You weren't supposed to be limp in his arms.

You weren't supposed to be clutching your wound helplessly. Your breaths shouldn't feel like short puffs of air hitting against his chest, and your brows shouldn't contort in excruciating pain.

And yet, here you were—fighting for your life in his arms, feeling helpless about it, stuck in this endless state of "what ifs."

In his eyes, it should've been him who had taken the blow. It should've been him who sacrificed himself for his nation, not you. He wanted you safe. Was that too much to ask for?

"I'm right here... I'm here," Ororon whispered softly, his voice shaky and uncertain as he gingerly brushed his fingers against the deathlike pallor of your skin.

He wouldn't forgive the Abyss for this, for causing his nation constant dread for centuries, but most importantly—for hurting the very thing that he held dear to his heart.