It was a lovely day for a burning.

The weather was warm, which meant that it would not be too cold at sunset, when the burning actually occurred. The ground was good and dry since it had not rained in a fortnight; that would allow the fire to catch. And the lack of clouds against the cerulean sky meant that it wouldn't rain tonight to water down the flames. Nature had set itself up for the burning.

Duras allowed himself to smile for a moment at the thought. His gods, the sun, the stars, the sky--setting themselves up for the murder of monsters, for the purging of the earth by his hand. He had been blessed greatly by them, for if there was ever a blessing, it was for him to carry out his work.

"Duras!"

And the blessed moment stopped. He faced the place where the voice was coming from--the stakes by the Forest of the Dead. It was a worker of middle age with a bald head that shone in the fading sunlight. Why the old men here shaved their heads he didn't understand; he was more than content to live forever with his blond braids trailing down his back.

"What?"

The worker paused. "The Feast'll be starting soon. They'll want ya there, what with the village leader bein' a warlock an' all. You should be the one to step up, ya know?"

"Tell Olga to do it." It was a symbol of status, the way he could speak the blessed Oracle's chosen name. "Have her announce me as their new leader. They won't be surprised at Russell's disloyalty."

The worker bowed. "Right. Well-- a happy Ancestor's Day to ya." He tipped his weather-worn cap and was off.

Soon, the whole crowd of workers dispersed, leaving Duras alone by the Forest of the Dead. The trees looked like they had been forged from shards dark glass and iron, creating a foreboding atmosphere. Perfect for a burning, he had to say.

Raising his hands up to the sky, Duras began to pray. To my stars and my sun, I am your most devoted servant. To my sky--

Something tapped his shoulder, and Duras turned around slower than honey dripping into a jar. If it was a monster, he didn't want to startle it into attacking him. Slower and slower, a few things came into view: a red vest, brown skin in the form of a long-fingered hand, and tall, muddy boots. Archibald.

"What have I done to warrant such a visit, my boy? No, wait. You're not my--"

"Vasilisa." Archibald was made of tensity with his clenched jaw, balled fists, and tight frame. "What have you done with her?"

"Vasilisa? Why, I don't--"

"My wife! You know very well who she is, I know you do, Duras. Now tell me where she is!"

Vasilisa. What a pretty little monster she was, too, to have captured his former apprentice's heart. He smirked, examining his long fingernails. Duras would give the little fireball a couple seconds to cool off before saying anything.

"Duras...."

"Archie, I suggest you don't clench your teeth. They'll be worn to nubs by the end of this meeting." He looked up from his nails. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be at the Feast instead of harassing an innocent man?"

Archibald's lips twisted. "You're not innocent, and you know it."

Duras jabbed a single finger into the boy's chest. "You're talking to the new village leader, Archie. Get off your high horse." Archibald opened his mouth to interject, but Duras continued before he could. "And you have no proof. Who'd believe what you say, anyways? A man who was married to a monster?"

Archibald's eyes flashed. "What monster?" he asked in a soft tone. "You can't mean Vassie, surely, not--"

"Why, Archie, I thought you would have realized by now." He leaned backwards, his arms crossed over his chest and the smug grin on his face rather like a cat's. "She's a yaga."

Archibald stumbled backwards, as though the words had been like one of the slaps Duras used to give him when Duras had been master and Archibald the apprentice. "No," he murmured, the words as quiet as the rage the new village leader felt simmering in his heart. "No! No, she's not. I know the signs, and there were never any there--not one!"

"Red hair...her reaction to iron...oh, I could go on and on, couldn't I?" He glanced up at the sky, which was painted with lavender. "The sun is sinking. You'd better get on. I'm certain that you, of all people, wouldn't want to miss your precious Vassie's death."

"I'll get her, I'll find her, I'll run away! I'll--"

"And leave behind your daughter? You wouldn't." He placed a hand on his heart in mock remorse. "Karina is quite a lovely little girl, I must say. Although she does have her mother's red hair..."

The lad's frame turned to tight ropes and wires yet again. "You wouldn't," Archibald hissed, his dark eyes ablaze. "Touch my daughter in any way, shape or form and I'll skin you alive."

"How? Using the way I showed you?" He smiled; this was too easy. The boy had set himself up for every jab.

But Archibald just shook his head this time, the movements decided and forceful. "You'll be sorry, Duras."

And, spitting at the monster hunter's feet, he stalked away, leaving Duras to pray.

****

When the sky blazed its glories in the form of watercolors, the citizens of the village--his loyal subjects--came to the burning place. He instructed a few workmen to gather the prisoners of tonight's burning. In previous years, leaders had already set up the victims on their pyres when the villagers started arriving. He preferred to show the crowd the forlorn faces, the clanging iron chains. It sent a clearer message: if you defy me, you become them.

As his crew tied the prisoners to the stakes set up on the pyres he rubbed iron dust on his arms and hands and hair and face. He had to keep the yagas and warlocks away, and iron was toxic to them. The earth and village might be purged by the burning, but he would never be tainted.

He ran over his recitation quickly before grabbing his torch, walking out to the crowd, and taking his place beside the Oracle, Olga. She was dressed in purple clothes that covered every inch of her pale, creamy skin but her face.

"Are you ready?" she murmured, her violet eyes alight with something fierce and wild.

"Of course. The go--Ancestors have brought me down here to perform their will. And that will is purging the earth and saving this innocent little village." He winked at her. "I hope I am a worthy saviour?"

"Don't play the fool." She raised her eyebrows. "You know you are." She grabbed his arm with a gloved hand. "What is this?"

"The iron dust? It protects me from their presence." He examined her cryptic expression. "Did Russell never do this?"

"No." Her gaze travelled to where the old village leader stood, tied to the center stake. "He never did."

"Makes you question how safe he kept this village, doesn't it?"

The Oracle didn't respond. "It's time to start, Duras."

Sighing at her lack of a response, he stepped out to the front of the crowd. "Hello, people of Moracia!" he announced, making his voice louder than that of an auctioneer. The citizens instantly erupted into applause--well, of course they did. He was about to save them all.

"Now, my friends, we have done our best to expel the the evildoers--yagas--from our village. We have hanged those guilty of it, banished yagas from our homes with witch-charms and iron. Yet evil still penetrates us." His eyes swept over the crowd, examining the features of the villagers. All held his gaze with rapt attention. Better give them more drama, to feed into their adoration. Stepping forward, he sighed and placed a hand over his heart. They would adore him even more for his supposed sadness.

"But we have not done one thing for ten years, so as to not anger the spirits, and this way of ridding a town of evil is the most effective. This method-- is to burn!" His voice rang out loudly, echoing off the trees and people in front of him. He paused, once again, to let the words take effect--and they did.

Someone started a chant that spread faster than any illness or wildfire. "Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn..."

He couldn't keep his cat's grin off his face. He had them in the palm of his hand, to kiss or to kill--whatever he saw fit.

Raising a hand, he silenced the glorious chanting. "Tonight, we have three convicted felons who have been consorting with the Devil himself! The first, a Clarissa Jaron, lied under the Ancestor's oath and pretended that she saw me doing magick. Would the family of Jaron please come forward?"

There was a whisper, soft and deadly, that hung about the crowd like the disease of the yaga. His smile became a little more forced, his teeth a little more clenched. They wouldn't revolt. Not now. If they did, he would murder them all for disturbing the sacred purging and upsetting his gods.

But still, the Jaron family stepped forward. Seven young children, clustered around their haggard father. It was pitiful to see them in such a way, but they looked reverent enough, so he let them go with a flick of his fingers.

"The second--" he cleared his throat-- "a warlock rather than a yaga, Russell Pinkerton--the very head of our village--sent out his spirit to communicate with the banished Ancestors. Not only that, he tried to stop this holiday! Would the family of Russell Pinkerton please come forward?"

The village was silent. No signs of revolt were present. Russell's wife, a beautiful brunette woman whom he still might bed, strode forward with three blonde-haired boys in tow. Duras glanced over to the former village leader, who was staring at the sky like a dying plea to it. He hadn't made a noise, and neither had anyone else. Perhaps the rest of the evening would go as pleasantly as he had planned.

But no--the youngest of the boys--Hansel, was it? Hans?-- had a gaze made of the fire burning at Duras's soul. It was a glare that wished to send daggers into the new village leader's heart, a thing that would never happen. Duras smiled. If he trained that boy a little ways, Duras would be invincible.

Duras cleared his throat and sent them off. The fire was getting hot in his hands, and it longed to burn. But he had to get through the last one first. Archibald's pretty little monster. He wondered what his former apprentice would think of her looks after she had been burned. It would be quite entertaining to say the least.

"And worst of all, Vasilisa Hedge, who caused her sister to go insane with her so-called healing herbs--she even died! Will the family of Vasilisa Hedge please come forward?" His heart leapt at the thought of seeing Archibald's expression and reaction, and at the possibility of getting to punish him for it. It would be fun, and most important, he could show the crowd what he did to those that cared.

But he didn't step forward. Only a small girl with hair that shone auburn did--Karina. Where is Archibald? Perhaps the fellow was just moving slowly. "Well, hurry up, would you?"

But the girl looked up at him, with eyes that burned just like her father's had only a few hours earlier. "I don't know."

Duras resisted the urge to slap the impertinent wretch. He could deal with her like he had her father at that age; a few strong beatings and she'd be as obedient as the best of servants. "We'll find him later," Duras said, the feeling of excitement in his heart sinking like a stone. Perhaps an accident would happen to Archibald later. Perhaps, perhaps--this was a thing he must hold out for.

But he wouldn't hold out on this chance to punish the girl. She had to see her mother burning to start knocking the impertinence out of her. A whipping or two could take care of the rest.

So he cleared his throat and nodded at Olga, who started murmuring a safesong and threw some iron dust in the air. He noticed the congested coughing that came frm the dust as the dull substance fell onto her hair. Monsters spawn monsters. He'd have to keep an eye on her.

"Are you ready for a burning?"

The uproar was instantaneous. Smiling, Duras brought his torch to the wood and watched the flames catch, climbing higher and higher in great tongues of flame, licking the soles of each prisoner's feet and catching to their clothes. He smelled the wood and dung used for the fire, and he started to smell ashes and smoke and everything beautiful about this purging. He smelled victory in the air and tasted it on his tongue.

When the flames started tearing the monsters apart and roasting their flesh, when sparks started to fly wildly and the flames started to crackle louder than any other sound he'd ever heard, he had to step back. Eventually it burned too bright and he even had to look away.

But he did not want to.

This was a star, and he wanted to watch it die.

****

It took a while to clean up after the burning. Duras and his crew dumped the charred bodies into the Forest of the Dead, clearing out the area until nothing remained but the stench of burning flesh. Since there was nothing he could do about that, he walked back to the village in the chilly night, a torch with fire he had stolen from the burning lighting his way.

He lived with Olga, whose home was in the heart of the village Moracia. Duras walked on steadily, humming a Moracian safesong under his breath. He'd rather gotten used to them, the cheery tunes condemning yagas. They weren't effective, of course, but they had worked well to keep the Moracians hyped for the burning.

And--was that a figure hanging from the gallows? Duras stepped closer, holding the torch up to better see.

The first thing he noticed were the boots--tall and muddy. Then the limp, long-fingered brown hand. And--

It's Archibald.

Duras tried to fight the smile creeping up his cheeks, but it held him. He was captured by the image. That traitor, that monster, hanging by no hand but his own. It was like the gods were working for him to keep the world purged of those who were forged from the Devil and in the pits of Hel.

Although, he supposed he was a servant to the gods, and since his will had become theirs it felt like the gods were working for him. He must remain humble for his masters--that, at least, he could achieve.

He held the torch a bit higher. Archibald's neck was bruised purple, flowers blossoming blue and black around brown roots of rope.

You'll be sorry.

What a fool. Duras couldn't have been more content if he had just purged the earth of all its devils.

With a smile wider than a woman's pregnant belly he promenaded back home.

It wasn't his home, necessarily. He shared it with Olga, and the deed was in her name. And since the old village leader was dead, he could now move into Russell Pinkerton's old dwelling.

But he had one more night with his lover.

He walked in through the unlocked door and closed it, just for a moment savoring the scent of foreign spices mingling in the air.

The fire burned bright in the hearth. Duras added a bit more coal onto the flame before settling down in a large armchair he had bought during his travels. It sat right beside Olga's rocking chair. "Happy burning day, Olga."

She didn't even bother to admonish him for calling it burning day instead of its proper name, Ancestor's Day. She had explained at an earlier time that the name itself was sacred, since the day was created to worship and honor the Moracian Ancestors and save their village. But now she just set her needlework down. "Well?" She raised a dark brow. "What are your thoughts about the boy?"

The answer was out of his mouth before she had even finished the question. "Good riddance."

"Why?" Olga kept sewing busily, her eyes not on the man who had earned the titles of village leader and her lover. "He was a good man in the village and involved in politics and hunting. He brought in money."

"Monsters care if other monsters die, you see." He shrugged, like it was basic knowledge, but in truth, it had taken him several years to figure out. It was what had made him the most fearsome and powerful of monster hunters back in his home country, what had given him his good name. It had travelled with him like Archibald had--constantly and ever at his side.

Until Moracia.

"So he was a monster, naturally." Duras' lips curled up into a grim smile. Olga's hands stilled. "He could only have been a monster, to care so much if she died."

"I disagree." Olga rolled her violet eyes. "If we are all monsters for caring, than what does that make you for him? If he cared so much for her? That's a fool thing to say."

"I never cared for Archibald. He was an apprentice, that's all." He set his book down, his gaze hungrier than a bear's. "But what I do care about is you."

And, without another word, he blew out the candle and led her to bed, where he had his way with her.

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