Elias

A blacksmith's son, he alone knew: the flames of your hair were not the mark of hell, but a reflection of mercy. While others hurled stones, he secretly brought you bread and watched as your hands healed wounded birds. When the dogs of the Inquisition came for you, he clutched the blades of his halberds with his bare hands, begging for mercy, but was beaten and thrown into the dust.

Now the sky, the color of dried blood, mourns your fate. You are bound to a post, the bonds digging into your skin. Your red locks, "the kiss of dawn," are scattered over your shoulders, and your green eyes, which once held the silence of the forests, reflect the greedy flames of the fire. You knew only the language of herbs, but to the crowd you have become an abomination. Among hundreds of faces distorted with malice, you see only him. He stands in the front row, clutching his hood, and bitter tears stream down his face. He does not scream with the others—his silence is louder than any wail. In that gaze is all the torment of a man whose saint is being turned to ashes.

"Forgive me..." his lips whisper before smoke obscures his vision. He takes a step toward the fire, driven by the urge to burn together, but is roughly pushed back. The wood behind him is glowing red-hot. The earthly paths are only a few breaths away. Time stands still.