As more hands worked to staunch the flow of blood -- Pavel, Vasily, Nadejda -- Chiudka found that her own hands had become too empty. Too pale. She needed to save them, she needed to ease their pain, as if a cup of tea to Adrian's lips would somehow dull the claws that scraped at the back of her own skull. She at once was grateful for the help, and she wanted them to turn their backs so she could do it all herself. She could busy her hands to the point of stiff exhaustion, and therefore she would have no time to acknowledge her fears.

Since first stepping into the tavern, she had not dared glance at the corner of the room, where her parents still huddled in a soak of blood.

Someone mentioned that a pyre was being built outside. But weren't their bodies still warm? The color had yet to leave their cheeks. For some, it was unclear whether they were dead or dying -- and Chiudka didn't possess the skill to declare one way or another with any shred of confidence.

But as long as she didn't go to her parents, one or both of them could still be alive. That hope was maintained as long as they were left undisturbed. The fear that someone would take them to the pyre without her ever touching them to be sure -- to [i]know[/i] -- manifested with a tremble in her hands. She was weak, selfish, and a glaring hypocrite.

She put the water down, and she watched David, stiff and vacant, being carried outside. Chiudka swallowed. She stood, and she went to her parents.

"Okay," she whispered to them and to herself. She touched her mother's face, felt for breath and a heartbeat, but her neck had been torn wide open. "Okay, okay, it's okay." Her father, the healer, was slumped over her, his ribs cracked wide from behind and his spine destroyed. She touched his face, felt for a pulse, both hoped and dreaded that he was still breathing. "All right." Gone, both of them. Blissfully unable to feel the pain of these mangled bodies.

She wiped a cold sweat from her brow, and she carefully laid each of them down on the floor and closed their eyes and mouths. She kissed each of them, whispered her love and a prayer, assured them that their daughter and their niece were unharmed, thanked them for their selfless lives. She kissed them again, touched them, and stood, resolved that the fire would take them.

It was with calmer and warmer hands that she continued her father's work. Her ears no longer rang, claws no longer scraped at her thoughts, the anger had gone. She occasionally wiped tears from her cheeks, but her encouraging smile was genuine while she offered it with tea to those in pain.