commendance: funeral orations; prayers for the dead
It is said that an Antiqua has never cried. That they have been stonehearted since they were born, that nothing has ever made them break. And this, to begin, is a lie. Despite what they would wish everyone to believe, the Antiqua family is still very human; they could not breed out emotions. Antiquas were pretenders, you see, they told their children that emotions were for the weak; and those children grew up believing that lie until they were more shells of people than actual, living things.
It has always been an act, Sorean was well aware. He’d grown up with it, like his mother had, like Kallian had, like Melia would; but, very rarely, he would wish for its absolute destruction. Once in a blue moon, he might realize that there is something wrong, when neither of his children speak freely with him. But, that is all these people would ever have, these traditions of breaking children into pieces that could conform. What would they do without, aside from crumble?
Withered hands run over the casket lid; oh, our final act, playing out in andante. Just another tradition, he must be with her until the very end, until he would be shooed away by workers who would carry her into her place amongst the rest of the dead consorts.
Part of him wishes to see her face again, but perhaps that would ruin the beauty of a woman like her. She’d been so full of fury and righteousness – and she was right, all the time. Cecily Antiqua had been right with every single word she said, no matter how cold or cruel it might sound in the moment. “Our daughter, Sorean, she is our daughter, not the city’s; not just yours– Melia is ours.”
To see her still, to see stillness on her dark face would be wrong. Cecily had been a woman forever in war, perhaps because it was what she’d been raised in. Besides, it was against tradition to open the lid, once it was shut, no one was allowed to see her corpse. Otherwise, such sacred traditions would be broken, and how awful that would be.
There are no tears, Sorean notices, and of course there would not be. A Homs woman, despite her standing, mattered little to them. It was an uncomfortable truth, but once he must deal with. They did not cry, and neither would he; that’s just how things are, he’d have to tell Melia ( why don’t you cry -- you didn’t love her, did you -- all the accusations he’d have to face, all so close to truthful, for is it really love if one is forbade to show it, is it really grief if one does not cry -- but, people grieve in different ways, what if this is just his way? far too many variables to answer a little girl’s questions. )
The room is emptied, one by one, until it is just him. He wants to cry, he realizes, but wants are not observed, that is tradition. Tradition would be to leave, and let her go without so much of a goodbye, but she is his wife.
Cecily was his wife. Melia is their daughter. Kallian is his son. Yumea is also his wife, and she is Kallian’s mother, but she is. Cecily was. Sorean ached, aches, is aching. ( just let me cry. )
