A/N: Eeeek! I meant to have this story up a month ago! Not that it matters anyway; this category never gets reviews. But here's the first draft, subject to edit, because it was hastily done.
Highest Honor
The sword rested lightly on the top of the Captain's neck, clenched tightly in the wrinkled white hands of the arch bishop, face as pallid and grim as a December rainstorm. The Captain's face is knotted into a wrathful grimace, his mouth frowning and his eyes burning like cerulean fire, while strands of his long golden hair fell about his sweating face. He knew what he had done, and he knew what would happen.
"The penalty for treason is death."
But there was no fear of death in this Captain's heart. Only the slightest bit of regret—there were so many things he'd planned to do before he passed out of this world. There was Esmerelda, for one thing. He thought of her and heaved a sigh, for he knew that she, like him, would probably die a martyr.
The Captain could not bring himself to regret what he'd done: not even if kept him from seeing Esmerelda again. Nothing mattered except that he had done his duty.
"It's a pity," said the clergyman, clutching the sword, his voice resonating through the smoking air like a bugle; "you had a promising career."
Captain Phoebus looked up, his face sweating and burning with fury. He had only one last sentence to say before the sword was raised and brought down again with decapitating force:
"Consider it my highest honor, sir."