Shit, shit, shit, why are you so goddamn slow?

Valentín's head is bowed, legs almost buckling beneath him as he stands at the gallows, and the outlaw tries not to vomit while the crowd jeers names and insults at his hunched figure like pelting stones. His crime wasn’t all that bad, was it?

Like a cornered animal his eyes dart about, expression pinching when the hangman tightens the coarse hemp around his neck. “Bastard.” Valentín spits.

He doesn’t even have time to react before he’s knocked in the head for his outburst, and he’s sent reeling, choking on his own spit like some pathetic child. It’s humiliating, the way he wants to curl up into a ball and let it be over with, but still, he tries to struggle against the coarse hemp coiled around his aching throat. His skin must be rubbed raw.

Desperate, Valentín prays to whatever god is up there.

Then he hears thudding hoofbeats.

Is it you? Please, let it be you.