Third Arc (Fallen Heart) – 273. Royal Show VI
Dark Moon : Rise of The Dark King by Nanakawaichan
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Third Arc (Fallen Heart) - 273. Royal Show VI
The final shovelfuls of soil embraced the coffin, the soldiers, their expressions solemn, paid their last respects to Prince Ilex. A hushed reverence settled over the burial site, the completion of a simple ceremony that marked the beginning of a more elaborate tribute to the fallen prince.
The air, thick with grief, clung to King Gervis and Ophelia as they lingered by the freshly covered grave. The simplicity of the interment belied the grandeur that King Gervis envisioned for his departed son. Plans for a statue and other adornments were deferred, a testament to the king's desire to ensure nothing but the best for Ilex.
"Shall we return Your Majesty?" one of the soldiers inquired with careful consideration, acknowledging the heavy pall that hung over the royals.
"Give me more time," King Gervis responded, his voice carrying a weariness that transcended his regal demeanor. The absence of his usual vigor painted a stark contrast against the backdrop of sorrow. Outside the gate, Angel awaited, but King Gervis hesitated to emerge, unwilling to unveil his grief to the awaiting world. A few moments of solitude seemed essential, a respite from the public eye.
The soldier, attuned to the weight of King Gervis's grief, tactfully acknowledged the need for solitude. "We will wait at the front, Your Majesty," he offered, bowing with a deference that bespoke both duty and empathy. The soldier, along with his comrades, respectfully withdrew, leaving the king and Ophelia to confront the quiet aftermath of the burial.
In the hushed space, where the earth held the echoes of farewell, King Gervis and Ophelia remained rooted by Ilex's final resting place. The gravity of the moment enveloped them, rendering the air thick with unspoken sorrow.
Ophelia, sensing the finite nature of their stay, extended her handkerchief to King Gervis. The gesture, small yet profound, carried the weight of shared grief. "Father," she called, the word both a tether and an invitation. In the simple exchange, Ophelia sought to bridge the expanse of sorrow that stretched between them and the freshly laid grave.
King Gervis, shrouded in the quiet grief of a father bidding farewell to his son, remained silent. The air seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for the king to emerge from the depths of his sorrow.
Ophelia, recognizing the necessity for her father to grapple with his emotions privately, mirrored his silence. The weight of the moment hung in the air, heavy with the unshed tears of familial loss. She understood that, for a moment longer, her father needed to cast aside the mantle of kingship and allow himself the vulnerability of a grieving parent.
"I will wait with the others," Ophelia declared softly, her words a gentle acknowledgment of her father's need for solitude. With a graceful bow, she turned to depart, her steps tentative and reluctant. Leaving the grave felt like abandoning a part of herself, entwined with the memories of Ilex.
However, as she began to move away, her eyes caught a glimmer of something unexpected. Adjacent to Ilex's newly covered grave, a few paces away, lay the tomb of Angel's father—the late king Renart. The sight arrested Ophelia's steps, curiosity and a flicker of realization playing across her features.
Intrigued, she approached the tomb with a cautious reverence. As her eyes settled on the resting place of Angel's father, a myriad of thoughts danced on the periphery of her consciousness.
Once she arrived, Ophelia, moved by a sudden impulse, knelt on one leg before the tomb. The ground beneath her was already covered in a layer of dust and dirt, the passage of time etching its mark on this sacred space. Yet, Ophelia seemed intimately acquainted with the grit that clung to her fingers as she reached for something nestled in the earth.
Her hands carefully unearthed the buried relic. Her eyes widened with recognition. There, beneath the layers of accumulated soil, lay the hilt of a sword. A once-majestic weapon now obscured by the vestiges of time and neglect. Loyalty, the name echoing in the recesses of Ophelia's memory. It once belonged to Angel which meant Angel had visited the tomb before. Far before all this tragedy happened.

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