Bramblepoint the devil's right there in the details

There is a moment in which victory courses through her, in which he does not move and she feels like she has won.  She's never desired anything more than to bring his body back to the Plateau and to be greeted by Niamh, who will be shamed, by Towhee, who will revere her, and by Raven — oh, Raven! — who might look at her with gratitude and love.

But then she misses and as her front limbs impact the ground the triumph is wicked from her body like a blown bulb, burning bright one second and gone the next.  Snarling, she wheels her head around to look at him — but then the ground is rising up to meet her despite the fact that she hasn't moved an inch.  She clamps her eyes shut, bracing herself for an impact that doesn't come.

When she opens them again, he has disappeared.  "That was his ghost," she thinks defeatedly, a ball of shame rising in her throat to snuff out anything she might've had to say to the empty void that surrounds her now.

"You're fucking horrible," she accuses herself, legs quivering as her chest tightens.  She would've killed him without a second thought.  She would've killed him for the love of a woman who had better people to care about, and duties more important than indulging the likes of someone like Ceara Fucking Blackthorn.  And he never even raised a tooth to her.

Raven could never love someone like her.  Siarut was better off with his fairy-tale wife.  Colt had Niamh, now — nobody needed her.

Kill yourself.
(Where did that come from?)