He enjoyed the rest. It was the best sleep he'd had in months. Until he stirred. The reek of blood and decay in the air was mingled with something else. Something that, long ago, had been a scent he had enjoyed. That took him back to an underground life filled with laughter, small feet, and purpose. 
Hearthfire. 
That's what it was. He remembered the meals cooked over it over so many decades, and his stomach growled. She had always been a fantastic cook, the short, explosive immigrant mother. Her dark brown skin, wild hair, and deep black-brown eyes.

Everything else roared back as soon as he remembered her face; the screaming, the fires, the bloodshed, the agony, the giant silhouettes with the gleaming red eyes, and her laughter echoing through the night─

He opened his eyes with a snap and sat upright with a start, eyes wide. Night had fallen in earnest, the city completely black beneath a blanket of loud, glinting stars. It should have been the only light, those jewels in the sky, but she'd made fire. Fire. Holy Gods.

"What are you doing!" He snarled, moving to get up and finding his wrists and ankles bound together. Rope. Where the fuck did she get rope? Growling, he twisted, pointing his feet toward the fire, kicking and dragging his feet against the dry earth to cover the flames. Too slow. In a very undignified hops, he scoot close enough to throw his feet down on the flames, crushing the small embers. searing the bottoms of his bare feet in the process. "Put it out!"