From the depths of his field, Galahad registers speech. He feels for the pain that has become so familiar over the last hour and discovers that the texture of it has changed, from something active to something passive, something being inflicted to something indwelling.

It is unbearable, and yet he's bearing it. It is a thousand small discomforts, little pricklings beneath the surface of his skin, lights that are too bright for his eyes, sounds that he can't block out. His body is a sensation.

Carefully, unwillingly, he climbs up out of his field.

"Is it done?"