Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. Just my imagination borrowing them for a bit.
The pain comes in waves, crashing over him when he thinks he's finally managed to ignore it. He gasps, breathing air that isn't air, with lungs that shouldn't work. Some things are just habit, memories of a life he's not ready to release.
He tries not to move, moving only makes it worse. He can't remember why he hurt, can't remember much after the sword pierced his heart, just Emma cradling his head, her hair, her body draped across him as he drifted away. He vaguely recalls a drink, drops from a river that are forced on his tongue, but nothing else, nothing to explain the multitude of injuries covering his body.
His eye is swollen shut, bruises, cuts, and gashes littering his face, his body, and he can feel the blood dripping down his neck as he lays flat on the floor, the coolness of the cement the only comfort for his heated skin.
He must have drifted off, must have slept, because he's now on his side, and there's a taste in his mouth other than the sharp metallic tang of blood, a wetness he has to force himself to swallow. It's almost familiar, something he's tasted before since his time in this infernal world of death, but he can't remember, and he suspects the drink is why. New cuts mar his legs, he can feel the sting as he rolls onto his back.
Staring up at the blank ceiling, one eye open, one eye closed, he tries to remember - her face, her hair, the way she feels when she holds him close. He feels unconsciousness clawing at him again, pulling him under, away from his thoughts, his memories, his pain, but he fights it, just for one moment alone with her.
He almost sees her, her face lighting up as she sees him too, and he wants to smile, to run to her, but he can't focus and her image shifts, almost disappearing. He forces his eye open again, forces himself to look. He knows he can survive whatever torture they have in store, he knows he can wait as long as he has to, as long as he can still see her in his mind. She's always been his lifeline, his reminder of who he is, who he can be. An eternity without her would be hell, indeed.
Her image appears again, and he tries to speak, his chapped lips opening briefly, but he has no voice, no words. She's talking, but she has no sound. He's tired, so tired, and she slips away again, and it's harder still to pull her back, but he tries, he needs to try.
She's there once more, he can almost make out her parents behind her, the queen and the thief, and the lad, but they fade into the background behind her.
Emma.
She's reaching for him, lips moving, but exhaustion finally claims him, and she's gone, and he has no strength to conjure her once more, as he slides, finally, into the darkness.