Obsidian's Reign ¹

epilogue

THE MIST WAS pooling around the king's ankle as he stood by the gates, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. He glanced at the night sky, the area dimly illuminated by moonlight. Gentle winds rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees, the cloud of fog accumulated a few feet away from him before taking on the form of a man; dissipating shortly after and leaving Lucan in its wake.

"Did you find anything of interest?" the king asked.

"Yes," Lucan responded.

He reached for something within his jacket, handing it over to the king as though it was a fragile piece of artefact. The book in his grasp was examined closely, with nothing of interest piquing his curiosity save perhaps for its red velvet cover.

When he glanced at Lucan for an explanation, the latter said, "Agnes Avery's diary. I was told she writes in it diligently and was often seen with it close by."

The king said nothing, choosing instead to observe the item with new regard. He lifted the cover, seeing her name written in her familiar slanted hand. For a moment, he appeared to be lost in the memories of his past, plunging back to reality only when Lucan called out to him. Clearing his throat, the king nodded towards the darkness beyond the gated grounds.

"Come," he said.

Lucan followed him silently without question; the two traversing the area despite the lateness of the hour and the lack of proper lighting. It was only after a decent amount of distance had been covered, did the king come to a stop by the edge of the plot.

The cicadas were obtrusively loud, cries ringing in the still air around them. Yet, they were nothing compared to the chaos in the king's mind. There was so much he needed to say—he wanted to say—but the person to whom his entrapped words were intended for would not be able to hear them and he wondered if it was even worth the pain of voicing.

His gaze traced the engraved letters on the granite stone, heart heavy with the weight of his regrets.

In fondest memory of Agnes Avery—she loved all and was loved in return.

Life was fleeting. Even more so for the fragility that surrounded humankind. To think even Agnes, so full of life as she was, would be reduced to nothing more than a name embedded onto a stone surface and a memory etched in his mind.

It was this particular realisation that cemented his decision. His efforts of disentangling his thoughts of her were worth the pain. If not for her, then perhaps for himself; for his attempt at self-healing the torn fragments keeping himself upright.

He couldn't discern the justified purpose of his actions. But he knew it was something he had to do. And to do that, he had to start—to say something. It didn't matter where or what he said, he just had to say it.

He exhaled.

And in a quiet, barely audible voice, said, "Hello, my love."