There was nothing. No pain. No pleasure. No sadness. No joy. There rarely is for bodies of the dead, and this body was a naked form, full of scars and bruises and cuts and dislocations and other hateful wounds which marred a figure that used to be so proud, so eminently presentable. He had always had scars, but those hadn’t been so morbidly fresh, so dirty in their intent. They hadn’t hindered or laboured him. They hadn’t made his body reek of oppressive death. ‘She’s been fighting like this for the past twenty minutes, Gre─’ ‘I’ll take my punishment,’ the exile growled quietly. ‘Myself?’ ‘Yes.’