sati (dust is what we come to)

by romanticinpanic

Summary:

How does Fiyero’s story end?
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"Suttee, or sati, is the obsolete Hindu practice in which a widow burns herself upon her husband's funeral pyre"—Sophie Gilmartin, "The Sati, the Bride, and the Widow: Sacrificial Woman in the Nineteenth Century

Notes:

Sati is a complicated practice. It has been forced or done because of a lack of other options, but also as a voluntary action of legitimate grief. This is a tradition that has been used to oppress women, but is also something women have willingly used to express their grief. It's a layered topic that this little 400 word story cannot address in its entirety. If it compels you, I encourage researching it more in your own time.

I do not endorse Sati as a practice, but in this case I am treating it as a neutral descriptor to draw cross-cultural parallels with.

Let his flesh not be torn / Let his blood leave no stain / Though they beat him / Let him feel no pain / Let his bones never break / And however they try / To destroy him / Let him never die / Let him never die

He is old. So very old.

Together they had wandered the lands beyond Oz for so long. They’d be happy together for so long.

But the longer they traveled, the more the curse showed just how different he’d become. How her work had changed him.

His skin was always easier to repair. Patches instead of bandages, seamless stitches instead of chartreuse scars, new burlap instead of wrinkles.

It did have its benefits. It meant he could protect her. He could be her… test dummy. He always was a fool.

He could do it. Take the blow, the beating, the pain. After all, he had nothing to fear. Except fire. 

She had passed a week ago. He held himself together long enough to settle their affairs. To make sure whatever they left behind wouldn’t hurt any scavengers. He had done his job. He was ready to rest now.

He placed her body—now a pale and rigid celadon—on top of the pyre he had made. 

A match. A torch. The one thing that could free him anymore.

Lit, he raised it up to give himself a moment. He had waited a long time for this, he wasn’t going to let a stray spark beat him to the punch.

He wondered if anyone could see the flame. Just how alone was he? If there was someone, would they follow it? Would they find the bodies? Would his even have anything to leave behind? Would they recognize them? Would news travel back to the ones they left so long ago? Or would they have no clue of where they came from? Would they come up with their own stories? Would they realize they had been in love?

Fiyero wondered how the fire reflected in eyes. He never did fully adjust to his new face. He spent so much of his youth gazing into mirrors. That wasn’t a habit he had time for anymore since…

He looked down one final time at his wife, watching the light flicker over her aged features. He’d do it all again—every beating, every strand of straw, every night in wilderness—if it meant he could have her.

He smiled and let the torch fall on them both.