I've been here for two days, mostly alone aside from the other people locked up in the other cells. I can hear them through the door to my cell. Their screams and cries haven't stopped echoing in my ears.

This morning, I woke up practically in a pool of sweat. The fever brought on by the fouled wounds on my body is gaining traction.

I don't know what happens to me if I die here. I haven't really had to think about it. Every other life I've taken part in was secure. None of the others were sick or weak like Amalie is now. None of them wanted to die like she does.

Part of it is bravery. If she dies here, she spites their plans to make yet another example of her. Part of it is despair. If she were to be miraculously freed, where would she go? Certainly not back to her father. He's part of the reason Amalie's here to begin with, the bastard.

Now the jaggedness of my writing is due to the chills wracking me. 

It won't be long. One or two more days.

I've never experienced what it's like to want to die.

I don't like it.

It's not my choice, though.

                                                                                        ~~*~~

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the door to my cell was banging open. Terror flooded through me, making my mouth taste metallic as I tried to scramble to my feet, but I was too weak.

I could barely huddle back into the corner and curl my arms protectively around myself.

How I despise the sound of the chains jangling around my ankles.

Looking up through a curtain of filthy hair and a fever haze, I found the familiar hateful face of the priest. My lip curled in a snarl, but I could do little more than glare daggers at him. My insolence earned a kick aimed at my ribs. Beneath the cry of pain that tore from my lips came an unfamiliar voice.

"If I am here to treat her, I would ask you to not inflict more damage." The sharp words shocked me.

Treat me? Treat me for what? Why was he daring to take such a tone with a priest, no matter how cruel that priest might be.

"I would remind you, Herr Doktor, that this...creature has been found guilty of consorting with the Devil and practicing that most reprehensible art of witchcraft."

"Yes," the doctor said dryly. Footsteps moved toward me, shuffling over the soiled straw laying limp on the freezing stone. "You have made quite sure that everyone knows what this woman has supposedly done."

I opened my mouth to warn him that the priest would be just as happy to put him on the pyre if he wasn't careful, but the sound of the door slamming shut jolted the thought clean from my head. The footsteps drew nearer, and I couldn't stop myself from cowering slightly.

I felt more than saw as the doctor crouched down beside me. He didn't move to touch me as I huddled in the corner. What fresh Hell had they in store for me today? 

"My name is Daniel," he said, pitching his voice low. "I am a physician. They tell me you are ill."

I had never in my nineteen years met a real, trained physician. The closest thing my village had to a doctor was an old herb-wife. 

She was one of the first to burn.

When I didn't respond, he shifted a little closer, his pale, elegant hand reaching for my wrist. I couldn't have resisted even if I wanted to. He was careful not to touch the raw, painful skin around my wrists, but a whimper still slipped from between my lips as the movement made the scabs on my arms crack and ooze.

"My God," he swore lightly as the torn chemise I was wearing shifted, revealing the filthy wounds across my back and chest. His hands were freezing against my fever-scorched skin as he began to probe carefully at the sores.

I let my head lean back against the wall, closing my eyes at the novel feeling of kind hands on my body.

"What is your name?" he asked, his quiet voice bouncing around in my skull.

"Amalie," I managed to whisper, eyes opening to find him examining the raw flesh at the base of my throat. My first thought was that he had very kind eyes. They stayed kind, even though the rest of his face was a mask of anger.

The second thought was that his eyes were green. 

He spent another moment examining a particularly nasty weeping wound on my shoulder, then looked up to meet my eyes. The anger slid away, carried by the blood draining from his face. Like he was in a trance, he lifted his hand and placed it carefully against my cheek, turning my face toward the dim light coming from the lantern they had brought in.

"No," he whispered. "Please no. God have mercy."

When I blinked, it took a lot of effort to open my eyes again. I thought I was hallucinating when I found tears glittering in his eyes. The candlelight turned one golden as it trickled down his cheek and he sucked in a shaky breath, his hand leaving my face.

I grunted in surprise when his arms slid beneath me, lifting me into the air. He kicked at the door, shouting for them to open it immediately, his voice roaring in my ear as I rested my head against his chest.

More light burst across my vision, blinding me.

"What is the meaning—"

"Move," the doctor hissed, trying to bull his way past whoever was blocking the door. He didn't get far and I couldn't stop my screams as rough hands latched onto me, ripping me from the doctor's arms.

"Stop!" Daniel yelled, and I heard the sound of a fist against flesh. "Stop, you're hurting her!"

There was a grunt of pain from behind me and the priest hissed, "You will restrain yourself, Doktor, and remember that this is no innocent girl, but one of the Devil's whores."

"Then why bring me here?" Daniel snarled, outraged. "Why not simply let her die?"

There was a terrible silence. Whoever was holding me tired of the responsibility and let go. I dropped to the floor with a dull thud, my knees barking painfully against the stone floor. Gathering the scraps of my strength, I struggled to turn around only to find the doctor had been restrained by one of the guards. His light blond hair was ruffled and his eyes sparked with a deep-seated rage.

A cry tore from my lips as the priest knotted his fingers in my hair, dragging me to my feet. Daniel turned red with his fury and struggled against the ham-fisted guard holding him in place.

"Look upon the face of evil, Doktor," the priest intoned, his words full of vile pride. "And remember that to sympathize with it is to be guilty of its crimes."

Both the doctor and I froze. The priest shoved me roughly and I couldn't stop my forward momentum as I stumbled into the doctor. The guard released him and Daniel caught me, holding me tightly to his chest.

"More than one pyre can be built," the priest said silkily. 

Daniel flinched hard, taking a half step back from the priest, though his hold on me didn't loosen. I could feel the same visceral fear trembling through him that gripped my innards. He was terrified by the idea of the stake.

Then again, who wouldn't be.

I would not be responsible for this man's death. Not when the world was so lacking in kind men. 

My breath ragged in my throat, I shoved away from him as hard as I could, fetching up against the wall and nearly falling back into the cell. Baring my teeth once more, I snarled, "He is not one of us."

"No!" Daniel cried, but I shrieked over him.

"He is not one of Lucifer's children."

The look of joy on the priest's face was near ecstatic. He was finally getting what he wanted.

A confession.

With as much dignity as I could muster, I swept back into the cell, standing with my back to the men staring after me. 

The edges of my vision blackened and my heart swooped oddly in my chest. Perhaps the Lord had heard my prayers after all. My knees buckled and I fell with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, consciousness draining from me like blood.