Qebhet felt a new stirring of disquiet when Marcie reacted to the leg wounds. She hadn't known. She'd seen the body, but whatever had transpired before Ronan's death... perhaps she had only been given half-answers, too. (They had been fighting, Athena had said, measured, matter-of-fact. She hadn't gone into detail, and Qebhet had assumed, until she'd seen the wounds, that the goddess had meant an altercation of words.)
She didn't like this. She was being used to cover up something – a crime, almost definitely; for certain a sin against ma'at – and that grated against her core. The scales were teetering wildly, and she didn't know how to set them back into balance. Perhaps she couldn't. Perhaps, like Apollo's death curse, it was beyond her power to fix.
But she could give this young woman the honesty she asked for. She could help Marcie to mourn and to guide Ronan to his rest, the way they both deserved. Those things, small as they were, were in her power.
So she nodded to Marcie. "I've sutured the wounds, yes. They're noticeable, but not... nothing like you saw before. There's no blood. Just some stitches, like you might get in a hospital." She spoke with the reassuring tones she reserved for both the newly-bereaved and the newly-deceased, but now, as she drew a breath, a note of apprehension entered her expression. "But... you asked about his legs? Those wounds... I don't know what happened, but he couldn't have done it to himself. Somebody cut his hamstrings before he died."