A young girl, aged 21 lays dead in a mahogany streaked coffin. Her cadaverous features seems as if she has smothered on too much powder, a stark contrast to her jet-black locks. A serene look masked on her face as she remains in her state of repose.

Encircling her body is an abundance of velvety and variegated flowers in an appeasing cluster. A pleasant scent of peonies lingering along the dew-kissed leaves.

Weeps of despondant citizens can be heard from miles away as torrential rain hammered the skyline. It's as if the once illuminating sun has knocked over a bucket of dye, painting the sky in a lachyrmose hue. And in the admist of the dolorous grief stands a man who looks peculiarly out of place.

He holds his hands close to his body, hangs his head and squeezes his eyes so tightly shut that the tears have nowhere to flow. His grief is not loud, but silent as stone.

On an ordinary day, this rain would be cause for celebration: the dry seasons are always long here in the shadow of the jagged Fosc Mountains. Dark water pounds on tiled rooftops, flowing into gutters and barrels painted with floral designs. Here in Floracanta, the citizens are proud of their flowers more than anything else; they wear bright colors that match the blooms outside their houses, especially on a day of mourning. Not a minute goes by without the buzzing of bees and smell of fresh petals filling the air. Even the soldiers and guards, the toughest men in the valley, look somehow dainty with their slender swords and glittering gold chainmail.

This man is dressed all in simple iron armor, forged practically to defend against a monster's natural weapons. He does not flinch under the weight of the weapons he carries on his back: a spear, a bow, a shield embossed with a stag's head. His face is hardened, and rain slides across his skin and armor the way it slides across the surface of a cliff, making little waterfalls that look too much like tears. He looks older than his twenty winters. If his eyes were open, there might have been some light to see there, some indication of the brave and jovial young man he usually is. Given the circumstances, there also might not.

The feral unicorn came from the mountains with red eyes blazing and a leonine tail lashing with fury. It destroyed farms and entire houses in its rampage across the countryside. People with their livelihoods lost flooded Floracanta, begging the guard to do something about it.

Lily was the princess of Floracanta, beloved by all who saw her. Every princess for hundreds of years had been named after a flower, and Lily's flower was the symbol of peace and purity. It seemed clear that she was destined to lead the small nation into a new era of camaraderie, casting aside the old divides and feuds between the gardening families. Her mother, Queen Zinnia, had kept her in the palace for her first eighteen years to make sure she was perfectly prepared for when that day came. When she was grown and began interacting with the people, everyone remarked on her kindness and sweetness.

Everyone knew that the only way to kill a unicorn was to lure it into a trap with a young maiden, who it would refuse to harm. Its usual guard would lower upon seeing an innocent girl, and only then could the soldiers spring from hiding and shoot it with their arrows. The princess, serene and pure Lily, seemed like the obvious choice. No one expected that the beast would not be pacified.

The unicorn saw her, charged from the trees in a rage, and stabbed its twisting horn into her chest without a moment of hesitation. The people's tears are sobs of surprise and shock.

The knight in the iron helm was horrified, but not surprised, when he heard the news. He only wishes he could have arrived sooner.

So he opens his eyes and kneels on the soaked earth in front of the grave. He has no beautiful blooms to offer, only a sprig of holly from the mountain peaks, which he lays atop her gently folded hands.

"My lady," he whispers. "My Lily." His tears mix with the rain.