His hand grips tighter, the edges of the wounds pressed against each other, each from either side of the knife that binds them. James doesn't know, can't know, hardly knows how any of this works, but there is old magic here, in the moment of a man with his god, blood between them spilled by the same blade, fire in his eyes as everything he thought was a part of him burns to be remade.

He doesn't know what this is, but he knows he needs it more than water.