[As Kaworu breathes, Paul rubs his back in slow concentric circles, firm containing pressure. The brush of feathers on his hair is a distant sensation, more than nothing and less than enough. Cold fractures in his chest, sends bitter splinters into his blood.]

We can't help ourselves.

[Most of the time, the choir that has stolen Paul's voice is harmonized to imperfectly imitate what it consumed. It's not so now. These are older voices, deeper and rasping, their long-dead languages flowing over his tongue like the frigid, mournful waters of the River of the dead.]

We seek out what we know will destroy us. We know it hurts, it will hurt, and we bare our throats to our conqueror. To be human is an awful thing. I'm sorry that we made you one. I'm sorry we didn't know better.