A/N: Still way too much speculation about what could happen on that jet. Here's a very short little thing. Hope you like. Enjoy!
Swords.
One through his mother.
One through his sister.
One through him.
Oliver came awake in an instant. The violence of his dreams hidden and controlled, but he needed a moment to center himself and when his eyes opened again she sat across from him. Waiting.
He tried to take a breath but it caught in his chest, as if his ribs had broken inwards, serrated and sharp to catch everything inside; his heart, his life, the little he had left. And any chance he had of gaining control was taken.
The sound that tore past his lips was raw, destroyed, stripped bare as he folded forward.
It had all been stolen from him. His name, his title. He was no longer a son. No longer a hero. No longer a mentor. No longer a lover.
The only moniker he had left was brother and that now held on by only the slimmest of margins. Machines and a constant flow of medicine all that kept him from losing that as well.
Even on the island he'd never felt so lost, so helpless, and with familiar blue eyes watching he surrendered.
He didn't remember sliding from the slick leather seat of the jet. He didn't remember the way she called his name, high and worried. He didn't remember how he crumpled to the floor, folding like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
He did remember that he was caught.
He did remember the feel of warm arms around him as he shook.
He did remember the thud of her heart beating beneath his ear.
He did remember the way she stroked his hair, and how her own tears mixed with his, and how she said his name over and over and over again. A reminder. An anchor. Something to cling to even if he didn't know who he was anymore.
She knew.
She knew who he was.
She would be his strength.
She would be his home.