Hera’s hands still grip him. Feel her gentle fingers glide from shoulders, to collar, to neck. The silken noose draws tight. He is gasping for air. His heart screams, but no word, no sound escapes his lips. Hera is watching. Hera is keeping him from insult. How else? How else to explain it?

This can’t be right. This can’t be here. Why is this here? On their ship, in this wonderful place, why keep this den of tragedy and dishonor? They’re [i]dead.[/i] They died. They died, alone, and no one - not even the god of death, the one they’d served - was there to care for their end. Was that what he was to do? Bury the dead? But, but, there were so many traditions, so many rites and rituals, and, the timing. The timing would be all wrong, they’ve been here so long. Who did they worship? Who were they honored by? Did Hades even [i]want[/i] them moved? He’d had all the time in the world to, and, and…

He walked lost among the dead. His hooves rose, and his hooves fell, and he counted not where they landed. No bones were trod upon. No flowers disturbed. Hera, kind Hera, bore him onward. Past rubble, past ruin, to the center, to the heart. To a flower blooming and binding.

His hands drew to his mouth in horror.

How...how did they die?