"Seashells on the Shore"
"Look at this one."
Lancelot turns as Freya holds out the shell she just picked up.
"It looks like a unicorn's horn," she remarks.
Lancelot takes the small, spiraled shell and rolls it between his fingers. It's surprisingly smooth.
"I wonder if there are unicorns in the sea," Freya continues.
Lancelot smiles as he tries to imagine what such a creature would look like. Given the length of this shell down one finger, they would have to be very small.
The ocean breeze ruffles his hair and makes his sleeves billow. Freya's dress flutters like waves of silk. They're able to come this far and no further, right to the edge of where the Lake of Avalon feeds into an estuary that meets the sea. It's a nice change of scenery. Avalon is peaceful but unchanging. Here they can watch the tide crash against the strait pouring into it, hear actual gull calls in the air, and sift through sand looking for treasure.
A glint of shimmering teal and lavender catches Lancelot's eye, and he bends down to pick up the large dome-shaped shell. The bottom side is coarse and bumpy, but the inside is smooth like gilded silver. It looks like a forgotten piece of craftsmanship, a relic of a realm no mortal has traversed.
"Oh," Freya says. "That's lovely."
"It will hold the others," Lancelot replies.
They place their small trinkets in the basin and resume their leisurely stroll along the edge of the beach. Lancelot finds a fanning shell with corrugated grooves and bright pink streaks. He brushes off the sand granules and holds it up to Freya's hair. It would make a lovely comb, if he had the tools to fashion one with.
Freya gives him a fond smile and takes the shell to add to their collection. It's just the two of them here. Loneliness and their love for Merlin formed a bond between them when Lancelot first woke on the banks of Avalon. He sees Freya as the little sister he never had, and she feels a measure of protectiveness toward him. They shared similar curses—their bodies taken over by something monstrous and forced to hurt others.
Lancelot tries not to think of that. The memories hurt too much. He misses Merlin, though. They both do.
Freya stoops and picks up a shell the same color as the sand, her eyes lighting up. "A whole one!" she exclaims.
This is their holy grail, a round shell with an exquisite five-petal flower in the center. They've only ever found broken ones before. Lancelot marvels at the design in its entirety. Yet another piece of artistry from a world removed. He wishes he could explore the ocean depths; he is dead, after all.
But his soul, like Freya's, is bound to the lake.
He beams in mutual elation at their find as Freya carefully places it in the dome shell. The winds are shifting, and it's time to leave. Freya links her arm in Lancelot's and they walk back together, the hint of sea spray and brine fading behind them as they return to the banks of Avalon. Two displaced spirits forgotten by the world save for one. Maybe they're waiting for him. Maybe they're just waiting.
And so they bide their time in whatever way they can, stealing moments of carefree discovery that had been denied them in life, even in something as small as a broken seashell on the shore.