COLD FLOOR, DAMP WALLS. Mouldering straw, dark corners. Their eyelids were heavy, and they caught sight of the room in flashes. The world went dark for a moment, and there were hands clamping around their arms, fingers rough and vice-like against their clammy flesh. They were dragged forward, uncertain if this was a dream or truth, unable to muster the strength to stand in either case. They stared at the floor, cobbled stones giving way to muddy wooden boards, to what seemed like a very long staircase. They felt wind on their cheek, the fresh air bittersweet. It felt like they had been in that cell for years or hours, and they weren't sure which answer was correct.

The guards pulled them to their feet, their knees buckling under their insignificant weight until one snarled something and held them up, the sharp points of the man's armour digging into their arm. They felt the rope, coarse and thick, as it slid around their neck. The floor dropped away beneath them, and pain blossomed bright and agonising. They gasped, and everything went dark once more.

A dirt road? Rough wood beneath their cheek. It hurt all over, dull ache radiating from their head and flowing through their bones. Their eyes were open and staring, glassy with pain. Then there was a sharp pain again, and they cried out, a low moan. There was a cry of alarm from above them, and panic rang through the air. There was anger, then, igniting in the pit of their stomach, primal and fierce. How dare this happen? How dare they capture them, how dare they let themselves get captured? The anger grew, and the pain dwindled. They felt something slick on the back of their neck, and they tried to move their arms, their legs- anything that would let them reach for the person they knew stood behind them. Then, there was another sharp pain, and their vision dipped again.

It is as though a great weight has been lifted. There is no pain. There is no fear. It has been washed away, replaced by red hot fury, and they pull themselves up, shouts of fear and horror replacing the alarm as they stagger to their feet. Then there is only blood, a perfect blend of their own and their captor's, as they wrench the axe from the stump and swing it wildly into the first thing that comes within reach. Their face splits into a grin, and their terrible laughter joins the chorus.

Their rebirth was quick and brutal, a trail of bodies scattering the ground behind them. They stop only to pick up their head as they step toward the gallows they had hung from just a short ten minutes ago. The air is thick with the scent of blood, heavy and metallic, and they laugh with the joy of a grudge fulfilled.