He wasn't so sure how long he was out for... or if the time he spent breathing slowly into the crook of his elbow as he lay on his side, his eyes screwed shut, was longer than the time spent prone, unconscious, in the middle of a jungle in an arena. He didn't forget that, when he woke up. He knew exactly where he was.
With shaky hands and arms, Pavel pushed himself up to a slumped sitting position even as every muscle protested. He rubbed at his forehead and matted curls, picking a leaf out of his hair. His hands were sticky-- Holding his palms out, he stared quietly at the blood that coated them and has since dried, cracking with movement.
His breath came short. He began to hyperventilate. In, out, too fast, his chest was rising and falling rapidly.
It wasn't that he forgot, exactly, what he did, but upon seeing the witch's body - her eyes still staring up at the sky, his knife still plunged deep in her stomach, and her wand broken in two nearby... She wasn't breathing. She wasn't alive. He was going to be sick. Her blood was on his hands, literally, and on the ground and on his clothes, and on his forehead now, in his hair. But before he could get sick, Pavel started to sob, shivering and shaking and gasping in breaths, not quite sure what to do with his dark red hands so he held them out, afraid to touch anything.
At the time, after the curse, it seemed like the right thing to do - to lash out with the blade, though he hadn't meant to kill her. It all happened so fast, out of instinct, maybe. But now... Now, he's a murderer.
