One of the Knights wants to talk to Dagonet, but it seems that tonight, the dead are holding their secrets close. Just a small one-shot. Review if you like – tell me what you think!
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To me, it always seemed that you must have had a secret. You were always so calm and peaceful, so quiet. I could be quiet if I wanted to, but I was never at peace with myself, not like you.
I once heard someone say that the dead linger for a while where they fell, that their soul imprints itself on the very air. I am not a superstitious man, not like you were. They are Woads, we used to laugh at you, not Inish, not devil-ghosts. You would merely shrug and smile, and hold your secrets as close and as gently as you held that broken boy from the dungeon.
If any soul was to hang around, Dag, it'd be yours.
So when the others were sleeping, I walked back to the lake, all the while praying that you were not truly gone. I left your body lying back at the camp, its pale features leeched of your spirit and your seriousness. I thought that if I breathed your soul in, maybe you would gift me with a remnant of your peace. You were always a generous one, always knew the right thing to say, or not to say. The lake was freezing over once more, the translucent white of the thin ice broken by spars of jutting thicker ice and bodies. I ignored them. I breathed the frosty air in through my nose, feeling it chill my chest and lungs. Nothing. I crouched down and scraped a handful of snow and pebbles into my palm, holding it tightly and feeling the melting snow trickle down my sleeve. Nothing. I wanted to yell your name, force you to be here, but my voice would not work. A rare occurrence, you might have said. You were a funny one, Dag. And now you are gone. Nothing.
I crouched there for a long time, old friend, but eventually I realised you weren't going to answer. I cursed myself for being surprised, for expecting that there'd be anything else other than the bitter absence of you. We were so close, Dag, so close to freedom.
I stood up finally, and almost laughed at myself. The others don't know this side of me, do they Dag? We all have our secrets; we all cope with this frozen, misty hell in different ways. Bors, they say, now there is a man aptly named! More of a boor than a knight, is that one. Hairy, loud, probably smelly, if Lancelot gets his say. Only you and Vanora know me, knew me. Best it stays that way. Don't want to worry them, eh?
I'll go back to the camp now. I've been standing here a while, and I think my balls are about to freeze off. Can't have that – Vanora'd kill me. Ha. You would have smiled at that, but you wouldn't have laughed. Always a quiet one, weren't you? Galahad, stupid young pup, used to say he barely knew you were there. I think we all felt that way, sometimes. But now you're gone, the silence you've left behind is louder than any words you ever spoke.
And by all the gods, Dag – it makes me feel as though I'm the one who's bloody died.