He doesn't have Wing's skill in meditation, and he's never been bonded with the sword the way Wing has, but the strange pain, that poignant, almost sweet agony, seems to bind his spark, holding it together even as he most wants to let it go.

He stirs, briefly, optics fluttering open. It's a mirage, a delusion, that thing you see that last moment before you die, he thinks, the apparition of Wing, almost luminous in the darkness.

But he wouldn't imagine Wing looking like that--exhausted, drained, hurt. And he tries to say the other's name, but the only sound is a soft whine of pain, a hand twitching toward the jet.