Wit of the Wicked
Damien resided in his own pity for a while, sitting in the darkness of the cave, the warped faces of the deceased sprawled across dimly-lit ravenous walls. He hated himself for a while; and then felt sorry for himself a little more. He hated himself for not realising his weakness, and then at the futility of his anger at himself. He looked into the roaring storm outside, rain colder than mountain tops, winds sharper than steel blades.
And then he realised what he hated most.
He hated those who betrayed him; and he hated himself for not killing them slow.