She watches him, her face clouded, her thoughts returning to his story of the deception by the sultan, the anguish of the princess, the grief and rage of the prince.

"Death may be inevitable," she says, quietly. She knows it. There will come a time when she would welcome it, as long as she would be assured never to rise again afterward. "But the how matters. The why matters, or else why would we grieve?"

Why would we fear?