Fingers to his face, way they splay when he's thinking hard, when it's too late at night and the words want to spill out of him —

But there's thinking hard, and thinking slow, and right now there's no thought at all but the slick-paper press of rotten flesh. Of sitting in a room alone, unwatched but for the dead. Alone,

He isn't. Astrid is breathing, Astrid can still breathe. His own comes too fast. Cedric's chin tips up, the back of his skull thunking against board. A patch of his knuckles discolours where someone's skin has stuck a little, frozen to his own and peeled off like a tongue from pole.

He should reach for his knife (Astrid has a knife). He should sweep the room (he needs to help Astrid). He can't do that. If he reaches for his knife, he won't let go again. If he frees his hands they'll only find a fist. If he speaks,

"It's okay," His voice cracks for a day without water. It's okay, he means to say. They're already dead. "It's only."

More. It's only more, and more again. Palms press at his temple, squeezing for a shape he can't find. And he can't help anyone right now.