"He'll punch you again if he finds out."
"Love, he'll do worse than that."
A bloodied hand reaches for her cheek, while his voice is shaky as he tries to speak, as he tries to get the words out that he wants to say, that's he's always wanted to say to her but had never really been able to—
"Snow…"
She shakes her head, not wanting to hear the words; not wanting to hear the words that can only mean there's no way to save him, that can only mean one thing—
and the babe in her round belly stirs, as if it, too, senses the stress of the situation.
"It's yours, Killian," she whispers, trying to give him peace, trying to give him promise—that he lives on, that he isn't going anywhere, that there is life to be found in death— "the babe is yours."