As the families gathered around him, Amukelo's heart sank further. His hands shook as he reached into the bag he had carried with him. The first thing he pulled out was a small ring, simple in design but worn from use. Along with it, a folded piece of paper, weathered by time and travel. His voice was quiet but clear as he spoke, "These are Idin's belongings," he said, Idin's parents stepped forward. "I wish I could have brought more… but I couldn't carry everything."
Idin's mother's hands were trembling as she reached for the items. She unfolded the piece of paper first, her eyes scanning the familiar drawing, she remembered the exact time it was made. Her lips quivered as she reminded herself of these moments. Then she looked at the ring, recognizing it instantly. It was precious present from her daughter to Idin that she helped to make.
The realization hit her like a wave, and she brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she clutched the ring tightly, her body shaking with the force of her grief. Amukelo could hardly bear to look at her. His own face twisted with sorrow, and he could feel the familiar sting of tears in his eyes, though he fought to keep them at bay. He wanted to offer her words of comfort, but there were none. There was nothing he could say that would ease her pain.
Amukelo then turned to Berthold, Bral's father. He took a small, worn dagger from the bag, followed by a used-up book filled with letters that Bral had written during their travels. "I believe these meant a lot to him," Amukelo said softly, his voice faltering slightly as he held out the items.
Berthold's eyes, which had been hard and stern before, softened as he took the dagger and the book from Amukelo's hands. His fingers traced the hilt of the dagger, a gift they gave him as a reminder of them in his adventure. The reality of the situation seemed to finally settle on Berthold's shoulders. Even though he had prepared himself for this, the weight of the truth—the undeniable finality of it—struck him deeply. He held the dagger close to his chest, his gaze distant, as if remembering the times when Bral was still alive, still full of promise and life.
Amukelo watched as Berthold's powerful, authoritative presence crumbled, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his loss. He hadn't expected to feel anything beyond the cold detachment of duty, but seeing the grief etched into Berthold's face made it clear that even the strongest men were not immune to the pain of losing a child.
Now, only one family remained.
Amukelo took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knew would be the hardest part. His hands moved to the final set of belongings in the bag—Bao and Pao's possessions. He pulled out Bao's items first: a small locket, and a book filled with her drawings. "I didn't get to know Bao very well," he admitted, his voice quiet. "But she was a great woman."
Bao's mother stepped forward, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red from crying. She took the items from Amukelo with shaking hands, her fingers tracing the delicate designs of the locket. The book of drawings, filled with childhood expressions. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back, her grief too deep for words. She simply nodded her thanks to Amukelo, her throat too tight to speak.
And now, it was time for Pao's belongings.
Even before Amukelo reached into the bag, he could feel his breath quickening, his chest tightening with the weight of the emotions that surged within him. Pao's death had been the hardest to bear. The memory of her last moments, her final words, haunted him. He had tried to bury those feelings deep within himself, but now, standing here, about to hand over the last remnants of her life to her parents, it all came rushing back.
He pulled out a small diary, her thoughts and feelings written on a paper, and two necklaces—the one he had given her on their first date. The sight of the necklace made his hands tremble, and he could barely keep his composure as he held it out toward her father. But his hand froze midway.
Amukelo's body shook violently, and he could feel the tears burning behind his eyes. He tried to suppress them, but it was no use. The dam broke, and the tears began to fall, silently at first, but soon his entire body was racked with sobs. His breath came in short, painful gasps as he stared at the necklace—the last tangible reminder the time they spent together, of the woman he had loved.
"I'm… I'm sorry," Amukelo choked out between sobs, his voice barely a whisper. His hand, still trembling, offered the necklace to Pao's father, but he couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes. The pain of giving away the last piece of her was too much. It was as if, by handing over these items, he was truly letting her go, and he wasn't ready for that.
Pao's father, a tall, imposing man who had remained stoic throughout the gathering, softened as he saw the raw pain in Amukelo's eyes. His own grief, though deep, seemed momentarily overshadowed by the young man's overwhelming sorrow. He reached out and took the items from Amukelo's trembling hands, his voice low and gentle. "Thank you, young man."
Amukelo barely registered the words. He was staring at his empty hand. The emptiness in his palm felt like a reflection of the emptiness in his heart. The sobs continued to wrack his body, and for a moment, he felt utterly lost, consumed by the pain of it all.
He had known that this moment would be difficult, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it, handing over Pao's belongings, the last connection he had to her. The weight of that loss, the pain of knowing he would never see her again, was too much to bear.
Amukelo stood on the platform, his body still trembling slightly from the wave of emotion that had just passed over him. The families had taken their seats again, some of them still weeping silently, others simply staring ahead in stunned disbelief. The hall was eerily quiet.
Berthold, noticing Amukelo's distress, placed a firm hand on his back, offering a gesture of support. With a shaky breath, Amukelo wiped the last of the tears from his face, gathering the courage to speak.
"So we met in the wilderness," he began, his voice hoarse but steady. His eyes scanned the room, seeing faces full of expectation, of sadness, and of disbelief. "At first, we were just traveling together, but they invited me to join their guild, which I accepted."
As he continued to speak, Amukelo told the story of how they had risen through the ranks quickly, their bond strengthening over time, how they achieved golden rank status and set out on that fateful quest. He spoke of their joyful times, the laughter they shared, the hard-earned victories, and how they had trusted each other deeply. But then, he reached the part of the story that made his voice falter—the moment they were trapped.
He explained how they had been lured into a trap, how they were ambushed and overwhelmed. His tone grew darker, filled with a deep sense of loss as he described the moment everything fell apart. "Pao... she saved my life," Amukelo said, his voice barely a whisper, but loud enough for the room to hear.
A ripple of discomfort spread through the crowd. He could sense the unease in the air, and he could hear some in the crowd scowling at the mention of Pao's sacrifice for him. Their discontent was palpable, but no one interrupted. Amukelo didn't mention his personal relationship with Pao, choosing to keep that part of his heart private, too painful to share with these strangers. He also left out his plan for revenge. He avoided the topic of Neclord White, not wanting to bring up more violence, more anger, to an already charged room.
Once he finished the story, there was a moment of silence that stretched uncomfortably long. The air was heavy with expectation, and Amukelo could feel the judgmental stares of those around him.
Then, from the crowd, a voice broke through the silence. "Why would someone target you?" the man asked, his tone accusatory. "Did you do something?"
Amukelo paused, his heart pounding. He had anticipated this question, but that didn't make answering it any easier. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "They weren't targeting us," he began, his voice quieter now, almost apologetic. "They were targeting me... because of my sword."
At that, Amukelo rested his hand on the hilt of his weapon. Amukelo glanced down at the blade, the legendary elven sword that had been given to him by his mentor, the sword that had brought so much pain into his life. He hadn't flaunted its power or its history, but he understood that its value was the reason for all the death and destruction that had followed him since the trap was sprung.
The moment those words left his lips, the room erupted into chaos.
A man, sitting near the front, stood up abruptly, his face twisted with anger. "So it's your fault!" he shouted, his voice filled with accusation.
Before Amukelo could respond, another voice joined in, this time from a woman further back in the room. "You killed them!" she cried, her voice sharp and full of grief.
The accusations started coming from all directions, the voices overlapping as more and more people stood, their faces filled with rage, their grief turning into fury. "It's your fault!" "You brought this on them!" "You should have died, not them!" The shouts came in waves, each one crashing against Amukelo, leaving him more and more defenseless.
Amukelo's vision began to blur as the voices around him grew louder, angrier, more hostile. His heart was racing, pounding in his chest so hard he thought it might burst. He wanted to speak but his voice caught in his throat. The shouts drowned out anything he might have said.
"Guards!" a man's voice bellowed from somewhere in the crowd, his voice thick with fury. "Take him away! Arrest him!"
Amukelo's head snapped up in shock as the guards, standing by the entrance, hesitated for a moment before starting toward him. Their steps were slow at first, but as the crowd's demands grew louder, their pace quickened. Amukelo's hands clenched into fists by his side, his mind spinning.
Time seemed to slow. He saw the guards approaching but couldn't bring himself to move. The words of the crowd echoed in his head: *You should have died. It's your fault. You killed them.*