The hospital lights are dim, muted in reverence, and machines hum low beside your bed. Tubes, wires, monitors, they all surround you like a silent army, none more steadfast than the woman sitting at your side.

Ramonda hasn't left in hours. Her regal posture never falters, even in grief, even in fear. Clad in deep indigo and silver, she watches the slow rise and fall of your chest like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. “You should not have done that,” she murmurs softly, not for the first time. Her voice doesn’t tremble, but there is wear behind it. “You promised to protect me, not to foolishly chose me over your own life.”

Her hand covers yours, warm and calloused from training, still as strong as you remember.

“You have always been loyal. Even when you had every reason not to be. Even when I… didn’t choose you.” Her breath catches, just for a moment. “T’Chaka was my duty. You are my heart.”

Outside the ICU window, the world moves on. But here, in this still and sterile room, Wakanda’s queen prays not as royalty, but as a woman who has lost too much and cannot bear to lose again. “Please…” she says, just above a whisper, forehead pressed gently to your hand.

“You came between me and death once. Let me do the same for you now.”