Edward wasn’t positive how he’d gotten himself stuck in the cell the vampire had been locked in as though he was some criminal. It didn't escape his notice that in his mind he was referring to her as ‘the vampire’ again. He should have known she’d save herself and leave him to his own pathetic fate. It was in her nature, really, and he couldn't even fault her for it. It irked him, he couldn't deny that, but he knew she couldn't help herself. It was like the feeding frenzy that she couldn't stop even with great effort.
They came for him. He was marched through the tunnel leading out to a gloomy day that matched his countenance. He was booed and labeled a vampire lover, a fool that allowed a vampire to drink from him, and a degenerate. His body ached, his head pounded, and he began to feel hot before he ever made it to the dais with the stake. The crowd blurred in front of him and he couldn't make out anyone’s faces.
As he was led up the short set of steps, he began to feel his skin crawl. He scratched furiously, the chains binding his wrists clanging together and making his efforts more difficult. His reach wasn't as good as he would have liked. His shoulders twitched, his fingers cramped, and his toes began to curl. His heart was beating faster than should have been possible as he was forced to stand in front of the wooden pike that was to be his pyre. He was tied securely to the stake, around his feet and waist, his bound hands in front of him as his shoulders were tied as well. His vision faded and then blacked out entirely.
Someone laughed, he wasn't sure who, as the kindling at his feet was lit. The flames caught slowly and built from there. He prayed. He knew he was going to die a slow and painful death, and all he could do was pray that it would go quickly instead. His head was filled with a rushing noise, followed by screaming. He thought maybe it was him screaming as the flames consumed him, or maybe the women in the crowd were horrified by his burning flesh. The wall of flames was rising higher, so high that he couldn't see over the tops of them any longer. Their intense heat was scorching his face; his eyeballs felt like they were melting into his sockets. The searing agony was beginning to make it clear that escape was not in his future, what little future he had left. He wanted to give up, to go back to the cold, damp cell he came from. It would be better than the heat. Anything would be better than the flames licking at his shoes and singeing his fingertips.
As the burning consumed him, he mentally cried out for her. He knew she would be able to hear him from wherever she was, but he also knew it was futile. She was terrifying in her bloodthirstiness, in her need for him above all other things. Death and destruction were all she knew. Those attributes had been the downfall of them all, and even a monster could admit that.
He hadn't had the strength to go against the others, and now he was paying the ultimate price. There was nothing else to do for it but give up. If he closed his eyes, he could see Isabella one last time; her sable hair swirling over her shoulders, seeming to move even while she was still. Her skin was porcelain, a luminescent ivory that lacked the offset of blue veins. In his vision, her eyes were focused on him, steady and strong.
The screams drew closer, louder. He recognized Isabella’s voice, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. He wanted to dream of her, of them together in some faraway place where nobody could touch them ever again. His face felt numb as his hair melted to his skin and he thought he felt cold palms on his chest over his heart that beat like hummingbird wings. His brain was too fogged over to make sense of what was happening; maybe he was hallucinating. Her voice sounded softly in his head, telling him to hang on for a little while longer.
“Isabella?”
He imagined her face, white skin and dark circles under bright red eyes.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
“No, Edward. You’re undead.”
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