He's sick. ( Spoken in the wistful, absurdly clinical tone of every practitioner who's had to perform surgery — even upon the dead. The man before them is wilting, jittery, clearly epileptic, lacking fundamental control of his footing and his limbs.
It doesn't take the wealth of Hector's experience to combine that with the aridity of the stinging sun and reach his inevitable conclusion. )
You give him the water, you can't reclaim it, after. ( It will be contaminated with whatever weakness has claimed him, to whatever end. But still, Hector's lubricating his stubborn joints with thoughts of the one good deed that will hopefully grease open the gates of heaven, for his final count. Unlikely, but he drags along his waterskin, muttering behind him: )
Stay behind me. ( Stay there would be far too obviously ignored. )
no subject
It doesn't take the wealth of Hector's experience to combine that with the aridity of the stinging sun and reach his inevitable conclusion. )
You give him the water, you can't reclaim it, after. ( It will be contaminated with whatever weakness has claimed him, to whatever end. But still, Hector's lubricating his stubborn joints with thoughts of the one good deed that will hopefully grease open the gates of heaven, for his final count. Unlikely, but he drags along his waterskin, muttering behind him: )
Stay behind me. ( Stay there would be far too obviously ignored. )