I sit, unable to move my gaze from her ghastly face. I don’t cry. Darsal has just run out of the tent. I run out of the tent after her, but she has already mounted a horse and is galloping out toward the woods. I call out her name, but she doesn’t turn back. All she leaves behind is a trail of dust. I can only hope she comes back.

I return to the tent, dragging my feet, letting myself collapse on the bench. A mix of emotions bubbles up inside of me, most of it being unbelief. How can Carrie be dead? She’s supposed to be running around the Guardian camp laughing with the other children, watching Darsal with her adoring eyes. Something she doesn’t know was that at the Scriptio camp it hadn’t been the first time I’d seen Darsal.

I remembered visiting my cousin before the war. I and Sam would sit on his steps watching the children run around, playing with a small ball. I can remember the green grass glimmering with dew; but most of all, I remember the small girl who’d chase after the ball, the grin never ceasing.

It was not Darsal, but Carrie. She would flop down from exhaustion, smiling up at the sky with such a love for life. And that’s when Darsal would always come into the scene. Balancing a crate on one hip, bags of fruit and vegetables hanging up to her elbow on the arm, she would come with the same grin. The joy was unmistakable.

Somehow, every day, Darsal would find Carrie after her trip to the market. Somehow, day after day, the happiness never ceased. And somehow, she would always look at her sister with such love and affection, it was hard not to notice.

Seeing her, Carrie’s face would light up and she’d jump up and run to her. Her lips would move uncontrollably about all the fun things she had done while Darsal had been at the market. Darsal would never tell her to shut up or to keep quiet. Carrie would say something, face lighting up with eagerness. Darsal would bite her lip as if unsure before giving in, setting down everything she’d collected at the market. She’d twist her long gold hair into a bun so as not to get caught. Carrie would wrap her arms around Darsal’s waist and then wait as Darsal would pick her up, setting her on her shoulders. Carrie would hold on as Darsal took the groceries once again, and they headed off towards their home.

The first day I saw Carrie and Darsal I remember asking Sam who they were and how they were always so happy.

“They have each other,” my cousin would always reply with a shrug, “My Pa is going to marry their mother, someday.”

When the war began, I could no longer go to visit Sam or the Guardians. The day I ran into Carrie in the woods made me hate Darsal. How could she do that to her sister? To the person she loved most in the entire world? It filled me with bitterness for Carrie. But when Darsal arrived, it took me a long time to recognize her. She’d lost her shine. She wasn’t arrogant like the rest of the Scriptios, but you could see in her face that something was missing; it didn’t take me long to lose the bitterness I had against her. She regretted running away just as much as Carrie wanted her back. But now we are stuck. What I had wanted most in the world was for the two of them to be reunited, but I have failed.

As I sit in the dark tent, all I can do is stare into Carrie’s empty face. The torches cast a glow on her figure. I remember everything, down to the last detail. I remember the same citrus scent that always seemed to float around their house; the soft tears slipping down her face in the forest; the slight taste of what life really could be like; the love she and her sister had; the love of life they had found; the one they had lost.

The pain that lodges in my chest seems to wedge itself like a bookmark through pages. Everything seems to catch up on me, crashing over me. I can almost feel my bones crushing under the weight, pushing me down. But I know I have to, somehow, clamber back up to the surface. But something stops me. I haven’t ever really spent time with Carrie, never felt the joy radiating from her small body. I have only felt her pain; only ever to have felt a connection with her by watching from a distance. But for Darsal—a girl who grew up beside Carrie; watched her wobble for the first time on unsteady legs, picked her up every day after the market—for her to have watched and loved her with every fibre of her being and to have lost her within the blink of an eye, to be left with nothing but memories—that would be unimaginable.

I pause, but am left with no other time to think. Sam runs into the tent. His face is paler than I thought a Guardian’s face could be. I know instantly something has gone wrong.

“Where is Darsal?” he says with a gulp.

“I don’t know. She ran off into the woods,” I say, standing, urgency creeping into my voice as I see the sheer terror in my cousin’s face.

“Zak, General Sanderson has found her. We need to go now,” Sam urges.

“Don’t they usually send out search parties?” I say, already almost out of the tent, close behind Sam.

“Yes, but everyone is scattered right now, and it will take a while.”

I stop for a moment, turning back. Carrie is gone, I tell myself. And I know I have to keep the same from happening to Darsal.

“Zak,” Sam’s voice pulls me back.

I nod and run off to the stables, as fast as my legs will carry me.

***

“The Scriptios are horrible with direction. They use the river as a compass. Let's start there,” I say, thinking of the few times I went on spy expeditions.

Sam nods. It’s been almost an hour now, riding in the forest with no trace of Darsal. Calling is useless. If she and the Scriptios are within hearing distance, the only thing we’re achieving is giving ourselves away. As we head towards the river, Sam grabs my shoulder. Hanging loosely on a branch is a white strip of fabric. As soon, I know what it is. A piece of Darsal’s dress. We both dismount from the horses, tying them to a nearby tree before rapidly steps forward. I stop suddenly to avoid a cliff. A river gushes below. I look frantically around and stop, a black spot catching my eye. I put a finger to my lips. Sam seems to catch my anxiousness and looks over to where I’m pointing. General Sanderson sits nearby, eyes fixed on something in the river. I follow his gaze and notice something floating. Something that looks like long hair. A flash of white surfaces: Darsal, a hundred feet down in the middle of a rushing river.