The sword cut cold clean into his chest. His breath caught in his throat, fluttering, and his head saw white, until his knees hit the mud and the earth rushed back at him with the cacophony of roars. Everything felt mortal, everything felt lost, and Hungary, married woman, watched him die with her cold cut eyes. She left the sword in his hot heart, melded into his heavy limbs like stone.

Futilely, he tried to speak, but words were too light for a body so heavy, and he died with a question weighed on his lips.

("Did you ever love me?"



but the answer was already known.)