After the man known as Scythe died, he was sure that the next thing he'd know would be fire, brimstone, and the beginning of an endless tortured existence. He'd been ready for it. He never, in all of his  years, would have imagined that his afterlife would have been so blissful. How could this be possible? He'd lived a hard life, killed more men than he could count, and done many things that he shuddered to think about. Regardless of his expectations, when the blackness finally began to lift, he slowly became aware of an utter, complete, and undeniable sense of comfort. He felt warm, soft, comfortable, and at peace. They were all emotions and feelings he had not known since he was a child.<br/><br/>He could tell that he was starting to return to whatever conscious he would know as a spirit, and fought doing so. He wanted to remain as he was, and just enjoy this feeling. He was so comfortable.... so tired. Whatever twist of fate had brought him here, he planned to take advantage of it.<br/><br/>He heard a strange sound, almost like a whisper, but different.... and realized he had ears. In fact, now that he thought about it, he could feel the rest of his body. His head was supported by something firm, and also soft. His hands were resting at his sides, and he could feel some sort of fabric under his fingers. He was lying flat, stretched out on a warm, soft surface. A bed?<br/><br/>Curiosity got the better of him and he made an attempt to pry his eyes open. This was a mistake. Light pierced his eyes, immediately set them to flames, and turned them to cinders right in their sockets. Or... at least that was how it felt.<br/><br/>Alright, so maybe his expectation of hell hadn't been far off. After shutting his eyes tight to stop the burning, he took a breath, braced himself, and tried again. This time, he was able to glimpse a blurred, shapeless vantage before him. He stretched as he looked around, drawing in a deep breath, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head. Pain shot through his body when his muscles tensed. He hurt. Everywhere. It wasn't nearly as bad as he remembered it had been before he died... but... he still hurt.<br/><br/>Heaven couldn't possibly hurt this bad... but there was no way he would ever expect Hell to feel this good... Finally, he figured, despite the impossibility of it, that he must be still living. That meant he was still a slave. He would still be expected to return to the fighting ring. He still held no future, and no past. He would still serve the mistress, and she would still set tasks for him that she knew would cause him unspeakable torment of spirit. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks and he sagged into the bed, a groan pulling loose from his chest before he could top it.<br/><br/>Wishing for the death he had thought he'd finally earned, he his head to his side, draped a splinted arm over his face, and tried to convince his heart to stop beating.