He leans back, supported only really by the mast behind him.
His curly hair nearly grinding into the grain of the wood; an attempt to shore up knees, buckling and weak.
There's no respite in sleep. No escape from the deafening stillness of catastrophe -
the air in these doldrums is choking with holistic hypohidrosis.
A half-sigh and a guttural heave as he smashes his head against the beam in a half-formed prayer,
"Oh, Aslan..."
