When Mama died, I couldn't be consoled. Finn would let himself into Hygge palace every night and hold me while I cried myself to sleep. Everything hurt. I couldn't imagine a world in which I deserved to live while my mother didn't. How could I have such privilege when hers was taken from her by some twisted stroke of fate?

I tried to run away from home, convinced that if Mama wasn't there, I didn't want to be there either. I didn't eat for days at a time because I didn't have the energy or desire. I slept for huge chunks of time, and when I wasn't sleeping, I was crying or disassociating.

Finn couldn't console me so he just kept me company.

Kept me from succumbing to the same fate.

So, why didn't I feel anything now?
How could I stare at the headless body of my father—the man who used to swim around with me on his shoulders singing "Ride a Little Seahorsey" and hide behind corner just so he could jump out and scare me—and feel nothing?

His body was flat against the blackened ground, one open hand flat against his bare chest and the other in the grass beside him. Deep red blood was pooling. It shone bright against the already discolored grass, creating a gory sort of blanket under him. It was all coming from the morbid stump that was his neck.

His head...

Where was his head?

As panic balls up in the center of my chest, I start to pat the grass around him. The blood splatters up my arms as I foolishly look for it.
That's my first hint that maybe I'm not numb.
I feel something. That something just so happens to be idiocy.

I hear the heavy footfalls before I see the boots. The squelching sound they make in the mud makes my hair bristle. Someone gasps softly, swears in Anjordian, and steps back again. I'm on my hands and knees in a pool of blood, searching for my father's severed head. I know exactly how this looks.

"Help me," I shout at whoever is standing over me. There's a hint of desperation in my voice that I'm a little ashamed of. "I need to find it!"
No one moves. I grab Papa by the shoulders and hoist him onto his side. Maybe it's under him? All I find is bloody mud. So, I gently lower his body back down and start searching through the nearby foliage. Someone nearby vomits.

"Help me!" I snap again, not looking up.

A short distance away from where Papa's body landed, there's a nest of briars. Their thorns are glinting from the water that poured over them when the ice melted. At one point in time, the vines had flowers on them, but the battle either fried them or the frosty mornings did.

Maybe that's where Papa's head went.

I crawl towards them, ignoring the way my knees sink into the mud, the way my uniform is now soaked through with hot liquid, the way my hair is glued to my forehead. Gritting my teeth, I shove my arms into the thorn bush. Its sharp teeth bite into my skin, shredding the sensitive tissue, but I don't pull them out. Instead, I feel around for hair—beautiful golden hair that I used to practice my braiding skills on, that reminded me of the color of a soft winter sun, not too bright and just what you need.

Plus, the pain centers me.

It reminds me that I'm alive.

But I don't deserve to be. They do. Not me.
Why am I always the one who survives? Why can't She have taken me instead for once?
I jump when two hands land on my shoulders. The sharp movement drives the thorns into my arms, and I gasp in pain.

Good. I deserve worse. I let them both die. I wasn't strong enough to protect them.

"Ari," a soft voice says. It's deep, masculine, meant to be calming.

I block it out and keep pushing into the flora.
The hands tighten on me.

"Arielle. " When I don't acknowledge him, Eero says, "Min kære."

Once again, the way he says my name, my full, Divine-given name, followed by the soft Anjordian phrase, makes me take pause. His tenor steals what breath is left in me. My hands are trembling from pain laced with wild panic when I look over my shoulder and meet his eyes. They're soft as they lock onto my face, but his eyebrows are furrowed in solid concern.

"You have to help me, Eero," I plead, my voice cracking. "I'll never ask anything of you ever again. Just, please, help me."

His lips tighten into a tight line as he chooses his words. "I can't help, min kære."

"Why not?" I hiss. It comes out with condensed fury and hurt.

Eero winces. Then, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, "He's gone, Ari. You can't find his head. We need to go."

I wrench my arms out of the bush and spin around to face him. The action causes me to fall backwards, and I land with a splash in the squashy earth. "Go? I can't leave him."

He backs up half a heartbeat. "You have to. It isn't safe here."

"Eero..." I feel my head shaking, see the trees moving around me, see Eero's form wavering. But my body isn't my own right now. I'm somewhere else, watching this scene unfold, numb. "I—I can't just leave him. He—it's my—I can't."

"If we don't go now, you'll be joining him in death."

"Then let me." Tears clog my throat, and the words come out full of emotion. "Let me die with him."

Eero doesn't flinch. Instead, he says sternly, "No."

I scowl weakly. "Is that an order?"

"Don't do that right now," he scolds, frowning at me. A muscle in his jaw twitches. "We have to go. Are you going to walk, or do I need to carry you?"

My jaw drops, causing my mouth to fly open. "You wouldn't dare."

"To protect you?" He leans forward, meeting my gaze evenly. "There's not much I wouldn't do." Then, Eero extends a hand. "Make a decision."

I glance around him at Papa's body.

He deserves a funeral! He deserves a trail of magicked candles illuminating the pathway to his eternity. The mourners should sing him to sleep one final time; the trench should swallow his remains and recycle them into the ocean.
He should not be left here in an open field for the worms and vultures and sun to eat away at his Divine-blessed body.

"I won't leave him," I say firmly, proud of myself for the way my voice holds steady.
Eero sighs. "I thought you'd say that." And before I can protest, he reaches forward and grabs me.

It isn't a gentle grab either. His hands wrap themselves around my arms and pin both of them to my sides. With a grunt, he hoists me to my feet, lets my arms go, and then grabs my waist. There isn't even time to protest as he throws me over his shoulder.

Like I'm a sack of fish.

"Eero! Let me down!" I howl, beating on his back. I swear in every language I know as my fists continue their tirade against solid muscle. Eero's hand on the back of my knees doesn't loosen.

It doesn't move.

Doesn't soften.

Doesn't waver.

Of all the complaints I have against Eero—and there are a few—I will never complain about his dependability and solidity.

I scream and wail; I claw and beat. I beg for either him or Magnus, who is following behind us with an uncharacteristically green face as we make our way back through the woods to the beach, to stop, to let me die, to let me bury him, to help me.

And neither of them do.

And I hate them for it.

I'm still cursing every member of their families and contemplating using what little energy I have left to murder Eero when the ocean comes into view. His ship has drifted much closer to us, and its sails are lifted, heavy to be let out in a rapid retreat.

He really does plan on leaving my father here.

My dead father.

I can't find the strength to argue as he steps into the pinnace and takes his seat. Magnus follows. The guard doesn't even have the decency to look at me as he takes the oars from the side of the boat and pushes up into deeper water. I glare at the side of his head, imagining all the truly horrific things I want to say to him but just don't have the energy to.

I have nothing left to give.

No words, no time, no energy, no strength.
Zula took it all with him.

Sinking against Eero's shoulder, I reach for the ocean. It returns the gesture, coiling around my outstretched fingers. Every inch of me burns—in pain and grief and hatred—but the water is cool and soothing. An undercurrent of magic vibrates between us, a gentle reassurance that—She's here. She hasn't abandoned me. She knows.

What difference does that make, though?
The Divine can't bring him back from the dead. No matter how much begging I do.

There's no power in existence strong enough to resurrect my father or mother.

Not yet, anyway. Even if it kills me, I have to keep it that way.

So, I mumble to the water, "Tell Finn to bury him."

The little spout starts to retreat, and Eero stiffens under me. His head doesn't fully turn, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice his ear inch a little closer.

"Tell him I'll fix this. That I'm sorry."

Eero's fingers tighten on my leg. I wonder if it's a squeeze of reassurance or bewilderment because I'm talking to the ocean. When he starts to rub small circles in the tense skin of the back of my thigh, I have my answer.

Reassurance.

When I don't say anything else, the water flattens again, and the warm presence of the magic disappears with it.

I slump against Eero, watch the island grow smaller as we move away, and let the pain slowly settle over me like a blanket.