[Being moved just sends another round of sharp, stabbing pain through his system, and that's the point at which it dully seems to register that he's not being impaled by anything external, what he's feeling are his ribs -
There's a sudden intake of breath that accompanies the sensation, and it drags through his system like knives.
He should say something, but he can't force himself to speak; words don't happen under stress on good days, and this is about as dire a situation as one can manage to end up in, isn't it? Perhaps it's no surprise that he doesn't have words - for Silver, for Elda, for Jaeger, for anyone; drawing breath is difficult and his lungs are getting heavier and while the pain is still there, there's something distant about it, something that's ebbing outward and vanishing and staying gone once it's lost, something that's ensuring that in the end, he's not feeling very much at all.
He's cold. He can feel that. He's cold, and it's dark out here, and he's not focusing very well.
It's easy to lose focus, because the lack of focus eases the pain further; it's easy to slip into simple, cold, black nothingness, because ultimately that's where he finds he wants to go. To follow the urging of whatever's tugging at the edge of his consciousness.
I'm not sure if this will help, but... Good luck.
Were he still capable of lucid thought, of any sort of reasoning, perhaps there would be guilt in the notion that his last thoughts before fading out weren't given to anyone in this world, nor were they given to someone who deserved it more. As it stands, his thoughts go to Birkin, to that compound in the woods -
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There's a sudden intake of breath that accompanies the sensation, and it drags through his system like knives.
He should say something, but he can't force himself to speak; words don't happen under stress on good days, and this is about as dire a situation as one can manage to end up in, isn't it? Perhaps it's no surprise that he doesn't have words - for Silver, for Elda, for Jaeger, for anyone; drawing breath is difficult and his lungs are getting heavier and while the pain is still there, there's something distant about it, something that's ebbing outward and vanishing and staying gone once it's lost, something that's ensuring that in the end, he's not feeling very much at all.
He's cold. He can feel that. He's cold, and it's dark out here, and he's not focusing very well.
It's easy to lose focus, because the lack of focus eases the pain further; it's easy to slip into simple, cold, black nothingness, because ultimately that's where he finds he wants to go. To follow the urging of whatever's tugging at the edge of his consciousness.
I'm not sure if this will help, but... Good luck.
Were he still capable of lucid thought, of any sort of reasoning, perhaps there would be guilt in the notion that his last thoughts before fading out weren't given to anyone in this world, nor were they given to someone who deserved it more. As it stands, his thoughts go to Birkin, to that compound in the woods -
- Welcome to the Arklay Mountains -
- before they fade into nothing at all.]