He spits out a mouthful of blood, soaking the front of his robes in crimson, and goes down hard on one knee, head hanging and hair falling forward around his face.

(The instrument has vanished as though it were never there at all.)

His grip on her hand, on her wrist, is strong and desperately tight, even as blood begins to run down his arm. He does not let go.

"Harrow--!"