The delicate flutter of lashes on pale cheeks, stating the never-ending exhaustion stripping him of his everything. The moments ticked by like years and sweeps flew faster than John in his first pajama-outfit. It’s odd he thinks, only half-delirious, what the mind does to cope. He notices, vaguely, that his feet are soaked in fluid and the shadows dance cheerily. Great, the Knight thinks wryly, I’m turning into my sister.
