[The catastrophic amount of damage he's taken, the concept of his own mortality, it's well eclipsed by the urgency of his designs—but he stills, as commanded, and for a while he is quiet but for his breath. It's shallow, but steady, with conscious effort. Occasionally the rhythm catches as though with the urge to clear his throat, each time unrealized. Like bubbles of suffering, quiet until they pop.
The blood seems darker with each passing moment, both in congealing and against the growing pallor of his skin. He has yet to close his eyes; they remain fixed on Isaac. A whisper:]
Here.
[One fistful of fabric slips free, and cramped fingers loosen to cover Isaac's wrist—slowly, lest he be scolded. (And because it's too heavy to move at any speed but this.) What little focus he can spare, he urges to flow through skin and bone, this time to assist. If he can. If it makes any difference. It might—this school always did come naturally. It helps that he isn't moving. Isn't doing anything else at all but bleeding, and even less of that as the seconds move sluggishly on.
At length, with his bloody face and watery eyes, wearing a lethargic approximation of wonder—still staring—]
no subject
The blood seems darker with each passing moment, both in congealing and against the growing pallor of his skin. He has yet to close his eyes; they remain fixed on Isaac. A whisper:]
Here.
[One fistful of fabric slips free, and cramped fingers loosen to cover Isaac's wrist—slowly, lest he be scolded. (And because it's too heavy to move at any speed but this.) What little focus he can spare, he urges to flow through skin and bone, this time to assist. If he can. If it makes any difference. It might—this school always did come naturally.
It helps that he isn't moving. Isn't doing anything else at all but bleeding, and even less of that as the seconds move sluggishly on.
At length, with his bloody face and watery eyes, wearing a lethargic approximation of wonder—still staring—]
That was extraordinary.