By this point Aery didn't even have the strength to cry. The bleeding had slowed, thank goodness (for she probably didn't have all that much blood left) but the wounds still felt like they were on fire. For a while, they had been, but that part was over now. She almost welcomed the icy water when it poured down over her for the hundredth time. It put out the fire that had lit on her hair. What was left of it, anyway. As long as it had been before, it had been cut off and the rest of it burned so that no chunk was longer than an inch.
There was nothing left for her to tell them. Her apprenticeship, her royal heritage, the street urchins. Even everything she knew about the assassin's guild and about Celaena. But still they kept hurting her, though doubtlessly for sport now. And they'd been stopped for a while, probably because she couldn't take anymore without going insane. She'd certainly felt her hold on her mind slipping, spending minutes or hours or she didn't even know how long just floating in a delusional state. At least then the pain stopped, and she could pretend that her lower arm wasn't shattered and neither were her ribs and she wasn't dying of blood loss or dehydration or infection or fever. But the rational part of her wasn't fooled. She knew her death was inevitable, and probably sooner rather than later. But she'd die gladly, rather than make Celaena and the others fall into the trap that was awaiting them.