Black.
Black room. Black chains. People in black coats with black hearts and silver blades. Black thoughts spilling over his head and black blood spilling out of his body.
Their words come to him slowly and painfully, without comprehension or context, like garbled instructions shouted through the noise of battle. He hears "power," "dark," "blood," and "blood" again.
The word "blood" seems almost like a heartbeat; they repeat it so often. He hates it; he wants to scream at them to stop. If only his mouth would work. He still has a mouth, doesn't he? He can't tell. He can't feel his arms, neck, feet, legs. He can't feel the pain. He does feel the warm liquid darkness of the blood bathing his thin stomach. At least there's that feeling to remind him he's still alive. It won't save him, but it's a strange, dark comfort nonetheless.
He screams, and the sound of his own voice warms him to the core as he fades at last from consciousness.