She runs her hand over the cold steel, her fingers quivering at the touch of it. The wind blows over the blade ruffling Miria's hair savagely, freezing the tears on her face. Still, even frozen, they come. Those tears of frozen ice.
Memories. Memories of failure. The failures at her feet as the silver eyed lion king ripped first through Veronica, stripping her flesh open, parting her in two, then Undine, taking first her arms and then splitting her body as well. Then came Flora. For her beauty and speed she was not given more then an after thought as claws rent her body into shreds. That had been difficult. Picking frozen remains of shredded meat and knowing once there had been a woman beneath it all. Then Jean, who fought bravely, but was punched through the gut for her efforts. In her final attempts she brought Clare back, with her dying breaths. These were only the captains. Only the names known within the war of Pieta.
There were others. Always others. Pamela, who Helen herself saw crushed in the vice like grip of an awakened. Splattered like so much ripened fruit. Helen still woke from nightmares of that. She'd even given the woman a pep before the fight. Now it is Miria who comforts Helen in those cold nights when she awakens... screaming.
So many. So many who depended on her who she felt die. Even Zelda who had stood to the very last with she and Deneve, Helen and Clare. But she too fell, another nameless amongst all the dead. Each a frozen body to be picked out amongst the drifts of snow, pulled out, sometimes broken further, so they could be buried properly in a decent grave.
Miria walks through the drifts of snow, away from the graves, looking at the village below with its lights flickering, people out and singing. Do they even know? While they all celebrate their inglorious ceremony for a deaf god who doesn't listen to the pleas of the dying, do they even know? Even know how many good women died on that day so they could pass it drinking alcohol or beating each other in brawls. So that they could cuss at those who are still living for not doing a job they themselves are incapable of doing?
Miria squeezes her fist tight, clenching them hard, a bitter tear running down her cheek. In this day of celebration all she can remember is the dead, eyes vacant and cold, staring up at her accusingly. You couldn't save us Miria. It's your fault. Your fault we were butchered like cattle and left here to die without even a proper grave to rest in. Your fault!
She hugs her cloak closely, gripping it as a final warmth from a chill that comes not from the cold but within. This... this is all her fault. All... hers...