"Wake up, Thomas," Elara whispered. Her voice was thin and trembling. "The nice man is here. We can go now."
She shook his shoulder gently. It was the way one might wake a sleeping child.
Thomas's head lolled to the side. His mouth remained open in that silent, eternal gasp.
Marcus knelt beside her.
He watched Elara's face. It was a mask of desperate hope.
She refused to see the grey pallor of Thomas's skin. She refused to feel the stiffness in his limbs.
"Elara," Marcus said softly. "He can't hear you."
"He is just tired," Elara insisted. She didn't look at Marcus. She kept her eyes fixed on Thomas's closed lids. "The bad men hurt him. He needs rest."
"He isn't resting," Marcus said. He forced his voice to be steady. "He is dead."
Elara froze. Her hand hovered over Thomas's cheek.
"Don't say that," she hissed. "Don't say that word."
"I have to say it," Marcus replied. "Because it is the truth."
He reached out. He took Elara's hand in his own.
