M I D V I N T E R
H E A V E N H E I M
Autumn.
The Kingswood was awash with yellows, oranges, and reds as the final days of summer's brief respite from the long night came to a close. There, in a glade beneath a mighty blood oak, could be found the Lion King; the father of the pride lulling his grandchildren to sleep. Theya rested peacefully in her cradle, all bundled up with the warmest and softest of furs. Tulan had found slumber at his grandfather's side, tucked in against his warmth with his head lain to rest upon his broad chest. But rest could not find the patriarch just yet; not whilst he beheld the pair of miracles sleeping so innocently. Such moments were precious, and he would sear them into memory before it was too late.
Before them lay a pond; a pool of tranquil waters connected to the mountains via a babbling brook. Fallen leaves floated there, felled by the encroaching cold.
"Another year nearing its end," he uttered softly so as to not wake the little ones. "Another year..."
Another year on the throne. Another year of servitude. Another year of watching their children and grandchildren grow. To have nobody to share such joys with was as a dagger to the heart; each unshared laughter the twisting of said dagger. Though acceptance had been granted through the healing of Ashla, Thurion yet grieved not for himself, but for these precious moments his beloved would never experience. He grieved for the love and warmth denied to these little souls, knowing how she'd cherish their existence as much as he does.
"I miss you, Coci," he squeaked out, his breathing becoming irregular. "I hope, wherever you are, it is a peaceful place. Just promise you'll stay with me. Haunt me. Don't ever leave me. Not you."
As tears streaked down his face, Thurion set his reddened eyes upon the pond. There did he see the traces of his wife appearing beside him, knowing them to be the wishes of a longing heart. But ghosts were better than silence.
"I will sit here and wait for a while yet, and if you want to come and talk to me, then come and talk. I'll sing you our song, and gently stroke your long and beautiful hair once again, with my peasant hands..."
