Henry regarded her without smiling, moving slowly but intently as she laughed through the shock. He had seen dying men laugh that way, though some of them screamed, others cried, and a rare few simply waited, clinging at him in their last lonely seconds. He remembered the feeling of uselessness in the face of mortality, sunk down deep under his usual mindless bitterness. As she laughed, he moved closer along her bloody side and examined her wound with first his eyes, and then his hands.
The dream (or magic, or both, Henry was accepting of strange circumstances like this) was extraordinarily vivid, and he could feel the rapidly cooling stickiness of her blood as she no doubt felt the gentle invasion of his fingers as he pulled at the cloth. The raw bone concerned him, the blood more so. "Should I take you to seek assistance?" he asked her, as if she knew where they were intimately.
"No," he agreed with her, his accent formal and his vowels strangely formed. "I do not belong. Is this the future, or the past?" He reached back and in a practiced gesture pulled the sleek length of a longbow to a sharper angle so he could settle deeper into his crouch, boots crunching heavily into the leaves. "It is no vision of mine."