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Sleep of the Dead

Summary:

Henry lies injured on a battlefield, slowly losing consciousness. His thoughts can't help but turn to Klara.

Notes:

Day 7 of rare pairs week. Prompts: Dream and Non-Linear.

Work Text:

She huddled closer, looking up at him with those beautiful green eyes of hers, and Henry felt her warmth as if it was his own. There was something about Klara, something that'd immediately drawn Henry to her. Even learning that she'd initially slept with him as a distraction didn't do much to lessen that pull he felt. Perhaps it was foolish to think she felt the same, but she had come back, seeking comfort in him the same way he sought it from her. Was it too much to hope something could grow from this?

"Don't get too excited," Klara said, her voice echoing strangely all of a sudden. This wasn't right. She had said those words, but that was before they'd crawled into bed together. Before… no. Henry's heart ached as the world collapsed around him, Klara's next sentence looming over them like a curse. "As soon as I lie down, I'll sleep the sleep of the de—"

Henry's eyes bolted open and he let out a gasp. Pain wracked his body and his eyes darted downward to an arrow piercing his torso. It was one of many wounds. His eyes searched upward next, taking in a cloudy gray sky as previously forgotten details flooded his mind. He'd been fighting in a battle, he'd been injured, and he was most likely going to die.

Henry's fingers clawed at the earth as he tried to force himself to rise. He needed to get to a healer—or at least get the attention of someone who could get him to one. When moving didn't work, Henry opened his mouth to try and call for help. His words caught in his dry throat, unable to escape as he floundered in the mud. Exhaustion caught up to him quickly and his body stilled.

He needed to rest. Just for a little while.

His head lulled to the side and bright orange marigolds waved back at him as his thoughts returned to Klara.

Marigold, poppy, and sage. She needed those herbs to make ointments to treat the wounded. Henry could help. Henry liked helping—especially when he could help someone as sweet as Klara. Someone who'd mistaken him for a real knight! How Henry wished. He knew those herbs well so it was a simple task to gather everything he needed. He brought them back to her like a hound fetching a hare for a hunter.

He really hadn't expected anything—though, in hindsight, Klara had been pretty blatant with her word choice. It was genuinely a surprise when she took him to the secluded spot amongst the trees and told him her riddle. Before he knew it, they'd shared a moment of intimacy. He'd felt the softness of her skin, heard the music of her pleased moans, and caught the scent of wildflowers in her hair. For Henry, it was perfect. He hoped she'd liked it as well.

It all came to an abrupt end when she had to return to her work, to healing…

Henry blinked and came to once more, fighting for any scrap of consciousness. It was so difficult now. His body was failing him, giving in to that eternal rest that eventually took them all. His sight grew hazier and he could swear he heard her voice.

"Henry?"

"Klara," he mumbled back.

He was in a room now, a bright fire lit nearby. Klara smiled down at him from his bedside.

"Could you find some room there for me?" she asked.

"I'd like to," Henry said, attempting to curve his lips upward and match her radiance—not that he ever could, even on his best days. "But I'm not sure I can move."

"That's alright. I'll make do," Klara said, crawling into the bed next to him as best she could. He could feel her again, that same warmth from before. "I'm awfully, awfully tired."

Henry's thoughts sharpened. She'd said those words before.

"And cold too…"

The truth was that she wasn't there. There was no warmth to feel, just memories to linger in. A part of Henry wanted to continue doing so, but… Klara wouldn't want that. She was healer. She'd want him to fight to stay alive. So Henry fought.

When he opened his eyes again, he really was in a room. Morning light poured through the windows nearby and he could feel the heat of the sun's rays on his skin. He didn't feel warm inside though. He felt battered, bruised, and defeated. The pain was good though. It meant that he was alive.

Henry let out a sigh as tears trailed down his cheeks. Klara should be alive right now too. It wasn't fair.

He caught the scent of wildflowers and, for a moment, his heart beat a little faster. But then he turned his head and saw the vase on the nightstand next to him, filled with marigold, poppy, and sage. Of course he'd dreamed about her.

Henry forced himself to sit up. He couldn't stay asleep forever. At some point he'd have to let her go properly. The Klara in his mind probably didn't match up to the real one all that well anyway. He hadn't gotten the chance to really know her. And he could mourn that loss, but he couldn't let himself drown in it. Bad things happened. Violence took both the innocent and the damned. There was no making sense of it.

He only hoped she'd forgive him for thinking of her fondly from time to time.

The door opened and a woman stepped inside, her blond hair tied up in a braid around her head. When she turned to look at Henry, he recognized those green eyes.

"K-Klara?"

"Hello, Henry," she smiled brightly, "it's good to see you up. For a while, I didn't think you'd pull through."

"I… thought you were dead."

"I thought you were dead," Klara said, "a lot happened after Nebakov. But we can get into that later. For now, focus on recovering. I'm going to change your bandages, alright?"

Henry nodded, his brain in a haze as he watched her work. It was only when she attempted to leave that his words came back to him.

"Please," he said, "don't go. Stay."

Klara hesitated for a second, but then closed the door and returned to his side. "I suppose I have a moment before I have to check on the others again. Mind if I join you?"

"Please," Henry said, forcing himself to scoot over a little. Klara crawled in beside him and, this time, he felt her press against his body for real. It wasn't just the ghost of a memory. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing. She was alive, he was alive, and now maybe they could take back that time Henry thought had been stolen from them forever.

His heart ached, but this time it was in a good way.

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