He curls up into a fetal position, and cries, feeling abandoned and alone. He lies there, in the dirty, filthy alleyway, feeling broken inside. The darkness begins to deepen and warp around him, and he shudders from sorrow, from the tremors that are wracking his body. He does his best to stand, using the shaft of his scythe as a walking stick, and grips the handle with white knuckled hands. Artimes, the women he loved, loved someone else. He sinks back down, and kneels on the pavement.