[ If Chrissy had been cold, the oblivion that he drifts into is pure ice, impossibly cold. It floods through him, enters through the slash in his arm. It wants to take him, it comes over him with a strange certainty. He can get through this alive, but it won't be without an overwhelming effort. If it were anyone else, he might slip away, drift off into death without another thought. But if he's brought her back, he needs to see her, touch her, hold her. That alone has him fighting against the inky darkness, a struggle that exists only in his mind.
I climb down into the grave. I climb down into the grave. I climb down into the grave.
Eddie comes to with the gasp of a drowning man, desperately breaching the surface of reality. He can hear her voice, it rings in his ears like the clanging of church bell. And she's here, she's really here, whatever dark magic he's concocted has actually worked, and that gives him something to focus on. ]
Holy shit.
[ Eddie says weakly, scrambling towards her without ever standing up, his left arm an absolute mess. But he throws his right arm around her, feels her solid and arm and alive. ]
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
[ The words tumble off his lips in rapid succession, sounding just a few inches away from madness. Because it has to be mad, doesn't it? That he's really managed to do it, that she's really here? His gaze drifts down to his ruined arm, sees the sweater wrapped around it, the soft cream color quickly overwhelmed by crimson. ]
Your sweater... [ He says softly, as though that's the most worrying thing here. ] It's ruined.
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I climb down into the grave. I climb down into the grave. I climb down into the grave.
Eddie comes to with the gasp of a drowning man, desperately breaching the surface of reality. He can hear her voice, it rings in his ears like the clanging of church bell. And she's here, she's really here, whatever dark magic he's concocted has actually worked, and that gives him something to focus on. ]
Holy shit.
[ Eddie says weakly, scrambling towards her without ever standing up, his left arm an absolute mess. But he throws his right arm around her, feels her solid and arm and alive. ]
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
[ The words tumble off his lips in rapid succession, sounding just a few inches away from madness. Because it has to be mad, doesn't it? That he's really managed to do it, that she's really here? His gaze drifts down to his ruined arm, sees the sweater wrapped around it, the soft cream color quickly overwhelmed by crimson. ]
Your sweater... [ He says softly, as though that's the most worrying thing here. ] It's ruined.