His blood was warm against her skin as she held him, clung to him, and cried. The pain of her battle wounds were nothing compared to the agony in her heart and so, ignoring the pains of her body, she sobbed over the body of her fallen friend.
If she had come sooner--just a little sooner--he would still be alive. He'd be surprised, maybe even a little bit angry, that she had followed him and nosed her way into his affairs, but he'd be alive, at least, and everything would have been okay.
But she hadn't come sooner. She'd come too late. Too late to do anything but watch him be butchered alive. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.
Sometimes, when he didn't notice, she watched him. Just brief, concerned glances every now and then towards the man who'd come to mean so much to her in so little time.
She was happy to have him back, and never once did she wish him dead again. But sometimes she wondered if she should have thought of the effect his death would have on him.
Sometimes, when he didn't notice, she watched him. And, sometimes, she saw something so cold (so empty) in his eyes it made her shiver inside.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pester my Myst muses.