[A cool certainty and a measure of resignation seeps its way into his answer:]

…And all fly away in the end. [After they have picked a man’s corpse clean, a vicious little voice whispers conspiratorially in the back of his mind. He gazes absently at his lap, snorting to himself. A small, self-deprecating snort. Restless fingers find the dagger hidden behind his right boot and toy with it, dangling it over his foot.]

I could resent a crow its wings and its keen eye for that which glitters and shines… but it changes nothing. ...And why should it? [He inclines his head, turning worn eyes skyward.] ‘tis wild in spirit; ‘tis its nature... isn't it.

[It brings to mind the people here who think to press and manipulate him into someone new for his betterment, or so they had claimed. Words, words, what good were moralizing words and spewing from ignorant mouths, he thinks. He would change for no one - nor could he, he believes, if he had the fierce compulsion in his heart to try. He's too far gone, too far beyond saving. Julia had refused to acknowledge it.]