She was tired.
He stared dully as the final tendril of hope in front her began drawing away, ready to leave the shell of her deteriorating body and soul behind. These days, he no longer sensed pain from her; simply an incessant numbness-- an emptiness that emulated from deep within.
It makes sense, he reflected. After all, she is becoming similar to me.
Gone was the curiosity he initially had in her. It was not like him to be curious-- therefore, it was crucial that he ceased his irresponsible actions.
He was immovable.
Yet, he watched her.
It tore him apart, really, that there was nothing that he could do to save her pain. He couldn't touch her, as that would simply accelerate her demise. He couldn't encourage her, as she wouldn't be able to recognize his presence.
And to be fair, inadequate would be an overstatement towards his encouragement abilities.
The things in the conscious world were things that he had no right to meddle with. He was isolated. He was meant to stay where he was. Stay and observe. Stay alone.
Despite his forced separation, an idea began brewing in his mind. He could not touch her, but perhaps... maybe...
He shook his head, clearing it of irresponsible thought. How could he break tradition if it had been what he abided by for so long that no being but God could keep track of how long? Not even he knew how long he had held to this value.
He didn't succeed in clearing his head of it. It was foolish, but it didn't hurt to try.
He reached forward. Taking hold of the final wisp, he gasped in realization.
He was wrong.
God, did it hurt.
