(no subject)
If asked a day, a week, or even moments earlier, Henry Percy would have said that he would rather have died anywhere than in the arms of Prince Hal, whom he'd scorned for so long. There wasn't any sense in it. Henry Monmouth was barely a man, let alone a soldier, known for abandoning his responsibilities in exchange for drinking and consorting with the kind of people hardly befitting for the company of a royal. It seemed an impossibility to be struck down by someone so young, so inexperienced, with so much disregard for who he was and where he came from and the coveted throne. In battle, Hotspur had used to feel all but immortal, more at home on the field than he was anywhere else. That mortality was quickly slipping away.
Now, he lay trembling on the ground, cradled to the prince's chest like an infant, one hand clutching Hal's arm with all the strength he had left, the other pressed over the wound on his own stomach, as if doing so might hold off the inevitable for at least a few moments longer. He knew he couldn't, of course, but he never had been one to surrender easily, and with death, it would be no different. The part of him that hated this, that feeling of weakness and the pity in the prince's eyes, was quickly losing strength, and he didn't have it in him to protest. He hadn't expected to die; he didn't want to die alone.
"O, I could prophesy," Hotspur managed to choke out, trying to ignore how much unsteadier he sounded than he had mere moments before, "but that the earthy and cold hand of death lies on my tongue..." But there was no use in that, and he knew it. He was growing colder, his breaths shaky, blood still seeping out from between his fingers, and he looked up at Hal with something approaching regret, though he knew he wouldn't have done anything differently if given the chance. His cause had been noble. If he was going to die, at least he did so in pursuit of something greater than himself. "No, Percy," he murmured, "thou art dust and food for -"
He didn't remember saying anything else, because he shouldn't have remembered saying anything else. He opened his eyes, though, something that was inherently wrong, the sound of waves in his ears and sun beating down upon his face. His first thought, the obvious one given the situation, was that he had died and this was the afterlife; that hypothesis was quickly proved false, though, when he glanced down and saw the wound on his chest still open. Wincing, one hand still covering the place where his skin was open, he tried to sit up, a task far difficult than it ought to have been. "What the devil," he said, not quite a question. There was still an edge in his voice, he hadn't lost that, but it was far weaker than he'd have liked. It wasn't hard to tell how tenuous his hold was on what life he had left. Whatever this place was, it could be nothing good. Of that, if nothing else, he was certain.
Now, he lay trembling on the ground, cradled to the prince's chest like an infant, one hand clutching Hal's arm with all the strength he had left, the other pressed over the wound on his own stomach, as if doing so might hold off the inevitable for at least a few moments longer. He knew he couldn't, of course, but he never had been one to surrender easily, and with death, it would be no different. The part of him that hated this, that feeling of weakness and the pity in the prince's eyes, was quickly losing strength, and he didn't have it in him to protest. He hadn't expected to die; he didn't want to die alone.
"O, I could prophesy," Hotspur managed to choke out, trying to ignore how much unsteadier he sounded than he had mere moments before, "but that the earthy and cold hand of death lies on my tongue..." But there was no use in that, and he knew it. He was growing colder, his breaths shaky, blood still seeping out from between his fingers, and he looked up at Hal with something approaching regret, though he knew he wouldn't have done anything differently if given the chance. His cause had been noble. If he was going to die, at least he did so in pursuit of something greater than himself. "No, Percy," he murmured, "thou art dust and food for -"
He didn't remember saying anything else, because he shouldn't have remembered saying anything else. He opened his eyes, though, something that was inherently wrong, the sound of waves in his ears and sun beating down upon his face. His first thought, the obvious one given the situation, was that he had died and this was the afterlife; that hypothesis was quickly proved false, though, when he glanced down and saw the wound on his chest still open. Wincing, one hand still covering the place where his skin was open, he tried to sit up, a task far difficult than it ought to have been. "What the devil," he said, not quite a question. There was still an edge in his voice, he hadn't lost that, but it was far weaker than he'd have liked. It wasn't hard to tell how tenuous his hold was on what life he had left. Whatever this place was, it could be nothing good. Of that, if nothing else, he was certain.