The assassination of a beast by an unrepentant beauty.
You lie in a crumpled heap on the ground, blood flowing freely, coloring your rough coat a brilliant red. Let it be said that you died with dignity, befitting the man you once were. No struggle, no resistance, no animal-like frenzy. Frankly I expected more, though I would be the first to admit that looks are deceiving, or perhaps that would have been you.
I wait to see if you are truly dead, idly watching as roses bloomed from soft fur soil, as they congealed and wilted when the chill settled between your bones. I wonder whether you would have been cheered or depressed by that. You always loved roses, seeking company in the deceptive flowers that are more thorns than charm.
I smile lightly and bid farewell to you, your eyes still open in an expression of quiet resignation, of almost happiness.
Time passes, and yet you remain my favorite. As they lead me to the guillotine for the murder of some faceless foreign prince, one of the many that I had the pleasure of meeting, I almost wish that this punishment was for your death, instead of his.
I step up on the platform, flippant and proud, as though this isn't the ceremony for my beheading. The executioner asks me for my forgiveness, pretending he needs an assassin's grace, and when I grant it, my final words.
Like with everything else, I steal yours.
"I have no regrets but a wonderful time."