Iricah knew all too well that Thrak would have fought them all, every last two-legged one of them.
You see, about the same time that Thrak was standing over Frank’s lifeless body about to make a sack full of Celn finger snacks–you could think of it sort of like a take home goodie bag–Iricah and her prince, Prince Genoran that is, realized that they were standing (and in quite the embrace) on the wrong ship!
Iricah had of course saved him from a certain doom, she knew. But when the colossal creature in the sky was obliterated, her choice to leave Gaelon and her friends (for she now considered them as such), exploded inside of her heart as well. Tears, like island rain, fell from her eyes, and his too. “What have I done, Gen?” She tried to say. “What have I done?”
Genoran, ever the diplomat, answered far too quickly. “You’ve done it, Iricah. You’ve saved them, my darling.” With soft hands he pulled her face to his, “You’ve saved us all Iricah. Nothing more, nothing less. This is war, and you are our hero.”
Whatever Genoran was thinking of the others, he didn’t say, but she felt him hold her tightly and she felt his sobbing for the others as well. How did they do it? How did they destroy the traitor, Wrath? Giving their life, for the sake of all. That was how. And she held on to him back, remembering, trying to find a reason to feel joy in it. The names came to her lips one at a time, and in between each she gave a great sob. “Gaelon…Thrak….Frank…Zy’an….”
“I know, Iricah. I know.”
And so, their embrace wasn’t so much joyful, as it was painful. They held each other close, saying goodbye to Gaelon, her brother. His friend. To Thrak the Mighty, to Frank the Enlightened, to Zy’an. And while the Celns celebrated around them, they comforted one another, alone in their little world. Iricah’s heart swelled to feel him hold her once more, and then sank to know what she had lost. It rose and fell like a lyrical ballad. To have gained Genoran back, and have lost her brother at the same time. She didn’t know how to breathe all that in, so she didn’t.
It was about that time, when the the sounds of happy cheering and whooping turned to angry voices. Yelling, shouting, and Iricah knew that she was now in the wrong place, on the wrong ship. She knew that she was needed.
The right ship, Genoran’s unnamed flag ship, was where the commotion was coming from, and where Iricah could see something, or someone fall from the sky and where whatever had fallen then landed softly upon the deck. It was where now a scuffle had broken out, and although the chorus of Celn voices raised in unison had declared the war over, this small skirmish sounded like a battle all unto itself.
“Only one green fellow I know can cause that much of a fuss,” she whispered.