She would not scream. This she vowed herself, as they bound her limbs to the pyre, the layers of kindling at her feet raising her high above the gathering crowd, ensuring she was exposed to every eye in the square. They grew volatile, impatient.

As the man in black shoved the remaining twigs at her ankles, their murmurs grew and grew. Louder and louder. Their voices became a savage cacophony, jabbing at her eardrums, until the pounding of her own heart became a force so violent within her body that it threatened to overhelm her. How very strange it seemed, that the occasion of death would otherwise have these supposedly devout folk glued to their knees in insistent devotion, reciting hushed prayers to their Lord in a continuous stream, spurred by the reminder of their own mortality. Yet a public execution could create beasts, these Christians suddenly carnivorous.

She saw their faces. People she had passed every day, grown up beside, whose market stalls she had purchased from, whose wives, husbands and children she had healed. But these faces were savage, unfamiliar. Men, women, children - united by the hungry gleam in their eyes, lit by feverish anticipation.

However, amonst it all, one face stood out to her. A face she had once cared for. A face she had trusted. The young man's soft brown eyes met hers; they held for a mere moment before he flinched from the ice of her unyielding stare. His eyes lowered to the floor. She hoped it was with shame. She hoped that stare bore into him, the coldness imprinting on his memory. She hoped it would never let him forget. He had known the truth, but he was a coward.

Her heart pounded harder still. Like a drum, a great pounding drum beating against the cage of her ribs. She felt each surge of blood fill her bound limbs, flooding to her fingertips and to her toes. Why did she have to feel this now? Why at this moment, was her body screaming to her of all the life she still had left within those veins? The drum within her chest was urging her to burst free of the restraints, to run, run and run and run, and never look back. But it was too late for that now.

She had to keep her head up now, up to the sky where the birds soared overhead. If she did not, they would see the tears fall. They will not see me cry, they will not hear me scream. Let the fools believe she was a witch, but not a coward. Never a coward.

Then the crowd roared.

She heard the crackling. Glimpsed the glow of the oranges, yellows and reds beginning to dance in the early autumn winds. Felt the merciless heat swell beneath her. Then they were licking hungrily at her toes, at the soles of her feet, her ankles, as she clenched her jaw to the agony that made her writhe with every ounce of strenghth she had left against the ropes. There was a war inside her, and she could not fight the tears that streamed down her blistering cheeks.

A cry from the crowd, as her dress caught light. Screams, but not from her.

A billow of smoke.

The world turned black.