They stand rigid as statues, hardly stirring in the cool afternoon light. He is numb – he doubts he can move, doubts he can draw leaden muscles into sluggish motion. This is a fight he fears he cannot win.
She does not move. She dreaded this day, ever since he first told her she could not join him. Dreaded the day he would go and for once, he would be in a place they could not follow. She struggles, casting her senses out, searching for a trace of his heart. Of the bright, fierce glow that lit way through the darkness and led them all to safety.
Nothing. Silence. Darkness.
Hundreds of people fan out beyond the grave, flooding the hill. They form a quiet, reverent mass of courtiers, guards and civilians, all come to mark the king's passing.
But these two mourners stand in the forefront. Silent. They do not move.
Her form shaking slightly, her arm snakes out and hooks itself around her companion's. A breeze picks up, tugging at her skirt, and at the petals of the bouquet in his hand.
"Throw it, Riku," her voice whispers.
Movement – a flurry as the flowers fall, slowly, petals streaming.
Silence as the blood-red roses land on the coffin lid.
Silence, and the man's muscles winding tighter and tighter, his fingers clenching around hers in search of solace. Following his offering, more follow, the many mourners streaming forward to drop their flowers and whisper their thanks.
The king is dead. Long live the king.
They bade farewell to Sora.