And with his master being the one giving them life, they would always be beautiful, always perfect and kind, would give Albafica the reason to not hate them. Lugonis was inside of he and them alike, and he couldn’t kill them with malicious intent. Because what blood belonged to one, now belonged to another, and Albafica didn’t have the heart to destroy the roses or kill himself; he couldn’t kill his master again. The life on his hands would only grow, but no life could possibly equal the blood currently spilled for his name. Also, his entire goal was to be a saint. In time, when he’d calm his heart, the dream would become a clear, definable achievement once more.There was a bitterness surpassing what he felt, outside of his heart and down a dark corridor in his mind that he had always been afraid of, one that let his feet stomp on the roses, but not kill them, while he tried to lower the body into the poorly dug hole. Like a child had done it.He didn’t stop his legs from caving and let himself fall into the dark with Lugonis. Wondered if he could gingerly rest his head on the chest which always welcomed him with a heartbeat and a soft, rich song. Thinking about it left another ache in his throat, coughing and sniffling, using his bloody, dirt crusted arms to wipe his cheeks as he started crying again. He regretted it when flecks got into his eyes and blood smeared across his face, like some sick halfling warrior painting markings before battle. Albafica could almost hear the war cries.The weight of his body toppled him over, a hopefulness rising in his eyes when his ear fell against Lugonis’ torso and listened. If he was lucky, his mind would trick him.It didn’t.The crawl out awoke a few wet sobs, more smudging dirt, and deeper wounds as he pulled himself out with thorns, grimacing. The dozens of little cuts along his hands that partnered with training scars split them open, fingernails nearly ripped from the beds when he yanked himself upwards one last time to topple on top of the ruined petals and sodden dirt. Soaked with tears, with blood. Two redundant things he grew so tired of, but everything was so suffocating. Or maybe he really was out of breath. There was pain down to his bones; part of him wanted them to crack under his body. It took Albafica his forearms and his legs to pour the dirt over, stopping several times to let out whimpers at the pain in his hands, to look at his master’s face covered in dirt, and to weep for another five minutes.By the time the sun had risen to kiss his sweaty, round cheeks, the skin on his arms was ripped open, and his training trousers were completely clotted with dirt and stuck with holes. Albafica suddenly couldn’t cry anymore, as his tears were completely dry in between hiccups.It was done. His melancholy, loving, perfect, beautiful master, the only human he loved enough, was four or five feet buried beneath his feet, and it was disgusting.