Truthfully, there were a million half-formed questions in his mind, but even if he had been so inclined, he didn’t have the strength to both ask them and listen to the answer. He was also thinking that he wasn’t meant to eat and drink anymore, which was a bit ridiculous to worry about now. He was dying - how much worse could things really get at this point?
So, without protesting or even commenting, he accepted the blood. There had been so much blood coughed up, pouring out of his nose, and even at one point tears of blood, that he half wondereded if this was meant to be some sort of attempt at replacing it. It didn’t even taste like blood - or rather, everything had tasted like blood for days so he didn’t notice the difference.
He did as he was told, and he drank until everything started to regain a sharpness, a clarity of thought, and then he stopped. It felt like the feather had - a wonderful relief from the pain and confusion that he knew was likely to be temporary. That didn’t mean that he didn’t appreciate the help.