Dionysia

Ulrich couldn’t remember how long has it been since he had started dancing. All he knew is that days had passed. He wasn’t sure how many, however. His body was sore and stiff. He wished he could quit the dance, but she wouldn’t let him. At least that’s what he presumed. She had danced with him since the beginning; she was dancing with all of them. Some of the people fell down in exhaustion, and Ulrich had no time to glance at their fallen carcasses. He didn’t know if they were simply out cold or, in fact dead. Others had waltzed away in their maddened dancing, far away from Ulrich’s line of sight.

A while ago, Ulrich tried pleading with her to release his body from her spell. She greeted him with only a smile and her usual humming. He came to resent her form. There is a limit to how long a man could stare at his tormentor. In any other circumstances, the young man would find her attractive, even though she was a foreigner. He could tell she was an oriental woman. To him, she seemed like the daughters of Greek and Turk merchants, even with her green eyes and pale skin. The way she had danced, her movements were definitely oriental. No proper Catholic woman would ever dare dance like that – especially not in the middle of the market.

Ulrich’s mind had betrayed him. Finally, the mists of hypnos started clouding his mind. His muscles started ossifying one after the other. The smell of wine had filled his nostrils, and the woman’s humming flooded his ears. He felt himself finally at peace.

While Ulrich began dozing off, his body was still locked in the macabre dance. Thus, his foot collapsed underneath him. A stream of liquid agony made its course from his ankle upwards, jolting him from his drowsy trance.

His body wouldn’t listen to the warning; Ulrich couldn’t help but scream, and yet no sound came escaping from his throat. The shock served only to amplify the violent jolts of pain that surged from his ankle. He kept trying to scream, but nothing came of it.

He tried keeping his leg steady, but nothing came of it, his body was no longer his to control. She, the she-devil was in charge. She couldn’t have been just any woman, she had to be a witch - a devil worshiper.

Otherwise, how could she have danced so swiftly that the tapping of her feet produced fireless smoke? How else could she force the whole town into dancing along with her?

Filled with a new sense of hatred for the witch, Ulrich managed to almost forget the pain in his leg. Each and every passing had still reminded him of his injury, but at least now it was bearable. Somehow, Ulrich managed to get lost in the mazes of his mind once more. He was trying to escape his reality.

Her pleasant humming flooded his ears once more, and the smell of wine intoxicated his already fractured psyche.

A moment of pure bliss.

A moment that was followed by the sensation of an ax blade being lodged into his knee. The feeling sent shock waves all the way through his intestines, causing him to vomit violently.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it kept growing worse.

His vision returned to him at long last, albeit blurred by the immense pain.

That’s when the young man saw the latest cause of his suffering; his knee was holding on by a thread.

Bone and muscle stained with blood protruded through his broken skin.

He tried to scream, but no sound came. In its stead, the taste of wine filled his gullet.

His legs kept on moving on their own, sending thunderbolts of anguish throughout the rest of his body.

Ulrich’s body kept dancing long after his pain consumed his mind. Even so, the woman might have been cruel, but she wasn’t entirely heartless. The young man had finally earned her affection. After days of endless waltzing, she had finally let him go. Once free, Ulrich’s heart was seized on all sides by great pressure, and the young man simply collapsed.

Even before his carrion hit the ground, Ulrich had already expired.

And the witch? She didn’t mind, there were still others who could take part in her bacchanal dance.