SPIRITOFSUPERSTITION SAID:
[Don't Leave Me!: Your muse is dying in my muses arms and mine is frantic, doesn't want to lose you, and doesn't know what to do about it. cB]
Pitch coughed, a dark, dark scarlet spilling from lips to stain the thin, black fabric he wore. The spirit was vaguely aware of the arms encircling him, supporting and holding him up. Perhaps they were the only reason why he hadn't fallen into the darkness already. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open and Pitch couldn't quite understand the loud sounds that kept fighting to be heard. He couldn't quite decipher the image in front of him, the blurry image that seemed to resemble someone he knew.
Suddenly there was a pressure on the Nightmare King's hand and casting a weak glance down, he recognized another hand sliding into his. Fingers tangling with his. Through the fuzzy cloud of sounds Pitch began to hear his name being yelled. With every instance, his name was cried out louder and more ragged. Between each time he could hear a sharp intake of breath that seemed to rattle in someone's throat.
Jonah…
This name floated to him in his haze. It matched with the shaking voice, with the unfocused face and with the hand clutching him tighter and tighter.
"J-Jonah…" Pitch whispered, delirious in his pain. He reached up, trying to find purchase, something to hold on and pull himself up and out of this hazy abyss and up into the world where the spirit of superstition awaited.
His vision slowly focused and he could make out the small droplets rolling down Jonah's face. The high-pitched ringing sound in Pitch's ears dissipated and soon he was hearing a frantic voice, begging Pitch to come back.
But Pitch found himself slipping back down, further into the dark abyss in which death awaited.