Alfred didn't want to let go of Zelda's hand, because in his current state of mind he was convinced that everything was happening now for the last time. If he let go of Zelda, that was the last time he would ever touch her — it was over. Since he was still struggling to breathe, though, he didn't have much strength to resist when the healer moved his hands. He couldn't even really feel his hands, or at least not properly — everything had started to get sort of numb. It seemed like every breath he took was being consumed just by keeping his anxious thoughts active, and even then he was having trouble organizing them into anything that resembled rational thought. He was not at all confident in his ability to stay conscious.

The spell seemed to be working — even he could tell, without knowing exactly what it was supposed to do besides give him more time (something that he wasn't sure he wanted or needed; if he was going to die, wouldn't it be better to get it over with?) Her chanting was comforting, though, in a strange and distant way — it reminded him of the sort of magic the tribe had employed in Central America, and subsequently of the old healer woman he'd learned from while he was there. Had he ever showed Zelda any of the tribal magic he'd picked up? Now, of course, he likely never would.

A cool sensation spread through him as the spell did its work, and Alfred let out a short breath, relieved at the sensation despite his continued conviction that he was imminently about to die.