There was no part of Alfred that wanted to cooperate with being levitated onto a stretcher. He'd spent all weekend more or less resigning himself to his upcoming death, and the lack of air he was experiencing at the moment did nothing to inspire any confidence in him that this could be fixed. He was going to die, and this healer didn't even have the decency to let him die standing up.

It wasn't as though he had either the strength or the presence of mind to fight her charm when it was cast, though, and so onto the stretcher he went. At least Zelda was still holding his shirt, for now — at least she hadn't left. Yet.

Zelda seemed to think this had something to do with the boat, and that it was her fault — one piece of which had a lot more potential merit, he thought, than the other. If this was anyone's fault, wouldn't it have been his? For touching the chest in the first place, for ignoring the sting in his chest when he'd first felt it, for actively trying to avoid checking his palm because he wanted to look brave for her? Brave and stupid — brave and stupid and doomed.

They should have stayed on the Voyager, he thought as he tried and failed to take a deeper breath. At least then this might have been over already.