For the first time in the passing of ages, of wars and death and the approaching end, the sheer preservation of such a force despite all that tore into it offered no hope for the ancient one who stood barefoot amongst the flowers. Wild little things, growing tall and reckless between gnarled roots. In his Kingdom, the sight of which would have been cause for celebration - yet seeping only sorrow like slow poison throughout his veins, suspending limbs into an unnatural stillness, such that he could have been mistaken for one of the trees themselves.
If only that were right, that he should become one with the other. If only it was so, by some twist of fate that he had committed a dishonour worthy of throwing himself upon his sword. It would be a blessing. To finally have peace.
How many years had it been?
Knee buckling, descent was barely tempered by his lingering respect for the beings thriving amongst beloved’s energy as monarch knelt into the soil. It was all he had left, at the end of the day. The life created by death. Fingertips brushing feather-light through the grass as mouth pressed thin, restraining the question to the Norns that begged to be asked. If it were so important to they that all be returned to the Earth, was it so much of a request to feel his essence? Just a trace, to know he was there?
‘Ég sakna þín. Syndarinn minn.’