Raghnill stared at the man lying motionless on a gurney at her ship's morgue. His torn jacket was soaked in dark green blood, his exposed deadly wound still open.
"There was nothing we could do," her chief medical officer had said. He now remained by the man's side, fearfully silent, playing nervously with his hands.
But Raghnill paid no attention to him, neither to the soldier that stayed at attention at the back of the room, and who also couldn't hide her own dread. Raghnill's eyes were glued to the dead man, his tall sculptured figure still formidable even in his death; and the weapon that lied respectfully by his side.
His Honor Blade, tainted with his own blood, its beautiful handling still showing its intricate carving with pride. It had been a very treasured possession; it had been her mother's gift.
That proved how important the man had been to her fierce mother; not family, not a lover, not even a friend, but somebody she valued even more. Subcenturion Eldgrímr had been chief of her personal guard for decades. She had trusted him as much as she could trust anyone. His service had always been exemplary.
And now her mother was lost, and he was dead. Somehow it was ironic, considering how many times the man probably had had to hear the sour admiral's disregard for honor and sacrifice in the privacy of her quarters, that he had finally followed the traditional honorable way.
Ajeya was not one to appreciate it, actually, she would have been enraged. Raghnill, on the other hand, completely empathized with the bodyguard; her heart told her it was completely right.
Except that she had told the man to resist, because she was going to fight their doom. She, once again, had not dared to pronounce the word 'prevail'.
When Ajeya had gone missing, Eldgrímr had blamed himself; he had never wanted to let her go alone, unprotected, and now he deeply regretted having complied her orders, even if he knew obedience was the only option he had had. His job was protecting Ajeya from any harm, and obviously he had failed in his duty.
He had not been the only one berating himself for his decisions, but he was the only one who had taken such a drastic path. Raghnill had already learnt her lesson about that, and consequent with her mother's approach to crisis, she had also left her ship to search for her.
And now he also was gone. Forever. Dead by his own hand. Definitely, if her mother was back, she was not going to like that, not one bit. So she harshly concluded her silent mourning for the fallen loyal soldier, and looked up, her eyes filled with wrath.
She turned to the centurion at attention and searched for her own eyes. The woman's gaze was lost somewhere forward, and did not dare to squarely meet her commander's glare. She was too ashamed, and too terrified. She knew what was written in them.
Raghnill had been very aware of Eldgrímr's depressive state. She had very much intended to prevent him from doing what was in his mind, even if he had not really spoken it up. And she had ordered her chief of security to watch him every time, to stop him if he ever tried. She had left briefly her vessel, and had come back to find him already dead. To say that she was enraged was an understatement. Clearly someone had been negligent of her duties, and that was her chief of security.
"I don't have time for this now," she muttered to herself with certain regret. To the awaiting soldier, she simply said, "Report to the brig," her voice was as cold as ice.
Her eyes turned once more to Eldgrímr's body, this time, when she gazed up again, she hardly spared a look at her disgraced officer. "Consider yourself dead," she spat, and hasty left the room.