Laertes's eyes flutter open; he gazes up at Sagramore, crouched over him with heat in his gaze and purpose hollowing out his face, and it feels as though his veins are laced with white-hot flame. He raises his hands, ready to take Sagramore by the hips--then he remembers himself, and lays his hands flat on the blankets again. He can ask nothing. He can do nothing. He is permitted only to be, and to feel, and to look upon Sagramore with that ardent fire blazing in his eyes.