“C’mon, son. You’re your father’s heir. You’ll have to rise to it.”
Griselda’s voice sounded flat in Bog’s ears, like it did not really matter to her, either. He continued staring out over the sun-dappled creek. He could hear nothing but the water gurgling, the buzz of insects, the rush of wind in the leaves, occasionally branches knocking together.
There should be other sounds in his head, chords reflecting the mood. Even minor chords echoing grief would be welcome. But…
“I think I’m broken. There has been no music since…” Since the fairies carried off the Willow King’s head on a spear, leaving the rest of him behind to rot.
After an awkward silence, Griselda said, “It will come back, in time. You’ll have to make do without. Our people need someone who leads and protects, and if you don’t fill that role, there will be infighting, and we can’t afford that.”
More death. And it would be his fault. “I’ll need your help.”