"Jayce,"

at a falling lilt, a note of offended surprise, follows him as he rises. That was uncalled for, it sounds like. That surprise is prying at the knot of Viktor's frown, but succeeds only in lifting it to a dismayed angle. Jayce turns away from him, and he unfolds his arms, leans to see him around the fire's halo, calls out to his back,

"Jayce."

Waits, still leaning expectantly, until he's gone.

As Viktor sinks back down, having had more than his fill of grief these weeks past, he spends not a moment indulging the distress churning in his cold and clenching guts; seconds into his slouch, he's cinching that knot tight again. Don't, he says. Don't, as if telling Viktor he can't or shouldn't do something isn't going to increase that thing's chances of being done exponentially. Idiot.

In a moment he'll snatch up the winch and briskly resume assembling it. He'll scowl the whole time. It will be finished in roughly six minutes. Tomorrow he will show someone how to hoist the tent modified to pair with it and significantly reduce the time required to set up or pack out.

Don't. Just who does Jayce think he's talking to?