Funerals are never pleasant, he thought, pulling the collar of his coat up around his chin. It was a chilly night, amplified greatly by the winds howling through the valley. Still, there was business to attend to. Solitary men do not get great funerals where their closest friends mourn their passing, sobbing into handkerchiefs, especially when their closest friends try to kill them on a daily basis. It was so with Damric, and as the body was consumed by the flames, which threatened to extinguish themselves under the punishing hammering of the gales, the hooded figure stood away from the small crowd of neighbours, and watched, smiling slightly. There was Milada, her hood pulled up to hide her face, but unmistakably her. Closer to the flames stood Robynwen, her face wet with frozen tears, as she watched the body burn.
And up on the hill, there was another figure.
Even at this distance, the eyepatch was noticeable. Dieudonnae Hughes oversaw, quite literally, the funeral of her rival, her face blank. He could see her lips move, any sound stolen by the night, but no sound was needed. Sight would do just fine.
"No more," she said. "No more."
And she turned away, disappearing into the night, never to be seen again.
He smiled sadly, deciding it was time to follow her example.
Funerals are never pleasant.
Especially when they are your own.
