[That moment of hesitation's not lost on Illarion; his heart contracts to see it. With that spasm of pain comes a bittersweet realization: Whatever it is his dead self felt for Bigby, patched together from recollection and reason and ember-dim emotion, is real. Breathtaking in its reality now that he's alive, and while it's doomed to last days at most, it is an unexpected gift to be treasured in the here-and-now.

It also lends an unexpected urgency (unexpected need) to his self-given charge.

He laces his fingers through his friend's, smile turning coy.]

A song if you wish it, or other talents of hand and tongue; my mind, my body, [with a lift of his chin that bares his throat,] my name--anything save my life, that might keep you with me the few hours I have.

[Not the circumstance either of them wished, certainly, but--]

What do you say?