When Gamba was finished serving breafast and sweeping straw up at the Locks, he came out to the graveyard, and the guards watched him come, and said nothing. They had all heard, from the evening-shift, of the games, and the champion, and the candleholder, and her final fate.
Gamba came to Tuka, who rested the pick for a moment, and he said, "You were right. It was my fault, Tuka. I did do this to her."
Tuka watched him, not saying anything, and the silence was like lead between them.
Gamba turned, taking in the sight. Graves, graves, graves. "Which grave?" Gamba asked, and Tuka pointed. He walked over to Esta's grave, and looked down at it, and saw that the soil was still moist. Tuka resumed swinging his pick, joining the others. Three picks, three shovels. The sounds they made echoed in Gamba's soul and pulsed in his blood. He knelt, and bent forward, grasping handfuls of the soil, and pressing his forehead into the earth that covered the grave.
Out of time with the swinging picks and shovels, a lullaby unbidden echoed in his mind.
Beneath the stars, beneath the earth,
Your lovely form lies sleeping;
Your face so sweet, your limbs so fair,
Your heart, where mine is beating...
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...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.
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