"Love does not redeem. It only makes the farewell impossible to say in full."
The crying had stopped.
Lycaon just sat there, in the oppressive darkness and the stony cold of the cellar. He held Lyra's cold, stiff body tightly. His sister's last warmth had long since faded into the air, leaving only the rigidity of a form abandoned by the gods.
He no longer felt time, no longer felt the freezing stone floor seeping through his tattered clothes. His mind was empty, a state of absolute paralysis. He had already died with his sister. He was just waiting for this body to stop breathing as well.
How long did he sit there? A few hours? Half the night? He didn't know.
But then, in that stillness, a thought flared, not a rational one, but a gruesome image.
Tomorrow morning. They will come back.
He pictured the scene. Priest Lycomedes and his lackeys would return. They would see that he had died. And then... what would they do with Lyra?
They would not bury her.
They would drag his sister's small body away, toss it into some nameless pit for "heretics." Or worse, just leave it here for the rats to gnaw on, as proof of a failed "offering."
That thought, the image of Lycomedes's hand touching Lyra one more time, awakened something deeper than pain. It was the indignation of a protector. Though he had failed, though he had lost everything, he could not let them desecrate his sister one last time. He could not let her final resting place be this filthy cellar.
No. Not again.
It wasn't a decision. It was a command from the deepest part of his shattered soul.
"Must... get Lyra out of here," he whispered, a hoarse, dry sound escaping his throat.
He had to find her a resting place, a place their profane hands could not reach.
He began to act.
It was an escape from hell, a struggling and pathetic crawl. He couldn't stand up. Nor did he have the strength to carry Lyra. He had to place his sister's small, lifeless body onto his own thin back. Her weight was like a whole mountain pressing down on him, not because of her mass, but because of the pain.
Using his two hands and his one good leg, he began to crawl up the stone steps.
The sound of Lyra's body scraping against the stone wall was a rasping noise that tore through the silence, tearing at his heart. His old wounds tore open again, fresh blood mingling with the dirt on the steps. He felt nothing. He was no longer a brother; he was a father trying to carry his dead child to her final rest.
As he neared the top of the cellar stairs, he heard the first church bell signaling the approaching dawn. Time was running out. The fear of being discovered became the fuel that pushed him to expend his last ounce of strength.
He managed to push open the cellar door, slip through the back of the church, and disappear into the cold morning mist at the edge of the Labyrinthos Forest.
He didn't go far. He just found a large, ancient tree, where its giant roots formed a small, natural hollow. This was it. This would be Lyra's resting place.
He used his bare hands and his father's knife to dig through the earth and rotten leaves. His fingers bled, scraped against stones and roots, but he didn't stop. He dug a small grave, just big enough for his sister's tiny body.
He gently placed Lyra inside. He smoothed her matted hair, wiped the dried blood from her forehead.
He had nothing to bury with her. He looked down at the iron knife in his hand, his father's last legacy. He gazed at it for a long moment, then, without hesitation, he placed it beside Lyra. He wanted it to stay, to protect his sister's sleep.
He did not cry. His tears had long since run dry. He said not a word. He just used his two hands to cover her with earth and leaves.
When the small grave was filled, he placed his charred, bleeding hand upon it. He didn't promise revenge. Revenge was for the living, and he was already dead. He promised only one thing, a vow to his own soul:
"I will not forget, Lyra. I will not let them forget."
When the final ritual was complete, when the only reason for him to act was gone, all his strength vanished. The burden had been laid down. The final will had been done.
He collapsed right next to his sister's grave, and sank into delirium, beginning the aimless existence of an abandoned beast.
The next morning, in the damp cellar, Priest Lycomedes returned. He looked at the dark corner where the small body should have been, now just a pool of dried blood. He frowned slightly, not with worry, but with minor annoyance. He assumed his two attendants had acted on their own, tossing the body somewhere to clean up quickly. "Fools," he muttered, "acting without orders." To him, Lyra's corpse was nothing more than a broken tool; its disappearance was just a nuisance in the "cleanup." He ignored it, his mind completely focused on the precious drop of "Essence of Immortality," and leisurely walked upstairs, leaving the darkness and cold to the cellar.