"How do you plead?"

The man tied to the stake stared lifelessly, his body limp.

"The infidel pleads guilty," replied another missionary draped in ashen robes, who stood nearer to the man on the stake.

"Very well. That makes this a whole lot easier," the Inquisitor said as he gestured to the torchbearer.

The torchbearer shared the same lifeless eyes as the man on the stake. Without hesitation, indeed almost out of habit, he glided his dry torch over the flamepost and walked up to the man.

For a few seconds, the two men stared into each other's empty eyes, into the depths of one another's souls as dark as an abyss. Neither of their souls cried out to the other for help, their eyes conveyed nothing at all. Then, the torchbearer moved his hand to the bottom of the stake.

First the wood began to crackle; the fire inched its way to the man's leg, crawling up to his chest and then his head, engulfing him whole. The man did not flinch, he did not cry; for how would he, a man without a soul?

And there, among the onlookers in the crowd, stood a young girl. Her complexion the same as the men without souls.
Why? she asked herself. What did we do?
Tears rolled down her eyes; the plumes of smoke now touched the sky.