For last week's b7friday Leonard Cohen challenge, 200 words, set PGP.
Oh, So Bright
The others, like Dayna and Klyn and Deva and that bitch Arlen, they buried in the cold, damp ground, but Blake they burned. It was supposed to be some sort of mythical end for a hero, but Vila didn't see why. He'd never fancied eating barbecued animals, so why would he want to go and watch someone he'd thought of as a friend get burned to a crisp? Soolin didn't go either, which surprised Vila until he remembered that the main method used on Gauda Prime to clear the farmers off their land was fire.
Tarrant and Avon were there: Tarrant because he didn't want to show weakness in front of the rebels and because he'd once heard that cremated corpses sat up; Avon as a mark of the respect everyone assumed he would have, found astride the body as if defending it.
As Blake blazed, Avon's lips drew back from his teeth. Ah, yes, he would have approved of this bizarre show. Blake had been consumed by the fire of his idealism, uncaring whether those who stood too close were burned. It was fitting. This was the way Avon would remember him: not the bloated, bloodstained corpse, but incandescent.
Inspired by the lyrics of Joan of Arc.