Abel watches as Gen recuperates from his short-lived displacement; the streak of blood painting the floor and more dripping from the boy's arm suggests that this confrontation had not been entirely one-sided. but it is crystal clear which of the two is in far more perilous condition, and as much as the priest's heart aches to see them both this way--
one of them is in very real danger of dying, and one isn't. his priorities are clear-cut and obvious.
the guttural order to move is, predictably, disregarded in whole. Abel does not move, does not make any effort to retreat from Dokja's side; instead, he's gently resting his hands at the other man's shoulders, helping to ease him onto his side into the recovery position. the priest's voice is soft, coaxing: ]
It's alright. You're alright-- you just need to breathe for me, Dokja. In; out... slowly. Count backward in your head, mm? Skip every odd number... hear me? Forty-six. Forty-four. Come on.
[ it might fall on deaf ears, but giving the mind a task - should Dokja be able to absorb any of it at all, anyway - might keep him from slipping out. he's concussed, no doubt - if he hasn't outright fractured his skull - to say nothing of the possibility of internal bleeding on the brain. he needs to stay awake, cruel as that might seem.
but Abel can ill afford to hold Dokja's hand and talk him through it. the person who put him in this condition does not seem intent on letting things lie half-finished, and Abel's eyes are soon returning to his assailant. there is a rigid tension in his posture, a wariness and stress in blue eyes that find Gen's, stubborn sit of worry and grief beneath it. why did it come to this, again? ]
...Please stop where you are. You've done enough, haven't you?
[ Dokja cannot and will not rise to defend himself. so... ]
It isn't too late. --I can take him back, now. Someone can help him before, he-- so please. Please stay where you are!
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Abel watches as Gen recuperates from his short-lived displacement; the streak of blood painting the floor and more dripping from the boy's arm suggests that this confrontation had not been entirely one-sided. but it is crystal clear which of the two is in far more perilous condition, and as much as the priest's heart aches to see them both this way--
one of them is in very real danger of dying, and one isn't. his priorities are clear-cut and obvious.
the guttural order to move is, predictably, disregarded in whole. Abel does not move, does not make any effort to retreat from Dokja's side; instead, he's gently resting his hands at the other man's shoulders, helping to ease him onto his side into the recovery position. the priest's voice is soft, coaxing: ]
It's alright. You're alright-- you just need to breathe for me, Dokja. In; out... slowly. Count backward in your head, mm? Skip every odd number... hear me? Forty-six. Forty-four. Come on.
[ it might fall on deaf ears, but giving the mind a task - should Dokja be able to absorb any of it at all, anyway - might keep him from slipping out. he's concussed, no doubt - if he hasn't outright fractured his skull - to say nothing of the possibility of internal bleeding on the brain. he needs to stay awake, cruel as that might seem.
but Abel can ill afford to hold Dokja's hand and talk him through it. the person who put him in this condition does not seem intent on letting things lie half-finished, and Abel's eyes are soon returning to his assailant. there is a rigid tension in his posture, a wariness and stress in blue eyes that find Gen's, stubborn sit of worry and grief beneath it. why did it come to this, again? ]
...Please stop where you are. You've done enough, haven't you?
[ Dokja cannot and will not rise to defend himself. so... ]
It isn't too late. --I can take him back, now. Someone can help him before, he-- so please. Please stay where you are!