What Lex does with his knife registers dimly and distantly; something that Gwenaëlle will not fail to appreciate, but later, later when the immediacy of all this is a bit less. When she remembers in other than the bright flashes of horrific oversaturation, when she notices that her hands are covered in blood, when she's caught her breath and used it to wail.

Right now, what penetrates through the blank haze of fury and failure is what Bellamy shouts across to him - spurs her to movement, but not helpfully. Her fingers clutch Guenievre, Guenievre whose eyes stare unseeing up at her, the wreckage of her throat having not allowed her either the dignity or small kindness of last words -

"No," she says, more clearly than she thought it would come out, but. She's only a small thing, kept delicate; prising her away wouldn't present a challenge to someone who doesn't wield a hammer.