[ Alive. It feels like— something. Finality. A decision. Dread (hope?) flooding his limbs with weightless cold, but at least he can breathe around the damage when he knows its shape. How and why matter less than the fact of it, neatly reducing every nonessential to background noise.
He ought to cut ties now, while there's still time. He ought to follow it, try to finish this again, or just run and run and run, but what he's doing is standing here in front of Isaac's fireplace, surveying his own wreckage.
He reaches to take the phial back, his hand steadier. –Doesn't rush to pull away again. Can't quite find it in him. ]
Thank you. [ In case there isn't another chance to say it. ] Not just for this.
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He ought to cut ties now, while there's still time. He ought to follow it, try to finish this again, or just run and run and run, but what he's doing is standing here in front of Isaac's fireplace, surveying his own wreckage.
He reaches to take the phial back, his hand steadier. –Doesn't rush to pull away again. Can't quite find it in him. ]
Thank you. [ In case there isn't another chance to say it. ] Not just for this.