She hears that it will hurt and doubts that it can hurt more than what she's already going through. The bleeding cough, the constant headache, the aches in her bones, the red scars along her abdomen that are just now coming into view while she hangs. Not to mention the vines, cutting off blood flow and air flow in equal measure, as though they're going to paralyze and choke her for the crime of ever resting. (She would think it an ironic metaphor if she could form proper thoughts.)

Then Noelle grabs her, or some of the things that Noelle is using, and she pulls, and it fucking hurts. Any illusion of tenderness in the palm's touch snaps in time with the vines, and she doesn't have the sense to tell the difference between the bad tendrils and the good ones; she already knows that she'll bruise, but bruising is better than death. Pain means she's still alive, and her right shoulder must be very alive indeed.

The vines hover for another few seconds before falling back to the ground and slinking away, perhaps in defeat or perhaps to just redouble their efforts. Blythe doesn't see it happen. She's breathing, shallow and quick, her ribcage moving up and down in a way that she hates to be reminded of. She turns her head as much as she can without injuring herself further, trying to find her friend's face again. The whole time, something inside her is demanding an answer; she is ignoring it.

"Noelle," she says weakly, then repeats her friend's name a little louder. "Noelle, you—they're gone. They're broken."