As Misha leaned over the prone form, the screaming searing pressure in his skull seemed to abate in anticipation. A thread from the loose hood’s rough hem tickled his cheek irritatingly: something was wrong. The form was cold, pale, and too still: bloodless.
A trap.
Just then, eight large men grabbed him — four to each scrawny arm. His cloak was thrown off and his naked moonlit body thrust against a post behind him, feet picking up splinters as they dragged. He had been staked before (to a stout tree in France for the eighty or ninety years it took to wriggle himself out) and the ninth man had to adjust the placement of the iron railroad spike so that it would hold, and not fall right through the existing hole.
When this was done, a smaller nail was driven through both his wrists and into the back of the pole, which was then hoisted up and brought to a cobbled square. He was laid vertically, and a rusty hacksaw was produced.
“Please,” Misha said, foolishly. “Some blood. Just a drop.” His teeth itched.
The man replied by roughly yanking his long, dirty hair toward the beam, holding his head flat with it. He began to saw.
The man did not saw through the beam, and instead merely removed Misha’s head, holding it by the hair. Misha looked on curiously as two men hauled his body away. Something was happening but he was too hungry to think clearly.
He was tied by the hair to a rack with several other heads that seemed to be dormant…
