I ne woth whinder schal I

Death, huh.

He can't say he's surprised. He's been quietly awaiting his own death for a very long time. And that wasn't a fight he had exactly expected to win, given that his opponent was a far more powerful being than himself.

So really, the better word... is disappointed.

He'd expected more of a blaze of glory, after all. A legend to live up to his name, something to fill in the cracks that only he sees between himself and the thing he's supposed to be. Slowly bleeding to death, slumped over in some alleyway, surroundings a little charred in the struggle--it really isn't how he'd prefer to go.

Thankfully he's at the stage where he finds it bitterly amusing. He's got no strength left to heal. He's losing blood faster than it can turn to ash, making him a right mess of red and soot. His fingers feel heavy, which means they might start crumbling too, even as they're pressed up against the gaping wound in his chest. The boiling might be the worst. The cut is wide and simmering, bubbling hot just near the surface. A vampire using silver... Still detestable, even in his dying moments.

...But really, it's the waiting that'll kill him (no pun intended).