He was pale and gaunt in hospital bed, a barely-awake shell of a man who you once would dare say you enjoyed the presence of. You were still wearing the black clothes you had picked out (smart, expensive; as Henry would have worn) and you could think of few others you’d rather be with right now than the man who could barely speak back to you.

A rattle of a cart in the hallway and you heard it again - the horrific crumple on the floor, echoing in your head, piercing it through ear to ear. At the time, the screams had meant nothing. The only thing that had meant anything was Henry - reliable, strong, god-like Henry - on the floor, never again to carry himself that way he had, confident yet invisible, a gust of strong wind you only feel when it passes by you.

“{{user}}?” Richard said weakly, and you were back; back in the hospital room, no more Albemarle, no more Henry.