"Ollie," Milo said urgently, carefully unwrapping the cloth to reveal a small wooden carving. "Ollie, look at me. Please, just for a moment, look at me."
Ollie's shadow-filled eyes opened slightly, unfocused and distant, but at least they were open.
Milo took Ollie's cold, limp hand in his own and pressed the carving into his palm, closing Ollie's fingers around it. It was a rough figure of a knight, carved from a piece of cedar heartwood during the seven days of Ollie's vigil before he became a witch. Milo's claws had shaped it carefully, lovingly, pouring all of his hope and pride and worry into every cut and curve.
"Do you remember this?" Milo asked, his voice shaking. "I made this for you during your vigil. I sat by the edge of the clearing every day," he said, his voice thick with emotion. Watching as Ollie struggled to face the visions of his trial of witchcraft had been one of the hardest things Milo had ever done.
