♥ --- “And then what happened? Don’t leave me hanging...!”

The pain is what surprises him - he has hurt before, been hurt, been injured, but it has never been like this. There has never been the feel of an arrow cutting through him like butter, until the fletching rests against his skin, and he idly tugs against it, aware he shouldn’t but too in shock to do anything but.

Ophelia is at his back, where she always is, and he can hear her shriek, can feel the motion of her moving past him, and his hand snaps out to grab her wrist, holding it as he falls, finally, legs giving out under him. 

His lung is collapsed. He knows this - it doesn’t take a medic, a troubadour, to know it, but he is, and so he knows how severe it is. He’s going to die; he knows this like he knows the sun rises and sets, like he knows the human body, like he knows Ophelia and Leon will blame themselves.

He laughs, a broken sound, bubbling with blood in his throat, and he coughs, spattering it over her clothes, over her face, and his other hand shakily wipes it clean. 

“Ophelia. Ophelia - Ophelia, there isn’t - there’s no point. They won’t - they won’t come here - in time. It’s - it’s too bad. It’s fine - I’m - I’m okay with it.”

He isn’t. But Ophelia must believe he isn’t terrified, that he’s not terrified to die. “Please - stay with me. I don’t - I don’t want to be alone.” Another cough, this one politely covered with his wrist, so that the blood doesn’t hit her. Just with the arrow in his chest, she will feel as though she has enough of his blood on her hands; she doesn’t, literally, need it. 

“Ophelia, don’t cry. It’s so - it’s so unbecoming. It is alright, Ophelia.” The bloody hand strokes her cheek, glove still in place - he would remove it, but he can barely feel his arms anymore, just cold, just numb, and it’s through sheer force of will that they keep moving. “It’s alright, Ophelia. One day we’ll see each other again - isn’t that what -” Cough. A coughing fit, and he falls silent, face drawn and pale as he combats against the pain, against the way the arrow shudders in his chest with each one. “Isn’t that what Aunt Corrin says?”

His breathing is slower, a relief, because it means less pain. Ophelia is warm, safe, comfortable, and he lets himself relax into her arms, lets his eyes close. “It isn’t your - it isn’t your fault, Ophelia. Please believe that.”

Ophelia is getting herself wound up again - a bit like saying the sky is blue, honestly, but it’s still funny to watch in a way. He lets her speak, is actually listening, but it’s clear that there will be no resolving this in a way that calms her down satisfactorily, especially since there’s really nothing to be upset about, except that she so firmly believes everyone in the world is hell bent on killing him.

It’s endearing.

His hands come up, supple leather on either side of her face, and she shuts up for a moment, long enough for her to look at him, for confusion to register on her face, and for her to start to ask what he’s doing when he leans in, brushes his lips against hers gently.

     He’s seen a face like hers before. His eyelids lower, lip trembling at the sight of the girl before him. She’s the striking resemblance of his mother: her golden locks, her unassuming expression, her bright eyes -- it’s all there. And suddenly, Odin can’t help but feel melancholic.

     It’s not her. He knows that. But she looks so much like her he has to ask: