The faces of these men that I recognize so well blur as my eyes begin to sting. Tears stream down my cheeks, unleashing a torrent of emotions that I cannot hold back. These soldiers who served with my father and with Uriah in the King's elite group of warriors called the Thirty have ripped out my heart with three words.

"Uriah is dead."

I didn't believe them. How can the man I loved so relentlessly be departed? But their war worn faces never cracked and their eyes pierced mine with such a ferocity that forced me to see the truth. As I weep in front of them my hand slowly rises to cover my mouth. I grip my lips violently in a vain attempt to suppress the guttural sobs I release in between shattered breaths.

Their somber eyes drift to and fro, never settling, as they do everything they can not to watch me crumble right in front of them. My fingernails tighten their hold on the door and in a moment of rage I slam the door shut. My knees buckle underneath me and collide with the floor. My hands instinctively clutch my stomach.

I struggle to breathe as the weight of the news crushes my chest. I see his face in my mind. The smile he reserved only for me. The way his fingers would absentmindedly sweep a strand of my hair out of my face. I'll never see that smile again. I'll never have the pleasure of his fingers brushing against my skin. I'll never be able to hold him in my arms.

My vision is so hindered by my tears that I do not notice my ladies enter the room until their hands clasp both of my arms. They slowly lift me to my feet and their worried voices ring in my ears.

"He's dead," I say, answering their questions.

"Who, my lady?"

"Uriah."