Chapter 24: Nothing Left to Say

The hold was bitterly cold. The floor listed dangerously beneath Roderick's feet. Deep groans reverberated through the wood and iron surrounding him: the complaints of the hull at its punishment by the ceaseless waves. His breath fogged in the air as he rubbed his arms for warmth.

He forced himself to raise his gaze to the grisly scene before him.

Bodies wearing green uniforms stained with red were laid out neatly on the floor. Twenty-three Royal Guards had fallen at the arrows and blades of Weselton. Twenty-three men and women who would never again see the light of day, the empty vessels that once held their souls preserved by Queen Elsa's ice until they could receive their last rites on Arendellian soil. Roderick's eyes traveled slowly over the row of pallid faces, each so serene in the stillness of death.

He had known each of them personally.

It had been three days since the Northwind left the bay of Athero. In that time, he saw little of the royal family. The normal banter of the sailors and members of the Guard had dried up entirely, and even the Admiral had taken to giving his commands in a quiet, somber tone instead of booming them out from the railing of the quarterdeck as was his wont. Back in the Southern Isles, every moment had been filled with a palpable tension; now, that heavy atmosphere was gone, replaced by an emptiness that echoed with mourning.

Roderick didn't know which was worse.

The prisoner was gone as well. Marcus Everett had vanished in the chaos of battle, shackles and all. The assassin's absence hadn't been noticed until the frigate had already set sail, and by that point turning back to organize a search was unthinkable. Perhaps the assassin had stolen away aboard the enemy Man-of-War—or perhaps he had drowned when the Queen thawed the bay, dragged into the depths by the weight of his chains.

Either way, we got what we needed out of him, Roderick mused grimly.

King Mathias had been dethroned, the Duke of Weselton killed. In the end, Marcus Everett had been just another pawn, and with his employers taken out of the picture, he was no longer a threat. Justice was complete, the royal family's safety re-established.

But faced with twenty-three bodies of his comrades, it all felt so hollow.

The sound of slow footsteps behind him broke the Captain from his thoughts. He turned to find Prince Thomas moving toward him on unsteady feet. Roderick rushed forward, placing his hands on the prince's shoulders just as a particularly large swell rocked the floor.

"What are you doing down here, Highness?" the Captain asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Same reason as you, I guess." Thomas gaze was downcast, but kept flitting pointedly toward the floor behind Roderick.

"This place isn't good for either of us, Thomas," Roderick said with a sigh. Nonetheless, he stepped aside, letting Thomas draw abreast as they stared down at the fallen guards.

"This is all my fault," the prince murmured. "Well, alright, not all of it," he amended as Roderick's brow knitted reproachfully. "But… if I hadn't given in to my hate, hadn't come out here on this wild goose chase to kill Hans, these people would still be alive."

"The duty of the Royal Guard is to lay down our lives in the service and protection of the royal family," the Captain stated gently. "Each of us took our oaths with all of our hearts." He regarded the side of Thomas's face. "Nothing can change the past, Highness. Not even your magic. Our duty to the dead is to learn from our mistakes and honour their sacrifice."

The prince tore his gaze from the floor, his eyes glistening with sorrow and frustration.

"And what about my father, Roderick? What lessons can I learn from his death? What mistakes did I make to cause it?"

"You know you cannot blame yourself for your father's death," Roderick replied sternly. "But just because you weren't the cause of the tragedy doesn't mean there's nothing to learn. There is a lesson in everything that's happened since we left Arendelle, Thomas. It's up to you to understand them for yourself. Come now."

Roderick turned and began walking back toward the stairs. After a moment, he heard Thomas begin to follow. Soon, the prince drew parallel with him once more.

"How's your aunt faring after all this?" the Captain asked in a lower voice.

"Anna is… she's trying to convince me that she's already put it behind her," Thomas replied. After a pause, he added quietly, "I can hear her crying in her sleep, though."

"And your mother?"

"I think she blames herself for everything. Father's death most of all. Sometimes… sometimes I wonder if she blames me too."

Roderick shook his head. "She doesn't. Give her time."

As they came to the foot of the stairs, Thomas stopped.

"How do you do it, Roderick?"

"Do what, Your Highness?"

"Put the past behind you?"

Roderick took a moment to think. He thought about his own father, whom he had barely known. He thought back to the funeral of Henrik's father, remembering how the King of Arendelle had wept. He thought of the cold bodies lying behind them on the floor.

"I remember those who die for who they were, not for who they could have been," he finally answered. "Regret is only useful when it serves as a reminder."

The ship lurched again, and he planted his feet wide just as Thomas careened into him.

"I'm sick of this ship," Thomas whispered bitterly.

Roderick took the prince by the arm and they began to ascend the narrow steps. He took one last look back over his shoulder into the gloom of the hold.

"Me too," he said, more to himself than to the prince.

Thomas regarded himself in the floor-length mirror in his bedroom. His eyes moved up his polished boots and tight dress pants, over the layered collars of his black coat, waistcoat, and shirt, resting for a moment on his stark-white cravat before fixing onto his own slate-grey irises. He smoothed back his already meticulously-styled platinum hair before pulling on a pair of white satin gloves. He took one final look at himself and thought he had never seen anyone who looked quite so uncomfortable.

"It's time, Your Highness."

Kai's voice was gentle, but the words weighed on the prince's heart like an anchor. Thomas took a deep breath and nodded. As he stepped into the hallway, he tried to replace the image of the aged servant with one in which he was not wearing mourning colours.

During those dark days in the Southern Isles, a part of him had hoped beyond hope that everything would somehow go back to the way it had been if he could just make it home. The belief had kept him motivated through day after day of excruciating injury and terrible fear.

But now he was home, sleeping in his own bed, pampered by the castle staff, eating his favourite dishes in the dining hall… yet the pain of his father's death had only deepened. The nights were the worst. Sometimes he almost wished he was back in the woods between Athero and Evan's Bluff. At least then the fear had masked the gaping hole in his heart.

The halls of the castle were too quiet. Thomas heard Kai's footsteps following a respectful distance behind him. He wanted the servant to ask him about his morning, or to inquire about the progress of his studies, or to report on the newest gossip among the nobles—anything to break the dreadful silence and help him pretend, if even for the briefest moment, that everything was alright.

Kai said nothing, and neither did Thomas.

The guards at the atrium opened the doors to the courtyard with practiced precision. A large carriage was waiting for him between the fountains, tethered to two towering horses. A second, smaller carriage drawn by a single horse sat further back.

The funeral coach.

The winter's sun shone feebly through cracks in the overcast sky. As he emerged into the open air, Thomas found his family waiting. Everyone was dressed in black except his mother, who wore a high-necked dress of the deepest purple. Elsa's hair was arranged in an intricate coronet atop her head, her blue eyes peering out from behind a dense black veil. Her expression was calm, almost impassive, but Thomas knew the facade was as thin as spring ice.

"Sorry I'm late, Mother."

"Let's not keep them waiting." The reply was gentle, but his mother didn't meet his gaze.

Without another word, the Queen glided up in her skirts to join the carriageman at the reins. A guard opened the door to the cabin and Annabeth, Christopher, and Kristoff stepped inside one by one. Anna turned back and gave Thomas a delicate smile, extending her hand to help him into the carriage.

"Come on, Tom. It'll be alright."

Thomas took his aunt's hand gratefully. As the carriage rumbled into motion, he heard the hooves of the escorting guards as they moved into formation around them. He peered out at the waters of the fjord over the edge of the stone bridge through the small window in the door, watching slabs of ice jostle each other atop the waves. When the view was blocked by the buildings of the town, he turned back to face his family.

His cousins had been treating him differently since his return from the Southern Isles. Annabeth was strangely reserved, never quite meeting his eyes in conversation; Christopher seemed almost wary of him, speaking as if treading on eggshells and with little of the humour that Thomas loved so much from him. Though his cousins had loved his father very much, Thomas knew they shared in only part of his own deep loss. The change in behaviour could not be attributed to mourning alone. He didn't know how much his cousins knew of what happened in Athero, but he doubted his aunt had kept much from them. A dark part of him suspected Annabeth and Christopher feared him for what he had done in his rage.

He could bear the silence no longer.

"Anna, what was the funeral for your parents like?"

His aunt smiled sadly.

"It was a large funeral," she answered in a soft voice. "All of the townspeople were invited. It was comforting, knowing that so many people cared. I didn't feel so alone."

By the way Anna's voice trailed off, Thomas knew the memory was not a pleasant one despite her positive words. Suddenly, he realized something. A hard laugh escaped his lips. From her spot beside his aunt, Annabeth raised her eyebrows.

"What's up, Tom?"

"I always did dread having to go to my first funeral." The prince shook his head. "Just… didn't think it would be for my own father."

Annabeth and her mother stared back in wide-eyed silence. For a few breaths, there was nothing but the creaking of the carriage wheels. It was Christopher who spoke.

"That really is a bummer."

Thomas and Christopher stared at each other for a moment. The prince began to chuckle. Christopher's somber expression cracked hesitantly into a smile. Soon, he was laughing in return. Thomas only stopped when he ran out of air, gasping for breath with glistening eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, you got that right, Chris."

A hubbub from outside the cabin had him redirecting his gaze back out the window. A crowd of townsfolk had gathered at a respectful distance around the royal procession. Many of them wore their own colours of mourning. Gradually, some of them began to approach the carriage. People from toddler boys teetering on unsteady feet to old wives bent double with age bowed and curtsied as they offered gifts of consolation to the Queen. Thomas heard Elsa's gentle words of refusal muffled through the cabin wall. Though he couldn't see her, he could picture exactly his mother's regal poise and carefully neutral expression.

Thomas was suddenly grateful to be out of the eyes of the crowd. He imagined sitting in his mother's place before the people of Arendelle as they offered their condolences. Indignation flared in his chest. These people hadn't known his father as he had. How could they possibly think they could console him? He didn't feel comforted by their sympathy, far from it. His grief could not be shared.

He turned back from the window to find Christopher studying him intently.

"Hey, Tom, you okay?"

"No," Thomas replied quietly. He forced a smile. "But I will be." He hated how hollow the words sounded.

The voices of the crowd faded away as the horses plodded on. The rumble of the carriage wheels echoed louder as they crossed the archway of the bridge between the town and the forest road beyond. Thomas had only been to the site of the royal burial grounds a handful of times to visit his grandparents' gravestones, but he knew the area well: it was located atop a flat hill that overlooked the black sand beach where his father's assassins had entered the kingdom.

Cobbled pavement gave way to rougher terrain, causing the cabin seats to wobble. Skeletal trees dusted with white encroached from both sides of the road, pale and lifeless under the grey sky.

It wasn't long before they arrived in the clearing. The carriage rolled to a halt shortly after emerging from the trees. The door was opened by a guard, who stood to the side with her head bowed as the members of the royal family disembarked. Thomas could make out the head of the procession of townspeople following a ways behind them down the trail.

Ahead, the massive gravestones of past kings and queens dotted the emerald hillside. The prince knew them each by name, starting with Aren the First, the legendary man who had lead the first settlers to this land untold generations ago. The writing on Aren's stone had been all but erased by wind and water, leaving only a vague imprint of his name. Thomas's eyes followed the line of tombstones across the wide clearing, the inscriptions becoming clearer upon each subsequent monolith until his gaze settled on the familiar markers of his grandparents' graves. Except the line no longer ended there.

Further up the hill stood a new stone in the shape of a teardrop, taller and narrower than those of his grandparents. Henrik Ingouf was engraved across the base of the stone in sharp relief, easily legible even from across the field. As Thomas drew nearer, he saw a neat rectangular hole cut out of the ground in the shadow of the monolith.

By the time he caught up with his mother, they were halfway across the clearing. Elsa's eyes were fixed on the simple white casket borne several paces ahead of them upon the shoulders of four Royal Guards. She turned and caught his gaze. Tears were welled in her eyes, but none fell. She took Thomas's hand and squeezed tightly.

"Be strong, my little love."

Thomas nodded mutely. His mother turned her head forward once more, but she kept holding onto his hand. He was glad.

Bishop Gregory was there to meet them, the bulk of the gravestone making him seem tiny beside it. Thomas was told the old priest had been the one who had conducted his mother's coronation ceremony. The bishop leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane, but age had done little to dim his brightness in his eyes. Today, however, they shone with sorrow. Captain Roderick stood by the bishop's side, his usual Guard's uniform replaced by a simple dark overcoat, his usual military posture broken by a slight slump as he held his hands clasped at his waist.

At the other side of the gravestone stood two other figures. The taller of them was a narrow-faced man with dark hair and familiar grey eyes. The shorter was an older woman with silver-brown hair reaching her shoulders and dry skin that hugged her cheekbones tightly. Both were dressed in winter furs and travel clothes. Their faces triggered a vague sense of recognition in Thomas.

They were his uncle and grandmother on his father's side.

Henrik had never spoken much about his family to Thomas. The prince knew his father had been a knight of some esteem in his home kingdom of Dunbroch before he married his mother, but the relatives on his father's side had always been distant and estranged. They seldom visited Arendelle, and Thomas had never been to Dunbroch himself. He asked his mother about it once, and she had curtly explained that his father's family did not approve of him wedding a sorceress. He never pushed for any further explanation.

As Thomas approached the casket-bearers, his father's brother and mother caught his eye briefly before their gazes flitted uneasily to Elsa. His mother stopped a generous distance in front of them in a greeting curtsey.

"Thank you for coming, Ansel, Maria. I hope the roads were kind to you."

Maria's expression darkened. "It will take more than a little winter to keep me from my son's funeral." The woman spoke with a harsh accent.

Elsa, for her part, only nodded in reply. Anna's side of the family had gathered around them now, and the Arendellian royals greeted the visitors from Dunbroch with tight-lipped smiles. The guards set the casket down gently beside the hole in the ground between them.

The procession of townsfolk were spreading out about the clearing before them. The guards moved to stand beside the royals, two on either side, facing toward the crowd with rigid postures. Soon the people had organized themselves into tight rows. The cemetery was large enough to fit the Northwind thrice over end to end, and there were enough bodies present to fill half of it. From his position on the hill, it looked to Thomas like the entire kingdom had come to attend the ceremony. As the crowd settled, the low rumble of their footsteps faded into silence, and soon there was nothing but the wind.

His mother let go of his hand as she stepped forward before the gathered audience. She took a long breath.

"People of Arendelle, we are gathered here today in memory of a good man. You knew him as your king, and to many of you, he was so much more. Henrik was many things. A friend, a mentor, a confidant. A husband. A father…"

With a tender voice that somehow carried to the end of the clearing, Elsa painted a loving picture of the former King of Arendelle. She spoke of his kindness and his penchant for self-sacrifice, but also of his righteous fire and unwavering moral compass. Thomas's eyes stung as she described scenes of Henrik playing with him and his cousins from a time when they barely came up to his father's knee.

Nonetheless, though the faces of the crowd were somber and downcast, none wept openly. Thomas knew that his father had never been as popular with the people as his mother was. At the outset, some had even publicly denounced the marriage with the protest that Henrik was of unbefitting rank to wed the Queen-Regnant of Arendelle. Though the sentiment was short-lived, as he grew older Thomas often wondered if it had left a lasting impression on his father. Though Henrik was boisterous and full of humour in the presence of his family, he had always been reserved in public, speaking only in formal tones and wearing only respectful smiles.

Thomas looked over the sea of faces before him. The embers of his indignant anger flared again. The people were sympathetic to their Queen's loss, but few felt it themselves. None understood it like he did.

The prince was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice his mother had stopped talking until a new voice registered in his ears. From the accent he knew it to be the stranger who was his grandmother. The elderly woman had moved up parallel to his mother and was addressing the crowd directly.

"You are not my people, but Henrik was my son," she stated simply. "Over the years, he and I have not always seen eye to eye. Arendelle and Dunbroch have become close allies, but Henrik and I only grew further apart." Maria's posture slumped. "It's ironic. I always took it for granted that my son would outlive me. Now I have nothing but shame and regret. Thank you, Arendelle, for welcoming my son. He deserved better than he got."

With that, Maria moved stiffly back to her remaining son's side. Elsa turned away from the crowd to lay her hand on the lid of her husband's casket.

"I'll miss you," she whispered. Her lips trembled as she swallowed. Behind the veil, a single tear streaked down her cheek.

Anna stepped forward next, putting her hand over her sister's upon the ivory wood.

"Rest in peace, Henrik. Thanks for everything."

Roderick moved to stand at the head of the casket, his posture ramrod straight as he gazed down at the vessel containing the body of the King. His gloved hands were held at his sides in tight fists.

"The world was cruel to take you from us, Henrik. I should have… I wish I could have been there. I wish it had been me instead." The Captain's voice, usually so confident and stern, hitched in a sob as tears glimmered in his eyes. "Goodbye, old friend."

For a long moment, Thomas watched the three stare down at his father's casket. He didn't remember making the decision to move his feet, but he saw himself stepping forward to join them. Tears blurred his vision as he placed his own hand onto the smooth, polished wood of the casket.

He pulled forth every memory he had of his father. His eyes, his smile, the way he bounced his leg when he was impatient… all of it blended together into the warm image of the man who had been a guiding light in his life from the very beginning. Thomas realized he, too, had taken his father's life for granted—how could he not?

It isn't supposed to be this way.

He tried to form words to describe his loss, but nothing came. He tried to give his final farewell, but his voice would not cooperate. As his tears dripped onto the casket, he found only one thing to say.

"I'm sorry I lost your sword, Father."

He watched as his tears beaded on the white wood. Dimly, he heard Bishop Gregory begin the words of the Final Prayer.

"Eins og þú liggur í eilífum svefni

Megi andinn leiða þig…"

The prayer was an ancient tradition, said to be the same as the one spoken for Aren the First after his passing. Thomas had never heard it before, but he knew the meaning of the words. The ice stirred within him, agitated by his grief. His tears froze in translucent whorls of frost across his cheeks.

"Megi heimur þinn vera laus við skugga

Megir þú finna frið í hvíld þinni…"

He gazed once more out toward the assembled crowd. His people. His future subjects. He felt small and alone. He felt terrified of the future.

His eyes focused on his mother. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed behind her veil. As if sensing his gaze, Elsa's eyes opened and met his own. The blue of her irises, so much like the colour of deepest ice, was not cold, but warm. Comforting. He felt the frost melt from his face as his mother continued to hold his gaze. A bit of the terror subsided.

"... Henrik Ingouf."

The guards approached in unison. Thomas pulled his hand from the casket with great effort. The guards hoisted the vessel from the ground, lowering it with perfect accuracy into the open grave. There wasn't a sound as it met the bottom.

Then the guards picked up shovels.

In Thomas's mind, the first clump of black dirt met the top of the casket louder than any gunshot. It was followed by another. Then another. The cascade of soil filled his vision until it was his whole world. The white of the casket lid was quickly drowned out, but still he stared.

He stared until the hole was filled, locking his father in his final resting place. He heard the pounding of the distant waves below him, smelled the crisp winter air. He stared even as he heard the rumble of the townsfolk making their exodus from the cemetery behind him. He stared until the footsteps faded away.

He kept staring for a long time afterward.

Soundtrack: "Last Rites"

Michael Salvatori et al – "Lost Light" (Destiny 2 OST)