His hands jerk in Richard's grasp. Once, twice. Not hard enough to break Silas' hold, though the potential of it is there. Stymied only by—

"No," is clipped. Unfocused. Truncated, whatever follows after severed. (No, no, no—) It breaks off on instinct, awareness split between the sensation of Silas' hands around his wrists and the echoing quality of Abby's voice. Both come to him muffled, dropped stones down to whatever part of him still tracks where they are, what his role is. Drags at that part, where it has burrowed and curled away from the present moment.

Wrenching that piece of himself to the forefront is slow-going. Gathering himself is akin to winding a vise tighter, crushing and compacting the sprawling, bloody mess of himself back into place. Locking all things away from view.