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He wonders, here in the dark, if he could bleed out here, if they would allow him that grace. He has been torn apart, ruined on every level. He wonders if the bastard would be satisfied with that.
There is blood on his hands, blood on his thighs. There is blood behind his eyes, too, he thinks.
No harm will come to him. He would have laughed if he had had any voice left for it.

When he is dragged half-dead into the light, he can still feel blood on his fingers, but his time he doesn't think it's his.