France watched in complete horror as he watched the flames climb up on the wooden cross, and up to his beloved Jeanne D'arc. No, he thought. No!
The air was thick and was filled with the scent of burnt wood; the fire crackling as it burned in bright orange, yellow, and red. Black smoke had filled France's vision, but he could still see her - he could see her tied on the cross, her short, blonde hair a mess and her armor replaced with a drab, white dress.
The fire had finally reached her and crawled up her legs, burning her skin and turning it into a deep, cherry red that would soon blacken. The maiden let out an ear ripping scream and the crowd had cheered, shouting insults at her. "Repent!" they all cheered, "Repent for your sins, witch!"
France tried to get through the crowd, to get a closer look at Jeanne, to help her out - just do anything to help her! "Stop," he cried, "She's not a witch!"
But they didn't listen. They kept chanting for her to repent, to burn, and it all grew louder - livelier - when Jeanne screamed in agonizing pain. It hurt a lot. Her blood boiled and her skin grew hot to the point that it turned into a charcoal black. The flames snaked up her body and onto her dress, burning the tough fabric into ashes.
Hot tears were flowing down the Frenchman's face as he watched, completely useless. Jeanne noticed his stare and looked down to him with pained blue eyes. There was nothing he could do he knew. He could only watch - watch his beloved burn into a crisp.