Rowan sits on Elara’s other side, his broad hand covering hers on the quilt. He grew into the crown the way trees grow into the shapes the wind gives them. He’s been a good king. The sort who stands in the dirt with the people who dig, just as his mother asked.
Edmund sits cross-legged on the floor with his two-year-old daughter asleep in his lap, bouncing his knee with a restless energy that reminds me so much of my mortal form I have to look away for a moment. His wife stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder.
Maren’s three children—twin boys of twelve, and a girl of eight—sit in a row on the window seat, legs dangling, watching with wide, solemn eyes.
“Grammy,” the girl whispers, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “Why is Grandfather all bony today?”
I look at the child, and the softness that moves through my chest is a physical thing, pressing against all three strings. “Your grandmother likes me best this way.”
“Only confirms my taste is terrible,” Elara rasps from the pillows.
Laughter ripples through the room. It’s fragile, precious. It’s very much how our family handles death—like a welcome relative that lives alongside us until the last kernel falls.
They say their goodbyes one by one. I watch each of them approach, lean in, and try to fold a lifetime of love into a single kiss on a weathered cheek.
Maren goes first, pressing her lips to Elara’s forehead and lingers there, her fingers curling into the quilt. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For everything.”
“You would’ve been a wonderful queen,” Elara murmurs.
Maren pulls back, eyes bright and swimming. “I know. That’s why I had the good sense to decline.”
She gathers her children. The eight-year-old waves at Elara from the doorway, small and uncertain, and Elara lifts her trembling fingers to wave back, and the effort it costs her hits me like a blade between the ribs.
Edmund kneels beside the bed next. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just looks at his mother, his eyes the color of mine, and presses his forehead to her hand.
“I’ll be loud enough for both of us,” he finally manages.
“You always have been.” Her fingers find his hair. “Take care of your sister.”
“Maren doesn’t need taking care of.”
“I know. Do it anyway.”
He kisses her knuckles and leaves without looking back. I know why. Edmund breaks in private, and I will find him later—a father’s hand on a grieving son’s shoulder, away from witnesses.
Rowan is last.
He sits there holding her hand, running his thumb over the same knuckles I’ve been tracing, trying to assemble words big enough for what he feels. I know the futility of that search. I’ve been practicing it for years and have come up empty every time.
“You’ll be fine,” Elara tells him.
“I know.”
“The realm is in good hands.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, squares his shoulders in that way he does when he’s pretending. “Death runs in the family. I remember.”
He presses his cheek to hers for several breaths, then stands. He looks at me. Something passes between us that doesn’t require language—the understanding of two men who love thesame woman and know that one of them must leave the room now.
My son nods. I nod back.
The door closes. The room exhales.
Just us.
Death and his gravedigger wife.
The quiet that settles is the kind she’s always loved best—the hush after a burial, when the dirt is patted down and the mourners have gone. My thumb resumes its slow circuit, and the candlelight flickers against my bones.
