This is eventually going to be part of my story 'Morgan le Fay', but since I have run out of ideas for that one for the moment, I thought I'd put this up here as it's already been written. You don't really need to have read the other story, you'll know what's going on. Thanks for taking a look, and I hope you like. Please review, tell me what you think. Constructive critisism is much appreciated.

Marke stood in the little church, surrounded by people, but seeing none of them. His hand enclosed the small and fragile hand of his wife, but he did not feel it. He knew that she wept at his side, but he did not see it. All he could see was his son, lying on the harsh stone, wrapped in sheets as white as the bitter snow that smothered the freezing ground in the depths of winter, his skin as pale as if he were lit by moonlight. It seemed not three days ago that his eyes, now staring vacant and dull beneath their fragile lids were bright and full of the life that coursed through his veins. But life is harsh, and the world is a cruel place to those who set up their home in it, preying everyday for continuance, praying that they shall exist tomorrow and that they shall live to struggle on another day.

The priest, dressed in his black robes, was chanting from his book as he bent over the tiny body, praying for him, wishing that his soul finds peace in the earth and the air around him, he was not leaving this earth, but returning to it, returning home. After the ceremony, people filed past him, members of his court at Castle Dore, offering their condolences, their sympathy of losing one so young, one who had barely set out on his journey through life. He will always be remembered as that spirited, cheerful boy whose light was extinguished before it had time to brighten.

Marke wrapped a numb arm round Elaine as the first grains of earth were thrown into the grave, separating them from the boy they had created and raised together, and who now was parted from them. After the brown mound had been raised, Marke could no longer sit beside it as the sun set. He left his wife there and made his way back up to the dull and lifeless castle. It would never be the same again, it would never offer the same comforts that it once had after he returned from a long journey, or a hard day’s hunting. Never again would he hear the pattering of small feet as Meraugis rushed to greet his father at the end of the day. It was cold and empty now, and would be for a long time.

Nearly a year later, Marke stood at the foot of the grave again staring down at the cold mound of earth. It was covered in grass now, and the spring daisies littered the it. Beneath his feet, his son still slept, unknowing that those standing above yearned to share his peaceful slumber, uncaring that his father who had once loved him more than any other still struggled day by day to continue, to merely exist. He would never know of the bitterness of adulthood, the pain of life and losing a child; barely five years had he experience of the world. No age to know of its troubles, Marke thought.

In some ways, he was glad that the boy would never grow old, even as the leaves of summer wilt and fall in a mass of red blood to the floor, where they lie staring up at the boughs they have been cast from, left to die upon the cold, wet ground. He would never age, he had been granted eternal youth, a state that many crave; their vanity desperate. Yet, he thought, it is ironic that we always cast tears of sadness for those whose fate it is. He will be spared the terrible experience of weariness and sorrow that accompanies the departure of youth.

A single tear cascaded down Marke’s cheek, and he breathed in deeply, tasting the salt in the Cornish air, before casting his eyes to the fresh mound of earth that lay beside the first. This was the grave of his wife.