cooki!

A Serullan harp hummed out a low tune that mimicked the vocals of the Iridian Songbird, strings plucked with a quiet devotion. As dictated in the forgotten library books of what was the Ilves residence, the Iridian Songbirds only sang in distress, a final cry for help. Some scholars reported their song when the bird’s lover died; others speculated it was in the poor creature’s final moment. It was said one could see the exact moment the light of hope died in the eyes of an Iridian Songbird.

They did not have long lifespans.

But a Songbird had no reason to sing a lonely tune when it was draped in finery and cascaded in gold.

Of course, a Serullan funeral would be nothing less than extravagant.

In droves, Serullan nobles entered the hall, covered head to toe in various shades of darkened red, greens, blues, even oranges. Black was thought to be too cruel a colour, too impersonal, too vampiric to dare be used for a funeral.

Whispers curled around each body, sharp as the blades one would use for Serullan sword dancing, though the words might as well have been screams, for everyone seemed to parrot the same thoughts.

“—years since a funeral was held..”

“Keep your voice down, we can’t have—“

“—must be feeling so awful right now..”

“…cannot even imagine what they are feeling..”

“When is the food coming?”

“—now quieten down..”

Lit candles lined the stained glass windows, a beacon of light against the heartless backdrop of winter. Serullan winters were often like that. The air was cold, and the frost, unforgiving.

Nobility took their seats in repetitive rows that spanned across the large hall, increasing in status and wealth the closer you crept towards the centerpiece of the affair. A singular coffin, ornate in its marble carving depicting each of the ten gods. It was elevated by an indigo velvet prism.

The doors slowly creaked open; a chorus of music ripped over the crowd; a lone figure stepped inside. Draped in purple finery, and gloves to spare them from the cold, the lone royal descended the path towards the coffin.

And oh, if one looked closely they would see a pair of Atha’lin’s whose green eyes never left the royal, not even when they reached the end of the hall and were finally able to place a single, gloved hand upon the marble coffin.

It was difficult to believe. No, it was impossible to even conceptualise. Yet the evidence laid right before their eyes.

Roena Ilves was dead.

The Earis pulled off each glove, finger by finger, to allow their fingertips to rest on the marble casing that housed their mother. Someone, a high ranking noble, had flippantly suggested that the ceremony should be conducted with an open coffin. That noble was barred from entering.

A pair of hands guided the Earis to the side of the room, while a scholar in Videinity began addressing the crowd.

The words washed over the Earis.

Perhaps they spoke a prayer. Perhaps it was words detailing what a beloved Eminence she was. The things she did for the people. Perhaps it was nothing at all. And perhaps there was a word spoken, maybe even two, on the caring, gentle side of the Eminence that made up the Earis’ mother.

But the Earis understood.

Because Roena Ilves was an Eminence first, and a mother second.

And the heir had spent too long around the Eminence that they had forgotten that.

*

The gardens were a solace, just as they had always been. The Earis sat low on the ground, chest pressed into a stone bench, folded over like a collapsed house of cards with their cheek scraped against the bench. Exhaustion pervaded them.

It was quiet here. The funeral continued in the distance, but the heir simply could not stand being there any longer. They conjured up an excuse of needing air. That they would be back in five minutes, perhaps even less.

They didn’t know how long it had been since they said those words.

And yet this did not spare them from having a visitor. Upon the echo of footsteps hitting cobblestone, the Earis raised a weary head and squinted at the oncoming figure.

“Zaros.” Their voice was hoarse. Even at the appearance of the Atha’lin, the Earis did not bother to jump to a stand and smoothen down their appearance like they would have done a week ago. He bore long navy garments, similarly with gloves as a shield against the biting wind.

“My Earis.” His words were gentle. As though he had practiced them a thousand times over in his head before saying it.

The heir shook their head. “Do not say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you are sorry.” They spat. “If one more person tells me that they are sorry for my loss I swear to Solýa not even Uteus’ wisdom would save them.”

Their heart was weighed down by chains. That was surely the only explanation for the pressure coming from their insides. On shaky legs, the heir pushed themself to a stand. “I do not want to hear pity.”

“Then I will not give you pity.” He said.

The wind picked up. It pricked their skin like needles.

Clearing their throat, the Earis slipped their hands into their pockets. “Is your mother not wondering where you are?”

“She understands.”

If it were any other occasion, they would have chastised him for his lack of words, his lack of elaboration, his lack of anything. But they would rather this than the overcompensating words the other nobles gave.

Their eyes dropped to the floor, hands clenching into a fist.

“It is not fair.” They said quietly. “It is simply not fair. How can they speak of.. of Solýa and.. and Vihena when my mother is dead?”

Dead. That had to have been the first time they said it out loud. Acknowledged their mother’s death.

“My Earis—“

“No!” They yelled. “Do not try and console me. Do not try and tell me everything will be resolved in the end. You do not know that. You cannot know that. Not when your mother is paying her respects to mine.”

Living in the shadow of a brother they could never know was manageable. At the very least, the Earis couldn’t know how they would never live up to him. Now, though, in the shadow of both their brother and their mother, the scale was tipped against them.

When would it finally be their turn to be in the light?