Always there was the blood. Warm against his cold hands, soaking through his robes so that they hung stiffly from his hunched shoulders. He liked to think it was the blood that was holding him down, that kept him on his hands and knees as it clung heavily to the sodden fabric. Because if it wasn’t the blood keeping him here then he knew it had to be something else, and he didn’t want to think about what that might be.