Instead, they worked together, cutting the blood soaked fabrics from Porthos’ body and washing him with soft cloth as if afraid to hurt him more.
Using hisenlike a needle and thread, Hokda sewed the gaping hole in Porthos’ body back together. It was crude and jagged and grey. So unlike Porthos who had always been so bright. So full of life.
There was a stiffness in the way that Hokda worked on preparing Porthos’ body that gave away his pain. How much losing an apprentice affected him. How much not being able to save him hurt.
They dressed Porthos in simple robes. They braided his hair and crossed his arms over his stomach. He looked like he could be sleeping.
Before leaving, Hokda stopped at Kade’s shoulder. He said, “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything right.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Kade didn’t look away from Porthos’ still face. “Did it really not work, or didhehold back?”
Hokda was silent for too long. “Stop being an idiot.” The door shut loudly behind the healer, and Kade was alone.
He was still angry at Porthos—furious, even—but he wished he could be mad at a Porthos that was still alive, who could yell back at him when they fought.
“I hate you,” Kade whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
But Porthos couldn’t hear him.
Porthos would never hear him again.
A sea of black stood at the edge of the riverbank, the starry sky a blanket covering them in a serene sort of stillness.
It was a fine night for a funeral, for a vigil, the skies clear and warm.
Kade hated funerals. He wanted to run and hide. He wanted to burrow into the safety of Killi’s bed and never resurface. He couldn’t face another death, so soon after his mother’s.
There was no river on the palace estate, so they had paraded through Ingara’s streets to the river that cut through the city. Itwas the same river that King Numar had floated after his death, as did his ancestors, and his ancestor’s ancestors.
Porthos would be honored alongside his family.
Lyra knelt next to the funerary boat, with sunken eyes and a grim expression. He wore simple a black tunic and trousers. The king stood a few paces behind Lyra as if he were watching over them, his head bowed. Even Fyar had given up his signature white robes for the night, dressed in the same black garb as everyone else. His hair free of its usual braids. A show of respect and solidarity.
How performative.
Kade glared at the back of Fyar’s head.
A lantern was held in every elf’s hand, to light the fallen prince’s way to the afterlife.
The archers took their place at Fyar’s mark and the crowd shuffled forward, giving Lyra and the boat a wide berth as they began to release the lanterns into the river one by one. Bobbing along in the current, the lanterns looked like fireflies dancing on the inky water.
When it was his turn, Kade knelt, put his lantern in the water, but didn’t let go. He couldn’t.
A warm hand, a familiar hand, closed over his, and it was only with their strength that Kade found it in himself to finally let go. Killi didn’t let go of his hand, only tightened his grip and led Kade back through the crowd.
Fyar didn’t even attempt to help Lyra push the boat into the river. Only after it had been released, did the king step into the water and join Lyra for the vigil.
Two silent figures, knee deep in the water, where they would stay until the sun was at her fullest the following morning.
Lyra didn’t even look at Fyar. His eyes trained only on Porthos. The last he would see of his brother was in the orange flames that consumed his body as the boat floated out of sight.
Killi was Kade’s anchor through it all, the only thing that felt real.
“You don’t have to stay,” Killi whispered to him. “You should go back to the palace. Rest.”
“You’re staying?” Kade asked. Killi nodded. “Hokda’s staying, too. I’m staying.”
Killi knew better than to argue.
