Her body lay still, like a fallen white rose petal. He stands there, holding the frame; the stone isn't the only one that has gone cold. A sudden, cruel winter, where things die and time freezes. Her arm dangles off the bed, draping like a decoration. He watches as his father, with iron amour and an ironclad face, scoops her up in his arms.

Strands of her copper curls swing like vines as he carries her over. All the boy can see is the flower of blood blossoming on her chest. So vengefully vibrant against her white garments.

His father stands in front of the boy, his mother merely a feather in his grasp. "Remove the knife, boy," he says, lowly, harshly.

The boy looks up at him, his face crumbling. "Father, what... what ever happened -"

He stares at him with sharp black eyes. "Do as I say," he growls, his jaw quaking.

The boy reaches up, wrapping his small fingers around the dagger stuck in his mother's heart. He feels it stuck into her flesh. He winces as he pulls it out, holding it as if he needs to use it.

"She could've lived," he utters, in an incomprehensible tone.

He watches his father walk away, into the night, where the torches' light can't follow. He stands there, the dagger dripping with his mother's blood.