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No.
It couldn’t be.
Grey eyes so warm. Now cold and devoid of life. Blue. Otherworldly, evil colour. Eyes that now zeroed on him. The battle rages on around them but none of it reaches him. He can feel bile rising in his mouth.
That’s when it hits him.
He’s not just dead.
He looks at the ridges covering the face he loves. No… They made him one of Them. Pale wrinkled face surrounded by frozen strands of once black hair. Now a pale and ghostly colour.
Dead eyes focus on him but the thing remains unmoving.
Too still.
Too dead.
He grips the sword which once belonged to the man he loved. Pained sobs escape his throat, icy tears running down his face. All his strength leaves him and Tormund for the first time in his life finds himself dropping to his knees. Not in a form of submission, but utter resignation.
