It was as if he was being paralyzed by a cockatrice—a very slow-acting paralysis, to be sure, but the eventual ending would be the same.  If she looked at him just right, he could be made of marble—the white bandages that covered most of his flesh, and the diaphanous bed sheet that was draped across him, so much like a funeral shroud.  It had once been the fashion to bury high-level unicorns in great marble sarcophagi with a carving in the lid of them at rest; if she were to tip him out of the chair and stretch him out along the floor, he would look much the same.  And she was very afraid that if she did push him out of the chair, he would make no effort to resist her.