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“Thank you for being brave enough to find me this one last time.” Forkle wheezed to Sophie, “You gave me the gift of goodbye.”
There was no point in keeping pressure on his wounds, the tablecloth Oralie was using to do so was soaked through entirely, and it would have been no use, even if it wasn’t. No matter how badly she wanted to believe otherwise, the truth forced its way into her head. There was no saving him.
He let out a final shaky cough, and then his body stilled under her hands. His head lolled to the side. The acceptance and fear he had been feeling just moments ago came to an abrupt stop, leaving a sickening nothingness in their wake. She leaned back, letting her blood soaked hands fall to her sides. She tried to push her sobs down – keep her tears silent – hold herself together, for her sake, for Sophie’s sake, but she couldn’t. She nearly buried her face in her hands, but she froze halfway through the motion. Bad idea. Bloody. She settled for dropping her head onto her knees to at least muffle her sobs.
This was her fault. He saved her life, and he died for it. She was meant to die here, not him.
Her sobs sharpened their claws and tore harder at her throat. She knew that blaming herself would do nobody any good, but she couldn’t help it. This wasn’t like Kenric. This wasn’t his choice. She wasn’t blaming herself for failing to save him.
This was her fault.
Gethen had wanted her dead. Had Forkle not stepped in for her sake, he would still be alive. She had no idea how long she sat spiralling like that, forcing herself to confront the sickening truth, but she knew that she cried until she couldn’t anymore.
Her voice was so hoarse it barely worked when she straightened up, took a shaky breath, and told Sophie “You should go.”
Sophie looked up from Keefe’s shoulder, tears still streaming down her face, “But–”
Oralie shook her head and forced herself to stand despite her shaking, “Edaline will be worried sick if you stay,” she wiped her bloody hands on her dress.
“But he said we had to remove him,” Sophie’s voice had a terrible tremor to it, “so nobody–”
“I’ll handle it.” Oralie cut in.
She couldn’t bear the thought of Sophie having to deal with this. Not when she looked so small, and was shaking so terribly. Oralie could feel the sadness and hurt coming off of her in waves. She was already handling so much more than she should. She had so many other worries to shoulder. She was just a little girl. Oralie’s little girl.
“Take care of my moonlark” Forkle had said. This was her first step.
She took a breath and steadied herself, “Please, go.”
She hoped her voice projected more confidence than she felt. Keefe tightened the arm he had around Sophie’s shoulders. Sophie met his eyes for a moment and then nodded. Both kids looked unsteady on their feet as they left. Oralie didn't blame them. She didn’t feel particularly stable either.
Once they were gone, she sank to her knees again. She shouldn’t have. She had two bodies to get rid of, and she had no doubt the Council would send in a cleanup crew to handle the wreckage and retrieve survivors soon enough. There was no time to sit here feeling bad for herself. Yet here she was. Alone in a room, or what was left of one, with two bodies. Both dead because of her. She wanted to cry more, but she wasn’t sure she could. She wanted a lot of things she couldn’t have in that moment. More than usual. She wanted Forkle back. She wanted to un-see Brant’s brain splattered across the floor. She wanted to go back and do everything differently.
But all of her wanting would do nothing. She had a promise to keep. She owed Forkle that much. So, she shut her eyes and took a deep breath. The air caught in her throat, but she forced herself to pull back the sobs trying to break free. She slid her arms under his shoulders and around him. She would have to get him closer to Brant for her to be able to light leap with both of them. His body wasn’t as heavy as she had expected it to be, but it was still hard to move.
When she set him down, as gently as she could, she took a moment to just look at him. His still-open eyes, flat and lifeless. Half the man she had known him as for years – old and grey, and almost human – and half someone else – someone familiar, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on who. She had her theories, of course, but she didn’t have it in her to contemplate them. The last time she was here, before the peace summit, she had told him she wanted to wait for him to tell her himself. She still wanted to wait for that, though she knew it could never happen now. Not the time to think about that. She pulled Forkle onto her lap, to the best of her ability, and grabbed Brant’s wrist. With her free hand, she pulled out her pathfinder. It didn’t matter where she went, all she needed to do was leap. She didn’t hesitate for a moment as she chose her destination.
Her focus was stretched thin, pulling two people with no focus of their own with her into the leap. Once she was sure it was safe, and she could no longer feel the cold floor beneath her, she shifted her concentration from the bodies she left with to herself.
I’m sorry.
When she arrived on the flower-lined path to her castle, she was alone. Completely, truly alone. She tucked her pathfinder away and pushed herself to her feet, feeling out of place, in her bloodied green dress, among the blossoms that lined the walkway. She shoved the castle door open and, for once, locked it behind her. Part of her wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed and break down once more, but there was no time for that. People would be looking for her. There were things to be done. She had come home for one thing, really. She wanted to clean herself up. She owned no dresses similar to this one, so she couldn’t change, that would raise more questions than the blood.
She wanted to wash her hands. She needed to wash her hands. More than just her hands – her arms were soaked to the elbow in blood, though it was mostly dried now. She stumbled into a washroom, slammed the door, and ran the water as hot as it would go, careful to avoid meeting her own eyes in the mirror. She didn’t let herself dissolve into tears again as she scrubbed, in hopes that the redness of her eyes would be somewhat faded by the time she returned to Lumenaria. What was left of it. She was barely aware of her surroundings, she could hardly feel the heat of the water on her skin.
Before she knew it, the bar of soap she had been using was whittled down to practically nothing. How long had she been here? Her arms were no longer covered in blood, but her skin was rubbed raw. The mirror was so foggy she couldn’t make herself out, everything was a blurry mess of pinks and golds – some green, some red. She turned off the tap and walked out of the room. She had to get back to the Council. People would be worried. Once more, she pulled out her pathfinder and held it up to the light.