He was dead no he was dead he couldn't have been dead not now not when it was his fault. He knew these boys were inadequate buffoons and he still trusted his life in their hands, was there ever a more foolish action? If there was, Gregory couldn't think of one.
But everyone was back and okay, right? Everyone else who had died had come back, so why wasn't he? Why wasn't he waking up?
He didn't die in the bloodbath that sparked the uprising but the war was still in play when he did, right? He should have been back just like everyone else. You're not answering any of the questions.
He's in his arms and he's cold and the blood is dry and the wounds and the cuts and the dirt and the bite marks it was all dead and it was cold and everything was dry. Dry and still, things that should not have been dry and still. His chest was still, his chest should not have been still. His face was still, it should not have been still. His hands were still, they should not have been still. But they were still, and nothing should have been still.
Gregory shook him, trying to get him to stop being still. When has shaking ever worked in a time like this? He isn't a television remote, Gregory. Don't smack him against your hand until he reanimates. It's not going to work. He isn't a television remote. He can't get his batteries swapped. Take them out and put fresh ones in and he's good as new. You can't do that, Gregory.
He could have gone on that mission himself. He could have been the still one. The one that was still and dry and couldn't be replaced with new remote batteries. But he wasn't. He was the one holding the other's cold as ice somewhat still sticky body, his corpse. He could have been this corpse, and everything would have been fine. But he wasn't. He wished he was.
You can't hug him back to life, Gregory. You can't hug the still out of him. You can't.
Get out of my head, you're supposed to have died.