Tears stung his eyes. There she lay, as if in sleep. As if in sleep. What a cruel lie. A taunt. As if there wasn't a hole in her chest beneath that dress. As if there hadn't been blood staining every inch of her bodice, as if those eyes could open.

A cry caught in his throat, and he couldn't breathe. There she lay, her face cold and pale with death. Death. Her hair laid soft and warm, black as night against the snow-white pillow. He remembered seeing that head for the first time, as she danced and spun in the starlight, water droplets stuck as stars in those dark tresses on that misty evening. Now it lay, unmoving on that snow-white pillow.

Her lips are red, her cheeks rosy. Ironic, he spared a moment to think, for in life she hadn't put much stock in cosmetics. When in life. Life. But no more. They were red today, red as blood. But that was a lie too, he knew. Her blood was darker than that.

Her hands lay stiff, in them a bouquet of flowers, white flowers. He didn't know why. They were beautiful. Beautiful and dead, their roots clipped by an indifferent florist who marveled at their beauty then ripped them out of the ground.

Her body was still. Still and cold and stiff in a way she never was. Never had been. No she had been made of stars. Of those celestial bodies caught in an everlasting dance with the rest of the universe, twirling, spinning, moving. Her dance was never meant to be over. And yet.

He reached out a trembling hand and touched the edge of the casket. Why did they charge money to bury people? Why did he pay to lay her low? To have someone dress her body and arrange it nicely and kill flowers now she was gone? The wood was smooth beneath his fingers. The casket. She was nestled within it, the padded sides white and clean. Why? This was not how she'd died. She'd died in dust. He knew it. Ash had coated her trembling hands, blood stained her hair, sweat soaked her brow, and his tears had mingled with hers, falling to an indifferent earth that grew indifferent flowers to be picked by an indifferent florist to mark the passing of someone like her.

She had died there. Died in the dust beside her brethren, her body broken, her sword shattered, her blood flowing. Until it wasn't.

Why dress her up? Why close her eyes? Her eyes had been looking at him, when they died. They'd been soft and full of tears and full of light. Her heart had burned as fire, her hand had clung to his, her spirit had danced with fervor. She had never been still like this. Why pretend that she was just sleeping? Sleeping. Why make it seem that she wasn't dead?

Now her porcelain skin was snow-white, no trace of war or of blood or ash. Her body was still, no trace of the dance or her spark or her spirit. Her eyes were closed, as if in sleep. The world was so much quieter.

His hand fell from the casket.