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There was a flurry of activity in Tyr’s Hand as the body was brought in. The scent of marigolds filled the midsummer air, mingling and mixing with the perfume of death. She wasn’t supposed to return like this. The thought echoed in Jothran’s head, competing only with the pounding of his heart. He willed them to take her away, let her walk back into the city on her own like it was some misunderstanding.
But the body didn’t move. It wasn’t her.
The others were arguing. It was difficult to focus on their words without the fire rising through his veins, driving him to nausea. Ralaea shouting about next of kin, Jenzelle begging her not to leave, Taya making angry accusations, while Mevlin tried to calm them down.
Jothran felt the weight of Alver’s gaze, but his own eyes remained fixed on the corpse, her pale hair stained red from the wound across her neck. Not the Scourge. Humans had done this. Humans and an elf.
Like a prayer, the words repeated. It wasn’t her.
“I’m going!” Ralaea declared, her voice finally reaching him. “Her sister deserves to know what her allies did!”
“Ralaea,” Jothran began, reaching towards her. The aroma of marigolds filled his lungs, spicy, choking. “Rae —” But she was already running.
Nobody chased her. They were looking at him. For orders, direction, something. But if he opened his mouth again, would it be words that came out?
Jenzelle took charge at last, sweeping the others away like so many puffs of dust before leaving herself, after a final, lingering gaze.
The stone in his chest dragged him to his knees before the corpse that wasn’t her. Two heaving gasps forced their way through, but nothing came up. With a shaking hand, he brushed her hair into place, and wiped a tear from her cheek. Was it hers, or was it his? Jothran couldn’t tell anymore.
Everything blurred together as he gently called her name. “Kaela,” he said, holding her face. But the corpse didn’t move, because it wasn’t her anymore.
Somewhere, at the edge of his vision, marigolds danced in the wind.