Marks

The man had not been home in six years, six years since his feet had last touched the dirt road that lead to his mothers farm. It had only been six hours since it first began to burn. He watched it smolder amusement in his heart. She was not so different from him after all.

The farm had been torched, this years crops turned to ash - what little difference as that’s how they tasted when his mother cooked as well. His men had brought him the scarecrow wearing her wedding dress and that felt like more of a slap than anything else. It was draped across his arm now still pristine despite the fire.

“Perhaps you took it too far sir - torching her fathers church and all.”

A hand dismissed the notion. He had taken it too far long ago and he had known it even has the blood dried on his hands. She was stirring up memories on purpose. Reopening old wounds, this was her game. How he hated her for it. How he loved to think of the last time he had seen her.

“Let it burn.” His voice startled the few ash covered men attempting to stop the fire.

Bucket water sloshed as it was dropped and his men wandered back toward the caravan. The flames flickered with delight. He slid the sash from the wedding dress before tossing the rest into the flames. They gobbled it up like the starving children his men had claimed as soldiers.

He smiled, “It purges.”