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Summary
Charles Smith considered himself many things. Quiet. Intelligent. Dependable to a fault. Occasionally, unintentionally rude. One thing he had never considered himself — physically or otherwise — was weak. Life had trained him too well for that. It had taught him the practiced motions of endurance, the reflexive bracing of the spine before impact, the careful distance one learned to keep from people, places, and hope itself. Complacency was a luxury. Attachment was a liability. When you lived a life as dangerous and unsettled as his, grief was not a question of if, but when — and it was easier not to invite it in at all.
All in all, Charles knew he was strong.
What he did not know — what sat heavy and unanswered in his chest — was whether that strength would be enough to carry the body of a man he cared for deeply down from a mountain.
(Post-Canon fix-it of what could have been if Arthur actually didn’t die on the mountain)