[Kratos hears the words but they don't sink in; and though he flinches again at Yuan's arm around him, being pulling upright breaks some part of the paralysis. He'd never been sitting up, all those years. The panic is still there -- but the scribbly sense of confusion is loosening that hard twist, now that he's oriented differently.

[The hand on his back lures it back, except the hand doesn't fall to the same place the Sword had impaled him; instead it sits on his wings, or where his wings would be -- should be. The feel of Yuan's mana so close to his is both raw and soothing, expectation mingling with a comfort conditioned into him far longer than those fifteen years.

[Yuan is someone he's never become wary to have behind him.

[It's that feeling, of having someone explicitly at his back instead of the cold unfeeling stone and the humming Sword, which breaks the panic. Kratos exhales a tiny gasp of air, and emotions crash inward. His next breath chokes with a sob, and so does the next; and all the rest that follow. He grips Yuan's shirt and clings, trembling -- mentally as well, reaching back just as Yuan ordered.

[I can't-- I can't-- What, exactly, he can't isn't at all clear; it's a roll of grief and pain and fear which carries with it hopelessness. He can't bear this, he can't; it hurts too much. Even knowing his son is alive, Kratos can't find the strength to bear it. Just end it, just end it, just end it, please ... It will need to be ended anyway, sooner or later. Just end it, please.

[Outside the door, the oppressive fear and confusion lifts from the minds of the others, now it's all focussed on Yuan. Lloyd exhales shakily and stops pacing before Botta.]

Now can I go in?

[Botta just shakes his head.]