We should look for her.
Typical of Florentine not to leave well enough alone. Typical that she should, in pursuit of a child's sentiments, pick at scabs half-closed and set the bright blood flowing again.
Raymond was an old soldier, and said his goodbyes the way old soldiers do. Sometimes people die. Sometimes you lose things that are precious to you. If not today then tomorrow; if not you then someone else. You pour one out for the deceased and you move on.
And what did she hope to find? A broken, empty shell? A grotesque parody of a kitten neither of them could ever even recognize as Ruth anyway? They were as likely to fund their own deaths, all in the name of her feelings.
"Ruth is dead," he replied, his voice low and sharp.
His lip twitched.
It should have soothed him for the flower maiden at last to bend to his desire to move on, but the nerve had already been rubbed raw and her words sounded all the more hollow - somehow mocking - for the sudden shift. Absently his weight shifted to one side, a novice bladefighter's mistake that -though perhaps subtle to others - would shout his disquiet to the high halls.
He should not have been so harsh. After what had come before, there was very little she could have said that wouldn't have merely provoked his quiet rage further. But he was here because here was where he'd been sent, and until he bent the knee he was as much her citizen as she was his queen.
Which was not at all.
Raymond did not bother returning her smile, confining the severity of his response only through sheer force of will. It was difficult, when his heart was a powder keg beneath an open flame.
"I believe there are more important things for me to do than splash about in your swamp, Flora."
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
@
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
