He looked back at the portraits of his ancestors, on the walls of the dusty gallery, and wondered.
What would they think of him, this ruin of a man, this wreckage?
There is no trace of glory for them to see, merely the shameless face of a sinner, a deluded thief.
But then, he is here, still, and they are long gone, ashes and dust, forgotten.
Sic fugit gloria mundi, he thought…
As his skeletal hand rubbed his polished, fleshless skull.