Trashes of the Counts' Families || Trash of the Count's Family || OC

60

He nodded, quietly leading her to his room. He knew she knew where it was, but he escorted her anyway. He would try to be with her while all of this was still happening.

Inside the room, it was cold. The windows were open to air out the room. Everything was normal. The nightstand. The closet. The bed—.

There were no white sheets on the bed. But there was a body on it. The body was covered in a white blanket. She walked to the body. She only hesitated a moment before she pulled down the blanket.

She did not truly see her dad, Priest Charlie, in the body on the bed.

The corpse looked waxy and pale, with a stiffness to the face. His features were sunken and hollow, making him look even more sick than he had been. He had a frozen grimace lingering on his lips, his face frozen as if a picture had been taken.

This was not her dad.

It was a corpse.

"When will the funeral be?"

Bede looked at her. He had been avoiding looking at the body of his mentor, but Adara couldn't look away. "I'm not sure. They haven't planned it yet."

Adara frowned. "And when do they plan to put their priest duties aside to arrange a funeral?"

Bede flinched at her tone of voice. He knew Adara dealt with getting hurt by lashing out. So, he tried to talk as soothingly as he could. "They are probably planning it right now."

"Probably doesn't cut it."

Bede held in a sigh as he nodded. "I will go check on them to make sure the planning is going smoothly." She might just need some time alone, he thought.

But as he closed the door behind him, Adara fell onto the chair, crying.

She didn't want to be alone right now. In a room with a corpse who was not her dad any longer.

Why had she been mean to Bede? 

Now, he was gone.

And it was all her fault.

The following morning, when the sun was above the horizon and Cale was awake, she stayed in bed. She was awake; sometimes, others, she slept. She was floating between consciousnesses, dreaming but then not.

She had countless nightmares, each one worse than the last. She thought of the vague images from the nightmare she just woke up from.

A burning garden.

A charred corpse.

White sheets.

She wasn't sure where the white sheets kept coming from. They were hanging in the oddest places, never getting burned.

She groaned at the memories, burying herself in more blankets.

She lay there, covered in as much of the blanket as possible. Thinking.

Why had she avoided the Capital like a plague for so long?

Why did she not get over her anger and childish pettiness and go to the Temple?

Why did she not even send one letter?

Why did she hate the God of Death so much that she could not even think of his disciples?

If she had done any of those, if she had been there, would he have even gotten ill?

Would she have realised he was ill and called for a doctor?