It was dark. Something smelled, but he couldn't place it. It was— bad. He knew it was bad. Why did his head hurt? This was… oh, it hurt. He heard a voice groaning and realised it was his own. He tried to move, but there was so much on top of him, so much force that he couldn't even lift his head without meeting something hard and cold. Pain shot up through his leg and he realised in disorientating and sickening suddenness that he couldn't even tense the muscles in it. Something was horribly, dreadfully wrong.
He passed out again, but was vaguely aware of sirens reaching his ears, and a faint flashing through his eyelids. Maybe help had arrived.
The next time he woke, he was in the hospital.
His father was there, gripping the sheets next to Anduin's bruised, warped hand like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Anduin was told it was a miracle he was alive, that they weren't sure if he would walk again.
Anduin was told that Aerin, who had been in the driver's seat, hadn't made it.
He felt tears slide down his scratched cheeks and sobs wrack his crushed chest. It hurt, and somehow, the physical pain from his injuries couldn't even half-way match the empty agony he felt from knowing he'd never see Aerin smile again.