Time returned in fragments.
Quinlan was dimly aware of the ground first, then of the dull weight pressing into his ribs, his shoulders, his spine, as though the earth itself had decided to claim him for a while.
Lucille lay on her side next to him with armor scuffed and darkened, and her axe resting a short distance away where it had fallen. Her face bore the marks of the lesson just given, with swelling already setting in along her cheekbone. She lifted one trembling hand and reached for him, fingers brushing along his jaw and chin with a softness that felt out of place after everything that had happened.
It was not a plea, nor a reassurance spoken aloud. Just contact, looking for his warmth and presence.
Quinlan turned his head slightly toward her touch and let out a slow breath, allowing himself that single moment of stillness while the pain settled into what he could catalog.
Dragnar had insisted on this.
