Considering the number of deaths he's caused and how intimate he is with the subject, he rarely thinks about his own.
Now he can't stop thinking about it.
The pain and the panic and the way the way the world slowly bled dry of color.
And oh God, he wishes...
But he knows that prophecies can't be outrun. She'll fall and another will be called.
He wishes Whistler had never found him. Or barring that, he had said no. Or barring that, he had kept his distance.
He knows everything there is to know about death except how to mourn.