“No,” Makaria said, brushing her hair behind her ear and attempting to sound firm (although she was never very good at firm). “I want you to have it.” She wanted to tell him that she was supposed to look after his kind, but she didn’t know how to say it right, not when he looked so distraught.
She gently (but a little awkwardly) patted his hand. “People- uh, we have to be nice to each other, because if we don’t look after each other then… then it would be too sad. So I’d like you to please have the Fanta.” She reached into her pocket and found a twenty dollar note. She frowned, looking at the man, and then slipped it into his robe pocket. “Umm, so that’s a little bit of money too, if you need it. I don’t really need it.”
If they were on the Isles she would have brought him a feast, and she would have had people sing until he wasn’t sad anymore. Sometimes, even in the Isles of the Blessed, where heroes got to live in beautiful halls in beautiful meadows, there was sadness. They had been warriors and Makaria learned – although she never ever saw war firsthand – that war left scars on men that couldn’t be fully removed, not even by death or paradise. There were many things, above and below, that Makaria couldn’t understand, but it was important to try.