Blackness. The stage is dark and raised to the height of a man - surrounded on all sides by a sea of unseen faces. When light finally seeps into those shadows that breathe, it is not from the harsh glare of a spot. No, it is from the clicking flare of a thousand lighters in a thousand hands. The light flickers, it writhes, it sets the stage on fire.

In the center of the stage, the flames reveal the form of a woman veiled in shadows that the light does not banish. Her skin is pale and pristine, the argent glow of a full moon. Her hair is a living thing, shifting and sighing, luminescent as it glistens with the colors of the world by night.

"Do you even understand what it is that you seek to destroy?" She asks. Her voice is the soft rustle of rain through the leaves.

The crowd is silent until a man, one man, anonymous in the sea of men, cries, "Burn the witch."

"Burn the witch," the rest of them echo, the refrain an automatic, thoughtless thing. It is hollow, and yet the words fill the space.

Sadness graces the features of the woman on stage as the flames surrounding her creep ever closer. She does not fight. She does not attempt to flee. Resolute, she remains, her head unbowed.

"Would you still seek to destroy me if I were your mother? Your sister?" Her image shifts and distorts, becoming everyone and no one. "What if I were you?"

To a man, each of them sees every person he loves in her features. Each man sees himself. And yet the anonymous call rings forth and is echoed again, "Burn the witch."

The ring of fire nigh licks at the woman's feet. She glances at the flames and shakes her head. Tears limn her dark eyes, irises the color of primordial waters. Black. Beckoning. Home.

"I stand accused of being a seductress," she says, her voice calm, resigned. "An enchantress. But it is you who summoned me through your longing to be whole. I cannot be destroyed, only hidden, transformed through fear into something your mind will see as a monster. A ghost. Something insidious that creeps and claws at your thoughts until you finally find the courage to see yourself in my face. It is far simpler to look upon the truth before it is corrupted by the endless torment of your own imagination - before you peer into the monster your mind will mold out of the parts of me you seek to destroy."

Again, a third and final time, the anonymous crier calls, "Burn the witch." And the crowd replies in chorus. "Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch."

"So mote it be," the woman breathes. A single tear wells from her eye - it falls upon the tongues of fire as they caress her flesh, transforming the red and gold light to a brilliant violet. In a flash, the violet flame consumes her and the stage is empty save the carpet of firelight.

The fire devours all that remains of the stage and it collapses in upon itself. Transfixed, the crowd remains. The flames roar into a bonfire, illuminating the features of all who stand witness.

The woman's voice touches the thoughts of every man. It seems gentle, in the manner that the eye of a hurricane is gentle. It whispers and every man present hears the words in his soul, "Be mindful of what the light touches."