“Suddenly, Alcandor felt warmth, comfort and strength
flowing from his daughter’s tiny hand, clasped within his own. He remembered
the experience afterwards as if her tiny hand were clasping his, keeping him
from falling into the open grave. Damaris was only a little girl, but he was
glad for the strength of her hand.
However, the reassuring warmth suddenly became a
consuming heat. The blood rose like a
boiling tide from his churning stomach, washing up over his neck and into his
head. He thought he was about to suffocate. The sudden rush of heat speared
like a javelin into a focal point at the back of his skull, and he knew then
that Constantine’s eyes were upon him.
The sudden awareness of Constantine watching him
caused him to release his grip on the anaemic white flower in his left hand. He
watched it twirl and spin on invisible currents of air, until it settled softly
atop the flowers that had gone before. He thought of the eternal rest awaiting
it, and envied it intensely.
He stood upright and his eyes met Constantine’s. The
blood that had rushed to his head a moment ago, drained rapidly away to the
soles of his feet, and he shivered. The gaze lingered no longer than a second.
Neither of them spoke.”
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