/ Another new chapter already, I'm in a writing fever again. This one's a little shorter, but it's only part one. Please feel free to leave (constructive) feedback. Enjoy. /

Burn, Witch, Burn

"So I'll begin not to love you
Turn around, you'll see me runnin'
I'll say I loved you years ago
And tell myself you never loved me."
- Stevie Nicks, Silver Springs

Chapter IV: Any Last Words? [Part 1]

The sun was still up high in the sky, there was no cloud that would have suggested upcoming rain – there was nothing that could delay the burning of the witch in this isolated area in the outskirts of New Orleans.

It was almost time.

A rather small group of mostly females, accompanied by two men in suits, was approaching the stage where the play was about to take place. All but one of the females were dressed in black, merely one – Myrtle Snow, walking ahead of the group, wore a red Balenciaga dress and a carried a parasol to cover herself from the burning sunlight.

The way the redheaded witch walked – with dignity, sophistication, grace, as if she was walking to her throne or on a Milan fashion week runway rather than right to her own death – it was majestic. Someone watching from the sidelines would have thought that this graceful entity had no difficulties walking up to that stake, yet Myrtle herself knew how troubled she was, how hard it was for her to take each step closer to her doom – ready to yield to her fate. Every step of hers was streaked with remorse and maybe a bit of fear, but most of all, deep down Myrtle knew this was the right and the only way. The only way to escape this madness, this pain.

Black sunglasses covered the flame-haired witch's blue eyes, shielding off any possibility to catch a glimpse of her tears.

Myrtle Snow was, in fact, fighting against her tears.

Her thoughts revolved around the moment when she learned of Fiona Goode's passing – a joy to all, yet a terrifying moment of horror to the Guardian of Veracity in the Vernacular.

'This blood is my mother's.'

Cordelia's words rang inside Myrtle's head, reappeared again and again and had even haunted her dreams - had turned her dreams into horrific, unbearable nightmares. Over and over, the news of the Supreme's death replayed in her head, and the feeling of utter emptiness returned every time that Myrtle had the feeling she was doing at least a tad better. Every single time, she was thrown even deeper into the abyss of mourning.

Never in this world had Myrtle ever thought she could feel the way she did. Eventually, her suffering would come to an end. Only minutes from now, she would stand up on that handcrafted hill and the flames would enclose around her body and release her, once and for all.

The overall atmosphere was one of sadness – it seemed none of the present witches was keen on watching their mentor, their friend die such a scaring death. Wasn't it one of the most terrible deaths, to be burnt alive? But did it matter in the end? After all, whoever burnt would die and nothingness would surround them. They would not feel a thing anymore, they would not remember the tremendous pain they had gone through just minutes before.

Myrtle Snow was no exception. The pain alone would be too much to cope with – she knew how it felt already, after all, and maybe that was one of the reasons it scared her just a little? Then again, every physical pain in the world was more bearable than Myrtle having lost the one woman whom she has had feelings for, for more than the past four decades.

The one woman who had meant more to her than anyone could ever possibly understand.

How would anyone understand? Myrtle had deep feelings for a woman who had bullied her, dragged her down, took away every pride she ever had, humiliated her again and again. Yet, there was something – something inexplicable lingering between her and Fiona – and Myrtle knew that Fiona felt the same. In a twisted manner, there was an interest in one another, some kind of mutual attraction, an eagerness to always be around the other and prove to each other who was truly superior; and there was profound love between them. Or had been, before Fiona was murdered by her lover boy, the infamous Axeman.

Their relationship had been twisted. Twisted, hurtful, and confusing.

At least it was what Myrtle Snow believed to be the truth about her decades-long relationship of mutual hatred with the former Supreme.

Banning the thoughts from her mind for just a brief moment, the redheaded woman felt herself being pressed against the stake, her wrists being tied together behind the trunk and the rope wrapping around her waist and hips several times. Closing her eyes, the flame-haired witch allowed one of the men in suits to spill a canister of methylated spirits over her frame, soaking her fluffy hair in the liquid – the locks soon flattening – and the fabric of her dress sticking to her curves. The smell burnt in Myrtle's nose.

Just a few moments of suffering to survive were left.

Myrtle Snow had opened her eyes again, looking through her sunglasses at the group of young witches in front of the stake, staring up at her. Right in the front there was Cordelia, a look of horror in her face.

"In the absence of the Council, as reigning Supreme of this coven-" Cordelia's voice was bold, determined, more so than usual – Myrtle knew this poor witch did her best to mask her pain and her reluctance to do this. Oh no, Fiona's daughter could not betray Myrtle Snow.

"I hereby decree, for the murders of our sister witch Cecily Pembroke and our colleague Quentin Fleming - you, Myrtle Snow, are hereby sentenced to death by fire."

That was it. The sentence was spoken, she had just been rightfully convicted for her devious deed. Myrtle, however, was not willing to leave the world without making a reassuring comment, perhaps help the new Supreme to keep her head held high.

"Delia … my sweet daughter", the redhead began, her voice echoing through the air with its sound as sweet as it had never been before. It sounded soothing. Yes, Myrtle wanted to make this as easy as possible for Cordelia, although deep down she was fully aware that it was impossible. This woman had just sentenced her mother, even if non-biological, to death. How could that ever be easy?

"I've never been more proud", Myrtle continued sweetly. Maybe this was also an attempt at soothing herself? Convincing herself that this was easier than it seemed, that it was going to be over sooner rather than later, and that eventually, her death was truly for the greater good, next to her purely egotistical intentions?

Breathing heavily, Cordelia was still staring up at the former headmistress of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies. It seemed she tried to calm her own nerves and not let Myrtle's words get to her. The Supreme was scared she might break down at this very moment, and fail – again.

Instead, Cordelia took one last deep breath. There was a moment of silence lingering among the attendees of the event. A brief pause for everyone to inhale and exhale once more, to process what exactly was going on at this point, in the deserted outskirts of New Orleans.

Cordelia Goode was anything but weak, Myrtle knew that now – she had always known, but the current situation proved it to her yet again. There was no single doubt within Myrtle's thoughts – she had never been more proud of her sweet, little Delia. The sound of the reigning Supreme's voice was cold, icy, all of a sudden. The warmth, the hurt and the fear, they seemed to have disappeared as she spoke her further words rather boldly again.

"Any last words?"

Another brief moment of silence occurred before Myrtle parted her lips lightly to speak.

"Myrt …"