A war of sarcastic responses march through Prior's head like a push across No Man's Land, the mounting confusion exploding every which way around him. If there are aches, they've been scrubbed away by legitimate pain. But even that pales (pun intended) to the tightness seizing him around the center.
"It's as—" He tears at his collar, dragging aside lapels and popping buttons. A terrible wheeze. "—Asthma." And, oh how he looks both exceedingly scared and incredibly unhappy. Everything below the jaw runs beet red with exertion, but Prior's face is as pale as ever. It won't be long before he's as blue as ice, either, unless this situation is brought under control.
Still, he's not giving up. Not like this, Prior tells himself, because the irony would be too great. War never brought him to this: all that time in France even with the gas bombardments, the fumes, the stink, and the effort, and not one single attack. To topple so meaninglessly after all that would certainly take the piss out of Prior's post-life plans. Assuming he had any.
Each breath is like sucking pudding through a straw and shoving it back out again. Prior's grip on Fitzjames' sleeve becomes renewed and obvious as he slips in the snow getting back to his feet. His wheezing continues.
The church looms like salvation up ahead, a brick stronghold against the aggressive and hungry pack. Prior, seeing little more than the dark blob that is his unfortunate companion and the cross-adorned door, wishes desperately to be on the other side and stumbles forward together with Fitzjames as best as he can muster.
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"It's as—" He tears at his collar, dragging aside lapels and popping buttons. A terrible wheeze. "—Asthma." And, oh how he looks both exceedingly scared and incredibly unhappy. Everything below the jaw runs beet red with exertion, but Prior's face is as pale as ever. It won't be long before he's as blue as ice, either, unless this situation is brought under control.
Still, he's not giving up. Not like this, Prior tells himself, because the irony would be too great. War never brought him to this: all that time in France even with the gas bombardments, the fumes, the stink, and the effort, and not one single attack. To topple so meaninglessly after all that would certainly take the piss out of Prior's post-life plans. Assuming he had any.
Each breath is like sucking pudding through a straw and shoving it back out again. Prior's grip on Fitzjames' sleeve becomes renewed and obvious as he slips in the snow getting back to his feet. His wheezing continues.
The church looms like salvation up ahead, a brick stronghold against the aggressive and hungry pack. Prior, seeing little more than the dark blob that is his unfortunate companion and the cross-adorned door, wishes desperately to be on the other side and stumbles forward together with Fitzjames as best as he can muster.