reflect an's rays. The wood was dry and brittle, perfect for starting a fire.

The torch flickered for a few moments before bursting into flames at the top. The flickering flame of the torch illuminates his determined expression as he grips it tightly in his right hand. As per tradition, he raises it with his right hand. His eyes scanned the townsfolk, searching for any sign of guilt or remorse. He spotted Hana and the chief, and his eyes narrowed as he stood up straight.

Fyn's anger boils over, and he can't help but let out a scream at the unfairness of it all.

With a fierce determination, he clenched his jaw and hurled the torch to the ground with all his might. The torch lands with a thud just below the conniving father and daughter duo. Hana's curses echoed through the clearing as the flames licked at the hem of her long skirt. The chief's booming voice echoed through the air as he pointed towards the torch, instructing his men to extinguish it immediately.

Fyn let out a scream of pure fury, his voice rising to a crescendo.

"This is unfair!"

"You!" The chief's voice thundered, reaching a bone-chilling octave. "Have you completely lost your mind?!"

With equal intensity, Fyn replied. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

The sound of Hana's laughter, high-pitched and piercing, reverberated across the village square. The overpowering sound drowned out the gasps and murmurs of the townsfolk. In Gashea, following traditions was considered a matter of utmost importance. Merely throwing the symbolic torch could seal their fate and lead to their downfall.

It didn't matter to Fyn.

If he was going down, he figured he might as well take everyone else down, too.

"Y-you," Hana stuttered, stumbling forward to close the distance between them and grabbing his hair roughly. Falling to his knees, Fyn let out a sharp gasp. Hana's fingers were tightly wound around his hair, and he struggled to pry them away as he grabbed her wrist. His body fell to the ground, and she struggled to drag him along the gravelly pavement. "You not only defied tradition and caused a scandal at this significant event, but you also likely provoked the demon. You're just wishing for death, aren't you?"

Fyn grit his teeth, trying to suppress the anger boiling inside him.

"You broke tradition when you put someone else in your spot. Why should I be the bride? It should be you!"

"Hah," With another burst of cackling, Hana's eyes grew wider and more frenzied. The sight took Fyn's breath away, and he trembled with fear. "If tradition means nothing to you, there's no need to wait until nightfall. Hand over the cloaks of the bride!"

The familiar cloak caught Fyn's eye as it immediately entered his field of vision. Hana was given a brown cloak by the same old woman who had adorned him with a flower crown earlier. As Hana dragged Fyn towards the forest, he could feel his heart pounding erratically in his chest. His body began to shake with tremors as he attempted to pry Hana's grip from his hair. He felt a throbbing pain in his scalp. The girl's grip was unrelenting and didn't falter even when Fyn tried to pull away.

"Let go!"

Hana huffed, "No!"

The townsfolk disappeared from his sight so quickly that he was left wondering if he had imagined them in the first place. Only the chief and a small group of his men persisted in following them. Two of them were familiar to him, the ones who had abducted him. He was caught off guard as Hana pushed him down and hurled the brown cloak in his direction.

"Wear it," Hana demanded. "Wear it with pride, demon's bride!"

For a moment, he didn't react and stayed completely still. The cloak held his attention completely as he gazed at it. The same brown cloak that the other brides had worn. He remembered the same brown cloak that he had watched drift through the river behind his lone hut, away from the village. He knew the villagers had an extensive collection of cloaks. However, with the lack of resources, he had a nagging suspicion that the cloak they had was stripped of a random corpse.

The chief crouched before him, his eyes intense and unblinking.

"Do you plan to wear it, or should I instruct my men to forcefully put it on you?"

With a tight jaw, Fyn snatched the cloak and draped it over his shoulders. The rough texture felt uncomfortable against his sensitive skin.

"I can manage," Standing tall, he spat forcefully and rose to his feet. "Leave."

With a disapproving expression, the chief shook his head.

"It's a fresh experience for us, watching a bride walk through the forest during the day. We wanna see how the forest would eat you up. Take a step forward, Fyn. We don't want to knock you out and toss you in there."

Fyn was left wondering if the entire ordeal was some sort of cruel joke.

He wondered if he was still in the safety of his hut, asleep and having a bad dream. The wind whipped his hair across his face, a tangible reminder that this was his journey to navigate. The villagers had brought him to the brink of death, and now they stood there, watching him suffer. This was happening, and there was no turning back.

The thought of prolonging the inevitable was unbearable, so he decided to get it over with.

With his chin held high, he lifted the hood of his cloak and wore it like a badge of honor. He pulled the brown cloak they had given him tightly around his body and placed his hands inside the deep pockets, finding solace in its embrace.

Brave, he whispered softly in his mind, Be brave.

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Fyn turned to glance at them, shook his head, and chuckled under his breath.

Fyn wished for their deaths with a cruel and vengeful heart.

Starting to walk, he kept his eyes focused on the road, never straying.

The dense woods consumed Fyn within moments. In the bright light of day, the forest took on an odd appearance. He looked around and realized that nothing looked familiar, and for a second, he thought he had entered the wrong forest.

The forest he found himself in had an enchanting quality, as though it had been plucked from the pages of a fairy tale. Insects and butterflies of every hue fluttered around him, their wings brushing against the leaves and vines that enveloped his head.

A soft smile played on Fyn's lips. Perhaps the demon would overlook him, and he could continue living undisturbed in the forest.

The sky rumbled with a menacing growl.

Fyn stood still as a statue, not daring to move a muscle.

He sensed a sudden rush of wind behind him, and then a loud thump that shook the ground. His face went pale, and his knees felt unsteady as he tried to process what he was hearing.

He could feel it looming behind him.

As Fyn turned around, he felt a mix of stupidity and bravery wash over him.

And his eyes widened.

Fyn turned around to see a man with a large build standing behind him, his broad shoulders making him seem even bigger. Its vibrant red eyes were barely visible under its haphazardly cut, short hair. The bare chest of the creature behind Fyn caught his attention, and he shamelessly took in the sight of the toned body. His skin, otherwise perfect, was riddled with scars that criss crossed each other. An animal pelt was draped over gray pants, cinched at the waist. And a black hooded pelt hung over everything, tattered and ominous.

"Mortal," The demon's voice was so deep that it seemed to come from the depths of hell itself. "Why are you here?"

Something deep within Fyn stirred.

He had to resist the urge to give himself a good, hard slap.

Fyn was certain that the pounding of his heart was not from fear, but from excitement.

The realization hit him, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face.