Feeling certain needs, but quashing them - he felt certain of his rightness, but was saddened, knowing now that rightness is a weak excuse for weakness. Yet he still refused to close the gap that opened round his climbing (even when it could be narrowed, when the further side stood still and stopped receding from his feet); around him was cold vacuum, and he felt the pressure forcing outwards, felt it pierce him, felt too full, empty and stretched. And the pain his limbs feel, pinned by extremities, spreadeagled in memory; the haze remained uncleared, the gap about him widened, and feeling the unreality of his pain, feeling a fever growing deep behind his features, feeling the long slow floating as he leaves his body, seems to leave the wounds, the noise, but hears it still (so distant and so muffled now). Hot sun, cool fire... he tries to stay silent, hardly hears his own low moans, his weak requests for some relief. You know they won't give it - you know they don't notice - you know they'll give in soon. He coughs, and accepts even a gift of mockery, even your gift of rather half-hearted guilt (twice removed). He feels few needs, now, only for a certainty, a need to know that this is right. This is never right.
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