She could feel the force running through her veins, that unknown energy that empowered her. The rush of adrenaline excitement blended with her rage. She could feel the darkness creeping under her skin, the nightmarish feeling exhilarated and invigorated her.
She felt the smouldering embers and clouds of brimstone in her lungs.
Her body was a shell of white-hot metals.
An armour of rage.
Though she knew how warped her physical self had become, she could tell that her mind was still familiar to her. Her judgement was clear, her thoughts unclouded, undoubted, untamed.
Wrath permeated her every fibre, enhancing this new experience.
She walked the path of fury, and it had led her to a place that she had never before understood.
There was no longer a place for fear.
Through the crucible of anger, she was forged anew.
He could feel each and every blow as it somehow pierced the cloud of stupor that permeated his body. What was that weakness inside of him? He could feel it's bite every time he was struck, and each time some of him was swallowed. With every single hit, he became less. How was one meant to withstand this? He could feel his own weakness: a parasite, leeching away at his mind, body, and soul.
He could tell that his assailant now possessed that which he lacked: Strength.
Without strength there was only weakness. And his attacker had stolen it from him.
The pain was tearing at him like a hound tears at a steak. The torturous beating was seemingly endless. The eternity of agony continued even as he wept, drooled, and bled on the cold earth itself.
Even accompanied by his tormentor, he was alone. Exiled from the world by the impotence inflicted on him. He could barely comprehend his surroundings, much less control his rapidly deteriorating body.
With shaking limbs and ever-increasing pain, he managed to force his body to move. In between blows, he managed to turn himself, if only enough that he could see who was trying to break him.
A new wave of pain crashed down on him when his weakened cognitive powers managed to tell him who his tormentor was.
His mouth cracked open in a slackjawed expression of despair, his hand reached forth, shaking with pain and effort, but a cruel swing of the attacker's weapon smashed it back into the ground, before resuming it's assault on the rest of him.
She denied her Tormentor's plea for mercy. Just as her own pleas had been denied.
With a thrust, she delivered a justice that had been lying dormant for far too long. With another she delivered it once more. Each and every swing was a perfect reimbursement of her own suffering.
There was a time when she would have refused to believe in heroes. How ironic that she had become her own.
She stood over the crumpled form of evil, as it wallowed at her feet, disgusted.
She looked into the face of malice with cold contempt. It was a truly hateful thing to look upon. A sight unworthy of her gaze.
When she saw the face of the Tormentor, a storm began to brew. Clouds of midnight black began to brew inside her, and soon, she attacked with renewed vigor.
The screams of the Tormentor were drowned out by thunderous winds and the howl of rain.
How long had it been since his Tormentor had left? He did not know.
How had his Tormentor taken what was his? He did not know.
Why had his Tormentor done this to him? He knew.
He had no idea how much time had passed since She had abandoned him. She had beaten him to within an inch of his life, shown him that She had stolen his strength and in return, left him with her weakness. Where he had had once been the Tormentor, he was now the Tormented.
Then She had left him.
Helpless, injured so badly that he couldn't move.
The cycle had moved on.