Her fists are dripping his blood, wet, heated with her own exertion. Carolina is beautiful like this, through the haze that still lightly descends like mist off the sea in the early morning. It's right to do this. It's something she can do. It's what she will do. And the corpse no longer looks like Crichton does.

A moment to catch her breath. Not from exhaustion, but to swallow and channel everything she feels downwards, into her hands, into her feet, controlling the flow of the river in her.

"Thought you might say something like that."

Murmured in a low voice, as blood-bright eyes fix on green and then break away.