Chapter 17 #2
Der felt as if his heart was broken into a million pieces.
Behind him, Dagobert was on his knees screaming, the sound muffled into Hardwic’s chest as tears flowed down the round man’s face and into his beard.
Bernhardt was nearly hyperventilating, and Grim was just staring with the most blank look on his face that Der had ever seen.
If Sigmund had found him in this state, it was far too late for any extraordinary measures.
It didn’t seem possible that their dear, sweet, kind-hearted prince, who loved animals and baking and had been so kind and passionate with all of them, was gone.
They needed some answers. Der pulled off his spectacles, wiping tears off of them with a cloth from his pocket and put them back on, but the tears had only streaked further. More of them made fresh tracks down his face as he carefully lifted Makellos into his arms.
Der checked his throat, but there was nothing lodged there; he had not choked to death, despite the apple with a single bite out of it that lay a short distance away. He checked him all over for bruises or signs of a struggle. But there was nothing at all.
“Had to be magic,” Grim muttered, more to himself but loud enough for the others to hear. “He was fine this morning, fit as a fiddle.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a great honk into it.
They washed his body and hair with soap in case he had been poisoned by something he touched, but there was no indication anywhere of why their beloved prince was dead on the floor.
Tears streamed down every face, though Dagobert continued to sob the loudest, unable to even touch the prince without breaking out in heart-wrenching wails.
They dressed him once more in his perfectly clean shirtsleeves, pants, and boots.
And then came the question of what to do with him.
They had dealt with death before; many of their friends and family had died over the years in the mines, and most of them were laid to rest in the forest, buried when they were able.
But it was dark outside now, the pain still a fresh wound.
So, they placed him on their collective large bed and sat a vigil around him all night, the flickering lanternlight playing off of his pale skin, still so smooth and full even in death.
The only sound all night was the occasional sniffle or clearing of the throat as each reflected on their dear prince who had left them far too soon.
Dawn came, and none of them stirred. The thought of going to work now, of plunging into the dark, musty mines, seemed like an impossible feat. It was long after they should have left for work when Bernhardt finally broke the heavy silence. “Is anyone hungry?”
They all were, for they had had no supper, but the thought of eating anything right now seemed like too great a task.
Still, Bernhardt rose to his feet, and Hardwic followed him.
Together, they set about putting together a simple meal of bread and cheese.
All of them gathered around the table that suddenly seemed much too large and empty without Makellos’ bright laughter and warm presence there.
They ate with only a few mumbles in between, and then they all sat silent once more.
“Shall… shall we bury him?” ventured Der, his voice low and cautious, as if afraid to give voice to his thought.
That sent Dagobert into another wail of grief, and several others flinched.
They knew they could not leave him as he was forever.
But the thought of putting their beloved Makellos in the ground, amongst the dirt and worms, was too much for them bear with their sorrow still so overwhelming. “One more day,” Hardwic said softly.
That elicited nods and mumbles around the table. One more day to sit with their thoughts and their heartache before they would do their best to try to move forward without the ray of sunshine that had come into their lives and changed them all for good.
Dagobert was still sobbing. Der stroked his back gently. “Here now, Dag, you should get some rest. Let’s… let’s bring the prince in here, so there is a place of privacy.”
No one objected, nor did any of them protest when they carried Makellos in their arms once more into the living space and set him carefully on the table.
They placed a blanket under him and changed the blankets on the bed as well.
A few movements were made to return to normalcy.
Dagobert was put to bed. Wise old Bernhardt took the blankets to wash and then hung them to dry in front of the fire that Sigurd stoked back to life.
Dishes were cleaned, tools were sharpened, another meal was eaten.
All of this happened in relative silence.
The life that the beautiful prince had brought into the cottage was gone, leaving it cold and drab, a prison once more.
Occasionally, one or two of them would stop and sit on a bench and hold the prince’s hands or press soft kisses to his cheeks and forehead.
They spoke to him in soft voices, whispered secret words in his ear.
Told him how much they loved him and what he had meant to them, with his kindness and creativity and loving spirit.
His passion and his lack of favoritism as he made love to each of them in his own way.
As darkness settled over the woods once more, most of them headed off to bed, bringing Dagobert a plate of food as well that the young man picked silently at.
Grimwald sat up, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the bench next to Makellos, a cup of lukewarm tea clutched in his hands.
“It ain’t fair,” he grumbled softly. “It ain’t fair. ”