Merk poked at the dirt with the shovel, digging and digging, the smell of acrid smoke from the still-burning stables filling his nostrils, needing to release the heavy night from his mind, to lose himself in something physical. He realized how lucky he was to be alive, so certain he was dead after being shot. He would have been if it were not for her. He did not like these feelings of attachment he was having for her, and as he dug, he tried to blot it from his mind. The shoveling was exhausting, his wound hurting, but it took his mind off her weeping, and off the death of these good folk. He could not help but feel he was to blame—if he had arrived sooner, perhaps they would all still be alive.

Merk dug and dug, three graves now finished, probably deeper than they needed to be. His muscles burned as he straightened his aching back, and he put the shovel down definitively, looking over at her. He wanted to wrap an arm around her, to console her. But he was not that kind of man. He never knew how to express or even understand his feelings, and he’d seen far too much death to be greatly affected by it. Yet he felt bad for the girl’s emotions. He wanted her crying to stop.

Merk stood there patiently, not knowing what to do, waiting for her to place the bodies in—to do something, anything. Yet she just stood there, weeping, unmoving, and he soon realized he would have to do it himself.

Merk finally knelt, grabbed her father, and dragged him into one of the freshly dug graves. The body was heavier than he’d expected, his back was hurting now from his wound and his over-exertion, and he just wanted to get this over with.

She rushed forward suddenly and grabbed his arm.

“No, wait!” she cried out.

He turned and saw her grief-stricken eyes staring back.

“Don’t do it,” she pleaded. “I can’t bear it.”

He frowned.

“Would you rather the wolves have at them?”

“Just don’t,” she cried. “Please. Not now.”

She wept as she dropped to her knees, cradling her father.

Merk sighed and looked out at the horizon, at the breaking dawn, and wondered if there was any end to death in this world. Some people died pleasantly while others died violently—yet no matter how they died, they all seemed to end up in the same place. What was the point of it all? What was the point of a peaceful death, or a violent one, if they all led to the same place? Did it even make any difference? And if death was inevitable, what was even the point of life?