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His fingers tremble, and he can feel the cold hilt of the sword, pushing in, in, twisting, until Scott gasped all wet and raspy and blood dripped off of both their fingers.
The thoughts are rushing through him, shot through with dread. Negative thoughts are the nogistune’s speciality, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s why he was picked. His stupid, anxious brain. Every repressed, bitter fear he’s had in his life has been laid bare over the last few weeks, like the nemeton has reached in and clawed away every bit of protective armor around his heart. He hardly ever allows himself to wish things could go back to the way they were, but he does now.