He cannot shake that hand off him. He wants to not understand what the man is saying, but the words are there to be read, even through all the blood. Even through the body breaking underneath him; he wants to be sick, a body should not fall apart this way, nothing is that vulnerable.

But in the end, he has to break before he can find resolution. This time, not his mind - that is already gone, he is sure; has been gone since the night on the Seine, because he does not recognise anything that has happened since.

No, it is far more pedestrian. His hand is what gives out, making a crack of its own as it attempts to spread the man's nose across his face. Pain shoots up his arm like a lightning strike, his fingers turn numb, and he can no longer make a fist. His head thrums with pressure as he stops, yanks a breath in that tastes of copper, lets out a noise that is something akin to a horse who has broken its leg.

Tepesh is a mess beneath him. And there is no satisfaction in it. He feels just the same as he did before, only this time knowing that he has broken again. He has violated himself. This was not the behaviour of a just man.

He falls. Backwards, onto the floor, sitting with his hand useless on the stones. He is, finally, still.