Jon only holds Martin's tighter when his own are clutched, and it feels as though each word weighs his shoulders heavier than the last. By the time he fades, lost to his sobbing misery, leaving Jon suffocating under the weight of the weight of his pain, Jon's own breaths are ragged. His mind is a haze. His body wants to weep, but the strain of the stress, the tension, the terror simply leave his head in a miserable haze, pressure mounting infinitely with nowhere to go.

It takes him several minutes, left to the dead quiet of the air around them, to pry himself away from Martin's hands. He's not even cold yet - it's hard to come to terms with the fact that he's truly dead.

He lets out a ragged, heavy sigh, waterlogged and pained.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Martin. I'm so sorry," He murmurs, barely above a whisper. "I'll see you soon."

And, at last, he stands on shaky legs, moves his hands to weakly hold his upper arms in the semblance of a hug, and moves to start his slow, weary trek back to Prague Mill.