Thank You, Dearest

When Rastaban finished with the last of the wounded, he watched Dravi huddle with Shruti and some of the other women. Khouri’s mother, he noticed, was apart from the women, standing over her husband’s body. Khouri stood beside her, solemn-faced, and Rastaban knew what he must do. He darted out of the camp and wandered a ways until he found a clump of wild flowers, and he plucked some of the biggest and brightest of the bunch.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and laid the flowers beside Khouri’s father.

Khouri’s mother smiled, ruffled his hair, and said, “Thank you, dearest.”