He'd never held a dead body before.
Never.
And as she lay in his arms, he realized it wasn't as bad as they said it was.
Depending on who you held.
He looked down on her pale face, thick lashes heavy with tears. His or hers, it didn't matter. Her eyes were still open, violet irises speckled with white dots of light. He reached over and closed them.
Her blood oozed out of the open wound in her side, just below her ribs, and her opened veins showed no restraint in letting out their contents.
She felt cold to the touch.
He'd never touched her before.
He remembered the almost brotherly pride he'd felt, when she took the throne. The near bestial protectiveness he had over her.
He set her down, her thin body resting on the uneven floor.
The wind ruffled her hair, and for a moment, she looked as if she was merely sleeping.
Dreaming.
Of what, he didn't know.
He could only kneel on the cold ground, hands folded, swearing revenge.