Author's Note: I had not intended "Golden Lads" to be more than a one-shot. However, I had written this piece some time ago, and wanted to collect all my fic in one place. It's thematically linked to "Golden Lads", so rather than adding another very short one-shot, I decided to place it here as a second chapter.
Cair Paravel is in mourning. It is a familiar condition, now, but repetition makes it no easier to bear. The air hangs heavy on them all and it is far more than the smoke which even sea winds cannot clear. A perpetual sunset has marked the southwestern sky for the last three days, the pyre of Pillar Wood. And now another victim labours for his last breaths, surrounded by every comfort they can offer but sorely lacking the only ones that would make a difference.
The bottle in his hand is heavier than it has ever been before. He can count every drop by the heft of it, and he stares down at the little vial, counting the lives it will never save. He wonders if a little girl ever stood like this, measuring life in drops of liquid too red to be blood. He wonders if it felt as heavy to her, and how she found the strength to carry it.
A cry goes up; death has come to Cair Paravel again. His arm rises; in his mind's eye he can see the shattered bottle leaking useless red across the stones. He does not throw it. He sets it gently in a stone chest, shutting the lid with a sound like a sarcophagus closing. That is fitting, for the treasure room has become as much of a tomb as she will ever have.
He climbs the stairs with tread no heavier than his heart, and goes to join the mourners.