Chapter Text
I
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The bells of the cemetery rang as the crowd gathered at the newest gravesite. Among them was the freshly crowned king of Ixia, Apollo. There was no rain, but the clouds and fog held the mood in place like shackles. In the gloom, he let his mind wander, thinking back to his high school days with the only person who had ever truly stolen his heart.
He recalled her sarcastic remarks, how she would jab at his chest when she was right, when she snuck him out to speak to the Ixian spirits of the graveyard near Blackmore Academy’s campus. The girl with the buns who hid her scars under her hair and angst, the one whom he had come to love, though he knew she didn't love him back the way he wanted.
The prince-no, the king softly exhaled with a small smile as he traced the skull ring on his ring finger. He remembered when she proposed the idea.
“We’re both going to get matching rings,” Darcy proposed, “that way when we graduate, and you go back to Ixia, you’re still stuck with me, and I'm still stuck with you.”
“But why?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion.
“Why not?” she laughed.
Oh, her laugh, it was something he wished he could hear now. The words of the priest hung in the air as he stared at the coffin above the hole. The ring of flowers on the wood was picked carefully, and Apollo made sure to oversee it. He made the sight exactly as she would have wanted it. Her family never knew her as he did; they didn't go through the ritual with her as he did. He knew the things she never told anybody, some things that she had not even told the dead she confided in.
He remembered when he found her summoning an undead person from the ground. He was hiding behind a tree to catch her doing drugs or something, at least something to get her expelled. But instead, he screamed the moment the zombie climbed out of the dirt. He remembered how she threatened him that if he ever told a soul, she’d personally send an army to kill him and drag him to hell.
He was so scared, he swore he would faint.
But princes don't faint.
Just as kings don't cry.
Memories would only do so much; one day, he knew he would forget her voice, then her face, then her name.
Apollo watched her parents and sister cry as her body was lowered into the ground, sobbing and pleading to any god, repeating “we should have stepped in!” and “What could we have done to prevent this?”.
The truth was, there was nothing they could have done but sit there and watch as Darcy Graves slowly died right before their eyes with every piece of knowledge she gained from that lich.
The Ixian king stood there at the grave site as everyone began to leave, the mourning of the family and acquaintances fading away as the sun began to set.
“Child, will you be alright?” Father Scott asked, his warm eyes trying to reach Apollo’s cold, dead ones.
“I will manage,” he said, a barely noticeable break in his voice.
The two said their goodbyes as the priest left him alone. Suddenly, it was oddly reminiscent of the first time Graves trusted him with something, that very first time he saw her perform necromancy. The only thing that was missing was her by his side with her bag of supplies and that gods awful lich hand. He half expected her to open the coffin and give him a mischievous smirk. He wanted her to come out and say something like “pranked you! I can't believe you fell for that, you idiot!”
Not this time, though. He remembered how cold her body was when he found her, how her last words were “oops” with a weak, lazy smile, and her soft voice trying to console him before she was fully gone. He remembered begging for her to do some stupid magick, something! He had just lost his father a year after the ritual; he couldn't lose her, too.
But he did. Like everything, she slipped out of his grasp.
Was it worth it? Was the ritual really worth it if he lost the two people he wanted to keep in the end?
No, nothing could be worth heartbreak twice done.
He sat down and repeated Father Scott’s question in his head, “Child, will you be alright?”
When he was sure nobody was around, he answered the question, speaking to the box that held his best friend, “No. No, I won't.”
As the words left Apollo’s mouth, he felt himself break. That bottle that held everything together shattered and caused everything to feel like the world was ending. Darcy Graves was dead; she was never coming back, she would never live past nineteen. She only had one year out on her own before she was gone. Like a shooting star, she had her moment, but she could never live like the sun.
Just a star, never the sun.
Apollo didn't know how long he stayed there before he was found by his personal guards, but he was practically dragged away from her resting place. How unsightly it must have been for the two Ixians who found him broken and crying like a child; their king looked weak like this. How was the son of a warlord crying? How disappointing.
The return to the kingdom was quiet; he never spoke unless he needed to, even then, his voice was empty.
He had to push his feelings away; he had to move on.
Apollo had a kingdom to run.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
During the funeral, cold eyes were on him the entire time. An entire charade for some death that meant nothing to anybody was extra. Stupid. A waste. But seeing the new king of Ixia make an appearance was…shocking. Who would have known he would personally come out when he had duties back home?
“Odd,” a raspy voice hummed, pale hand petting a cat atop the church bell’s lookout, partially surprised.
‘This is… interesting.’
⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧