It’d taken her hours to find this particular tombstone. Between her real inability to read and the fact this meant a lot to her, Feiyn was equally frustrated and motivated to keep going on. But she does find it, she finds that decidedly empty grave marked ‘Tevruden Dawnspear’. She kneels next to it, traces the tombstone with her fingers— traces over the letters, the date of birth, date of death.

“Why would you sneak off just to come here?” A familiar voice asks her, puzzled. Feiyn snaps up her head, peering up at the death knight. Very slowly, she looks over him, wonders what he’d be like if he were alive. That was a thing she hadn’t really pressed him on. She knew of his past self— knew he was a Paladin, knew /how/ he died, /why/—

She hadn’t snuck off without his notice, but Tevruden hadn’t cared until he noticed she was gone for awhile and he just /knew/ she’d have gotten into trouble. He stares at her, eyes flickering over to the grave and that uncomfortable weight settles in his stomach. It is a heavy sort of guilt. /He/ should be in there, he thinks. There’s nothing there. Nothing in that grave. Instead, he’s /here/— standing outside of it. He watches Feiyn place a single flower upon it and he’s suddenly stricken— it’s one of those purple, grotesque flowers he’d seen in the Plaguelands, appropriately named Arthas’ Tears— as if that bastard had any tears to cry, as if that /monster/ deserved any pity— except the purple lily isn’t grotesque. It’s… untouched by plague, untouched by rot. It’s beautiful. It’s unearthly. It makes the hair on his neck bristle just as uncomfortably. It feels out of place.

Feiyn stands up and moves over to his side. Very securely, she takes one of his hands. Her hand is smaller, so easily crushed— yet she holds onto his hand and stands with him. She leans against him and they both stare silently at an empty grave to a man that couldn’t be stopped by the veil death.

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