The Martyr
I am in trouble. I am in trouble but I do not care. I am going to die. I am going to die and I do not care. The executioner will tie me to the stake and I will burn, and I do not care. The wind is cold and foreboding, my black satin fur bristles at it's touch. My body is clothed in peasant clothing, a tunic made from burlap, the last clothes I will ever wear. My arms are held behind my back, my wrists restrained by powerful lupine hands as I am walked to the dreaded stake. I'm not ready for death but yet I am. I have my strongest faith in Eerbua that I will rest peacefully among my ancestors once my soul leaves the surface world.

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Ladies and lads, including children, gasp quietly as their judgmental eyes follow the peasant vulpine. Children are held closely to their mothers as if the prisoner would strike at any moment like an evil snake. Others are yelling in slurs and curses as they raise crackling torches. A hooded figure glides and squeezes through the enraged crowds, the ends of her tattered cloak briskly drifting behind her as she makes her way front and center. She watches as her beloved is restrained to the stake. Her wrists are bound roughly with rope, her arms behind her in traditional fashion. 

The cloaked figure gasps to herself as her lapine eyes water with tears. She wanted to stop the inevitable fate her love has been doomed to, but she is powerless to. She'd be burned just like her if she tried to rebel. A figure with the shape of a canine was cloaked in a black garment, two slits were open in it for his eyes. He held a torch that a flame burned on-top of. He knelt down and touched the flame to the kindling under the stake, and ignited it, beginning the execution.

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The fire is hot. The fire is hot beneath my trembling paws. "This is it." I think hopelessly to myself as I stare blankly to the horizon. The corners of my lips quiver and I cannot help but wear a terrified frown. I don't want to die. I'm not ready to die. I'm going to burn on this cross and die without dignity. I will go down as Ellice the Martyr, the traitor to Babblonia.

 Oh god, I'm not ready for death. I can feel my throat clench, my tear ducts start to swell. I can find myself finding it harder to breathe in the rising smoke. My lips part as my sinuses swell, making it near impossible to breathe from my nose. I sniffle. I am on the verge of tears. I was never ready for this. The flames catch my tunic and start to eat at the burlap.

 They are quick to spread and I start to panic. Before I even realize it, my clothing is engulfed in hungry fire. Oh god, it hurts. I can hear the crowds gasping in amazement as the fire rages upon my body. My skin is being seared, my throat burns, I can feel the eerie chill of death brushing against my neck. I open my mouth to scream but I only let out a pained wheeze. I continue to inhale thick smoke, coughing violently every now and then. My head slumps in hopelessness and I start to sob. My eyes are still open and I still don't know why I haven't closed them yet. 

Everything hurts. My skin is blistering and my fur is cooking;half of it has been burnt off. I weakly struggle to lift my head up one last time. My eyes widen, my heart pumps rapidly as I see a familiar face through the smoke. I start to sob harder, my tears are heavy and thick and run down my chin. It is my love, my dearest, witnessing my last moments burning on this stake. I choke and my throat spasms. My terrified frown trembles and the corners of my lips curl. I am smiling. By the gods, I am smiling. I laugh. I'm cackling now. I feel happy as I start to feel my soul leave my body. I lift my head to the sky and I scream to the heavens as if I'm freeing my spirit. My head slumps and everything goes pitch black.

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The voice of ravens rattle through their throats and into the pink evening sky. The air smells like the wood in a fireplace. The wind playfully flies through the leaves of oak trees. The old village square is silent and empty. A lone lapine lady sorrowfully strolls up to a stake, the kindling under it has been reduced to a pile of scorched hay and ash. She lifts her head, the hood of her cloak falling to her shoulders. She holds out her arms and the cloak falls to the sandstone bricks she is standing upon. She falls to her knees and lets her head fall into the palms of her hands as she begins to mournfully howl. What remains of her loved one is a charred vulpine skeleton restrained to the blackened stake;Ellice the Martyr, traitor to Babblonia.