Flowers
He was busy. So terribly busy. Arthur had asked him- no ordered him to do many things but he had had this planned for many weeks. He really should have done it a month ago…but two deaths so close together would have required him to do it twice. He couldn't do it twice.
So he had waited. The entire castle was mourning for a week for the death of loved ones. But on the last day there was celebration. It was set to be a tradition.
On his way down to the lake he collected flowers. Delicate white flowers for Freya, bold red flowers for Balinor. Many people mourned the loss of the castle citizens. Family and friends alike shared the grief of loved ones killed. Only he mourned these tow and as such he felt he should do this alone.
Arriving at the lake he looked up; the clouds were black as night, covering the sun, and he heard the distant sound of thunder.
Sighing, he turned towards the lake where immortal creatures dwelled. There would be no words. Who would listen? He knew better than anyone that Freya and Balinor could not hear him. This was not him talking to them. This was remembering them because there was no one else to remember them as he had known them.
He was at the edge of the lake now. He felt the pitter patter of rain on his head and shoulders and heard it fall on the ground, thick and getting faster by the minute.
He imagined Arthur running around the castle trying to find him. He smirked at the thought.
Sitting down, he put the flowers on the ground beside him.
Freya. Where to begin?
First he thought of her face. He'd never seen her clean so in his memory dirt still clouded her face. Her eyes, so bright, like the sky on a cloudless perfect day. Perfect. In his minds eye he saw her smile. A wide smile that showed her teeth. A true smile, that reached her eyes.
He remembered all of the details of her face clearly. Her simple beauty, as harmonious as the water in the lake which was her grave. He went over every conversation, every moment. He forced himself to live through the moments of her death as well. He remembered the very moment that her last breath had left her lungs, and the tension in her muscles had ceased, as her head rolled back and her eyes, her beautiful eyes had closed never to take in the wonders of the world again.
Rain poured down harder now, soaking him to the skin. The cold seemed to soak into the very center of his bones, but still he did not move. He was not finished.
He remembered the way his father had moved. The way he had held himself that made him seem as if he was almighty. The power that had radiated from his as he did the most simplest things. The way he had looked at home in the forest, with nature. He remembered the way he had looked as he died. Like Freya he was ready to meet death, and did not fear the end of his life. He wondered whether he would ever have such bravery. He had faced deaths many times, but each time there was a purpose. In drinking the poison, in going to the Isle of the Blessed, in doing all the things he had done since, he had been saving a loved one. Fulfilling his destiny. But to die such pointless deaths…
The rain continued to fall, rippling the surface of the lake. He stood and took the white flowers and cast them into the lake, hoping somehow, Freya would know.
And then he took the flowers for Balinor, and buried them in the Earth, returning them to nature.
And as lightning forked through the sky in a graceful ark overhead, he turned his back on both of them.