The artist was quickly shushed as those words all but died within his throat, the damage done to his larynx all but preventing those words all together. The result was little more of a gurgle as that blood flowed with increased intensity for his efforts. That soft, gentle hushing caused his dull, emerald eyes to shift towards the fuzzy face. Alistair could feel the blood flowing so freely down his shoulder, his skin near slick with it as it was. What did more of it matter? He already knew he was dying. It was already too late for him - wasn't it? Almost as if the man above him was aware of those very thoughts, the fellow muttered of just how poor shape he was in. Even Alistair knew, innately, that there was no coming back from this. He felt as if he was floating, his vision was already darkening as his body began to simply shut down on himself. God, how tired he was. That exhaustion so sharply pulling at him even as he struggled to push away that fatigue. If he closed his eyes, he knew well there would be no opening them again. That slumber that so welcomed him was nothing short of eternal. His attention refocused upon the fellow leaning over him, that soft baritone voice somehow grounding him in that dark void that fought so valiantly to embrace him. That sudden choice was so entirely unexpected and yet, how he longed for that renewed life! He had little idea of what the man over him was and yet - when so hanging upon the very verge of death, Alistair was uncertain if it even mattered. In comparison to death, anything was preferable.

His darkened eyelashes fluttered, the boy making every effort to provide that 'yes' the man sought from him. How desperately he desired that life! How much he wanted to see another sunset and sunrise. He wanted to finish that art project he was in the midst of. He wanted to see his sister again. Those once menial aspects of his life now seemed so utterly important - now that he was at risk of losing them. The artist hardly reacted at the fellow's soft utterance of just how callous the world at large tended to be, though given his present situation he hardly disagreed. Ever so subtly, his head inclined downwards slightly in a minuscule glimpse of understanding. Drink. He could...drink something. At least, he hoped his throat was capable of swallowing something with the damage done to it. However, with his own life on the line, Alistair had every intention of trying. He was well aware of the man's efforts to reposition his hold upon that wound on his neck, the very sensation of that loss of pressure and it's reapplication caused him to wince in pain. What he didn't expect was the sudden swirling lunge of those shadows, the artist almost uncertain if their very presence was reality or some warped hallucination as his brain began to simply shut down from that very life force that had begun to pool around his head. Alistair watched that inky black smoke in an almost mystified fashion, the mortal man trying to focus his ever-increasing blurry gaze upon them without the realization that it was those smoky tendrils that were so intangible.

He hardly noticed as that vapor solidified into a solid knife, that blade slicing against the fellow's skin only to prompt the flow of blood from the man's wrist - all of such near entirely unnoticed as Alistair's gaze shifted to the stark ebony sky above him. It was getting cold. Even with those layers - that winter chill seemed to fill his very bones. It was only at that press of something to his mouth that pulled his gaze back towards the fellow above him. His lips parted, Alistair more than willing to give in to that request as that copper tasting substance flowed past his lips. What....was it? It tasted so...familiar and yet he struggled to place it in those final moments. Alistair hardly required that additional urging as he struggled to drink every drop that fell down his throat. Whether or not he was capable of actually consuming it was another matter entirely and yet, that blood still intermingled with his own - those distinctly supernatural cells so taking over his own like a virus, twisting and warping his very own genetic makeup in a fashion Alistair was all but oblivious to. That very transformation was well on its way by the time his own tiredness took over, the boy's eyelashes finally fluttering closed as his fighting spirit all but failed him. It hardly mattered, however - the job was done and already the flow of blood had begun to slow as that distinctly supernatural healing began to take hold. His body, it seemed, was content to let him rest as his mortal world ended and his life as a Dark Hunter began.