Elisabeth, small and sweet, still breathing as she died in Simon’s arms, whispering confused words he would never forget. With fear in her eyes, unable to understand what was happening, unable to make sense of the pain. Searching for an answer that Sim’l was unable to give her.
And Sim’l could do nothing but cradle her, looking at her increasingly pale, frightful face, with that small bloodstain beside her mouth, the mouth itself forming the shape of a reproach. Why didn’t you save me, Sim’l? Why don’t you take this pain away? You’re as tall and strong as an ash, so why can’t you do anything but cradle me and whisper, cradle me and whisper? Why?
Why, Sim’l?
“It’s alright, Lissy. It’s alright, little Lissy. Sweet Lissy. It’s alright.”
Not knowing when the sun would rise.
Not knowing the reason for that blood.
Only knowing how to lie.