all was grey on that craggy hill where she took her final breath;
all but the flames which licked at her hair, the brilliant color of the dying sun.
in pain, she focused on the dark banks of clouds in the distance, pregnant with rain; praying for salvation.

the crowd dispersed; they'd had their show.
nothing left but a charred stake, the echo of a scream. the storm clouds moved in then, as the priest took his leave.
embers hissed before slowly winking out in the rain, the spirit of the woman released; drifting upwards in tendrils of sacred smoke; a prayer answered too late.