Inspired by The School for Good and Evil (AHA, I LOVE THIS SERIES NOW-) and the song above uwu

AU: Demons and Angels (Check out my First Art Book for more context!)

Rising embers lifted up towards the sky as Willow fought back choked sobs. The anguished cries of his mother racked through the air as her body began to subdue to the flames. Willow bit down hard on his tongue, fighting back tears as he repeated his mother's words over and over in his mind: 

Don't speak, don't move, and ESPECIALLY don't cry. Don't let them know you are the son of a witch, my dear. Don't let them know.

He sucked in a shaky breath, rubbing at his eye-sockets. 

Mom.

I want my mom.

He continued to watch, the screams and cries convulsing inside of him, begging to be let out. He fought them, forcefully shoving back sob after sob.

Don't make a sound. 

Don't cry.

Another wail echoed through his head, lashing around his skull as his mother wept in torment. The crowd around him began to yell and scream, wishing for her death. They all cheered as the flames climbed carefully up from her feet, continuing up her body. 

Don't look away. Don't or they will find you.

Willow was shaking. He was trembling so horribly that he looked like a shriveled leaf battering in a hurricane. He had to do something, SAY SOMETHING.

Don't.

Don't.

He ingested a sob, a desperate call for his mother as the fire rushed up her chest, quickly consuming her.

And the screaming.

The screaming and screaming.

It hurts, it said. It hurts.

His shaky hands moved to cover his 'ears', to block out the horrid, horrid noise.

Don't move.

He stopped and quietly put them down, whimpering now. 

Don't leave, mother.

Gasty gave him a curious smile. "What's wrong with fire?"

Willow sat at his desk, his hands shaking at the little candle resting beside his papers. He swallowed a small whimper. His mothers words still echoed in his head gently...

Don't cry, Willow. Don't cry.

Gasty walked over, bringing a chair with him. He settled down on it after placing it beside Willow, studying him intently. "It's not gonna hurt you."

Willow stared at his paper, the quivering quill in his hand producing the worst handwriting he's ever written. "It's not. Right. Of course."

Gasty leaned against the desk, looking at the paper. "Scared of fire?"

Willow took a deep, deep breath. He counted to three in his head before releasing it. "Deathly."

"How so?" Gasty poked at a small knick-knack perched in front of him.

Willow set his hands on the table. "I'm a witch doctor."

"Well, I know that already."

The taller folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the desk and placing his forehead on his hands. "My mother was burned to the stake for being a witch."