They have promised to shoot our families—secretly, of course, as they’ve committed no crimes—if we dare utter a word throughout the proceedings. Of this, our death.

We know they’ll be killed anyway, but the last thing we could want is their blood on our already stained hands. Our blood, from the heart of kin…unthinkable.

We are not allowed to voice any words with our swollen, broken mouths, but as I look at him across the platform, I catch sight of his eyes. Those beautiful orbs; indescribable so far as color’s concerned—the ones that haunted the dreams I’ll no longer have…

Our last words to each other—our last comforting endearments, our words of courage, are transmitted with that glance…there is some peace in knowing that he is at peace…save for the fact that he could not save me, save the others he loved, from this ignoble end. Or is it ignoble—something to be ashamed of? No. How could you ever think…

No, he’s right—I ashamed to have doubted any of this—doubt is hardly fitting for a martyr. And I can think of no better word for us, as we stand, sleep-deprived and bound, awaiting our deaths as we hear our many crimes recounted for the sake of this deaf, dumb, blind crowd…

They had to have been all of these things, otherwise they’d have been out there with us—fighting until death to escape a fate, to make it cliché, worse than death…

Wasn’t it obvious? They were all given the message; they knew what to expect. Death, damnation and evil purified—rather, evil exposed, absent of any disguise, any false glitter. How could they, once intelligent, at the least, rational, beings, let themselves be so easily deceived?

A gray drizzle starts to fall on our bowed heads. I breathe deeply of the cool, moist air, letting it touch every bruise and laceration on my well-beat face. A small gift—He cannot—rather, will not—save us all from this fate, but I take this as a token of His presence—a comforting sign, a reminder—

Of what’s to come—of days long past…

I feel more moisture on my face, and I jerk my head upright. I bite on my tongue to keep from screaming. I look to him brother in spirit, husband in name—my comrade, my friend, the only other one among these gathered thousands who has any understanding of what’s actually happening in these last, disconnected moments.

I will myself to stay still. I will not responsible for their deaths—I will not—

They are finished. The bandages have been pulled away from the festering sores of our dirty deeds and we are exposed—false lepers. Unclean. Unclean.

Scarlet to snow. I have no fear. There will be no pain. No apprehension.

I let them take me to the blade—I face it, not fearlessly, but at least unflinchingly. It is not my own strength that keeps me from crying aloud—not my strength which unclenches my sore jaw and leads me to praise the One True God, in front of these gathered thousands. My family will forgive. It will feel like no more than a few moments—like falling into a dreamless sleep, then suddenly awaking. All of us. We will be reunited, and these, poor fools, deceived idiots—they will be begging the One who now grants us the immeasurable mercy they will then plead for. I do not feel satisfied so much as sick; sick that any of this ever happened—that, not too many years ago, man fell…

I hear a cry that is not my own. He knows where I am going—yet—it is not a small thing, to see this decrepit body that clove to his, be destroyed—

My last prayers are said, and my conscience is clear. The eyes of my Lord shall be looking into mine when I awake—so I save my last look of the world, my last thoughts, for him; the one who, being but human, could never love me perfectly—but he was so, so close—

I hear the blade drop; for but the moment it takes to blink, I am insensate—then I awake to the loving gaze of one who was also murdered by evil men professing righteousness—and a final, perfect victory.

For they are all here—we have overcome, and all life, knowledge, and time, is our reward.