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The Monarch of the Stolen Lands stood over the corpse of yet another close friend in this hell scape of a Fey's world. They could no longer shed tears at this point, but the grief still bled from them.
Death was something that had clung to them since that night of chaos in Restov. They took off their gloves, the sweat feeling too close to blood of the faceless, nameless, unremarkable person they killed.
Harrim attempted to use spell scrolls of Raise Dead on each one. He failed each time. He did not mention Groetus in the process. That was good.
The Monarch would probably have killed him if he had.
Kneeling down to the corpse they gently take the glasses that had fallen from Jubilost's face. Cracked lenses and corroded wire. They put them back on him, shifting the head awkwardly. Once the glasses were secure the Monarch could let go.
The glasses were now secure. The Monarch could not let go in their heart, but they stood and with a shuddering breath tried to anyway.
The Monarch failed.
The Monarch's failure opened the wounds of grief further.
Putting on the dead man's gloves once more, words wet and thick with emotion escaped them.
"I will not fail again."