Andrew's breath catches, but only for a moment; he's chanting again even as he grips his cut arm and squeezes firmly, letting the blood drip down into the wire design, gleaming bright red against the brighter metal.

He doesn't move until the little space is filled, and then tugs the length of gauze off his shoulder and wraps it quickly two or three times around the wound. It'll stop the bleeding. Anything else can wait.

(Anything else like the memories pushing their way up into his consciousness: the pentacle, the earth, the blood against silver.)