The last words Isaac's lips ever form are a mea maxima culpa that turn into a long, drawn out scream. He didn't want to scream. He didn't want to lose that calm. He wanted to be a worthy sacrifice. But Christ cried out from the cross and Isaac's screams turn into a liquid gurgle.

Death throes. These are death throes. His body strains, heaves, struggles, protests the dimming of the light. Put out the light and then put out the light, but once put out thy light, I cannot give it vital growth again...

And then, that's it. That's all of him. All of his blood and his passion and his hopes and his pain, all of his fears and his needs and his love and his efforts. It's all spilling across the floor, spilling out of his head like an overturned chalice, blood for the world outpoured. The world goes white, blindingly white, white as the Virgin's mantel, white as the Magedelene's ointment jar, white as the Lamb's coat. White, white white white white...

...and then he's gone. Silent, still. Gone.