Marlowe
I sat there through the worst hours of that spike, gripping King's hand, whispering everything I could think of — memories, promises, the whole tangled story of how we'd found each other — as if sheer stubborn love alone might be enough to anchor him through whatever his body was fighting entirely without my help.
"Come on," I whispered, over and over, exhausted past the point of tears. "Come on, King. Stay with me. Whatever this costs, stay with me."
Preacher worked through the worst of it with focused, silent intensity, and I understood, watching him, that I had reached the absolute limit of what my own presence could actually accomplish — this was a fight King's body had to win on its own, with medicine and stubbornness and whatever reserves of strength he had left, and no am
