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This was not unfamiliar to the green-eyed woman. She had known death intimately—seen it and caused it, whether or not she herself had spilled blood. It was a companion to her, something that like the crow, did not speak and did not leave her side. Yet Aurèle did not fear death. It was not as if she was without fear, like her son, far from it. Aurèle had known fear as her brother and through him found courage. So while she was fearless, she was not ignorant of that terrible thing. She was not without feeling.
Now she felt for her sister because she too knew what that loss was. Her son had fallen into the river and been swept out of her grasp. She had watched him and felt her heart rip in two. Then she had been rebuilt, out of need, out of that terrible need to survive. Anatole had lived and grown strong. As long as she had him she would never need to fear or think of the son who had resembled his father far too much.
Tayui took the toy from her hands and they felt cold, dirty. The woman stared ahead and watched the shockwave roll from where she stood. Her feet did not move. She made no motion to comfort her sister. This was not her place. It never had been. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. This too, felt worthless.