[ WP ] The last thought that went through his head was ; Had he done enough for the rest to escape ?

He could no longer feel, for his captors had beat him raw. 
 
 He could no longer see, for his captors had gauged out his eyes. 
 
 He could no longer move, for his captors had broken him. 
 
 He could still think, despite the maiming: they wanted him alive and aware. They wanted him to feel the pain of their abuse; to accept them as his doom before executing him in the most grueling ways they could imagine. 
 
 And so, as it was the only thing he could do, he thought. 
 
 He had put his life at risk for the rest of his kind, in hopes that they would once again breathe the outside air and feel the sun's radiance upon their skin. Had he succeeded? Had his agony and suffering been in vain, or did his people escape their slavers and make it to the wilds? 
 
 To him, it mattered not: death awaited him with scythe and brimstone, for his soul was dark as the night and stained with sin.
