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wightknight) wrote2016-04-09 10:14 pm
wightknight) wrote2016-04-09 10:14 pm
Falling Skies I
“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a daughter, a wife, and a mother. A friend dearly beloved by us all.”
He stands in front of the casket, eyes downcast, tightly holding the hand of his sister. He does not cry. It has only been a few weeks, after all, since he was last in this position, and he remembers what he had been told.
It is his duty to be strong. He is the man of the house now.
“Taken from us before her time… So suddenly and so soon…”
He is vaguely conscious that he has not properly adjusted his mourning clothes. He has a distinct itch in an unmentionable region. But it would not do to scratch his rear end, and he silently squirms in place instead, assuming that it would merely appear as if he were adjusting his stance. There are approximately five hundred people behind him and all five hundred of them are staring his way.
He wonders, not for the first time, why funerary services go on for so long. It isn’t as if they ever made anyone feel any better.
“She leaves behind her three children. Her finest achievements and her greatest pride. They carry on her noble spirit, and in their lives, her legacy is fulfilled.”
He had always thought her finest achievement was guessing ‘hoisted by your own petard’ when they played charades. He still isn’t quite sure what a petard is. In many ways, he is certain he has been a terrible failure to his mother. He has never finished memorizing his times tables, and he does not think he ever shall. Only last week, he had skipped his etiquette lesson to go wading in the creek instead.
He cannot bring himself to feel very guilty. It isn’t as if she cared anymore.
This melancholic train of thought is interrupted by a sudden choking cry from his right. His baby brother has awakened, unsurprisingly, and in vain, his sister attempts to shush the infant over the faltering sounds of the now decidedly uncomfortable priest.
He masks a quiet smile.
“Lady Alba has – The Lady Alba is, er, reposing now in eternal rest, er. …Resting with her love. May their… repose be long, as they truly deserve.”
“Amie?”
He murmurs quietly. His sister does not heed him at first, continuing to bounce the screaming child in her arms.
“Amie? …Give him here.”
She looks down with a blink of surprise.
“They’re going to ask you to say something soon, aren’t they?”
And indeed, someone is quietly motioning to his elder sister to step to the side. Furrowing her brow faintly, she nods and stoops over to pass the bundle, shushing it gently as she does.
He stands and stares into the reddened face of the child as his sister waits to give her eulogy.
“…You killed Mama, you know.”
The baby does not respond with anything intelligible. He continues to whisper nonetheless.
“There she is. Look.”
In the casket, a wax figure of some sort lies deathly still, molded into a shape meant to resemble his mother. It is not very convincing. Her cheeks are pale as alabaster, her face has been stretched and sunken, and even her hands… They do not look like her hands. They are not the warm, gentle hands that he knows. If it had looked more like her, he would feel more badly. But the way it is, he cannot bring himself to feel much more than an odd sort of detachment.
“You won’t ever get to know her, will you? But it’s your fault, anyway, so you can’t cry about it.”
The priest descends from the lectern, giving them a mildly reproachful look as his brother continues to cry. He ignores it.
“She had dark hair. …Not like this. Not all… flat and painted. It was dark, like the night. When she walked down the hall, it would go behind her like a train. Sometimes it would get caught on the portraits, and she would say that she would have it all cut off. But Papa always said it was too beautiful.”
Amie’s voice is much more difficult to hear over the hiccupping cries. But she maintains her composure, speaking softly and calmly. In many ways, she is a replica of their mother: the same jut of the chin, the same lilting voice. She has their father’s eyes, though. Dark and pensive.
“That’s right. Mama had blue eyes. Not like ours. They were bright – really bright, and they would flash at you whenever you did something wrong.”
A pause.
“Not at me, of course. Mama always loved me.”
He smiles to himself. The baby does not appreciate his joke, though its cries are beginning to calm, more from fatigue than his words. He gives it an experimental bounce.
“I guess Amie is going to have be your Mama now.” He is thoughtful. “She’s not as good. She can’t cook, and she ruins all her nice dresses. Last night, she tried to make dinner for me, and Caddy had to throw it in the rubbish when she wasn’t looking, because it smelled like rot.”
He gives a slight start, as if coming to a realization.
“And that means… I’ve got to be your Papa.”
He repeats those words, trying them out in his mind. They don’t feel very comfortable. What was it that Papas did? Papas were loud and cheerful and gave you pony rides down the hall whenever they were in a good mood – which was most of the time. Papas got angry quickly. And you couldn’t ever let them know that you hadn’t done any of your lessons because you were too busy playing in the stables with the horses. Papas went away a lot for a very long time when people were bad. He needed to go punish them. Sometimes, Papas went away for months and months and months.
Sometimes, Papas didn’t come back.
“I don’t know if I’d like that.”
On the lectern, Amie is reaffirming her dedication to the welfare of the provincial economical something or other. She is five years older than him and knows what words like that mean and when to say them.
“But if I have to be your Papa… you have to listen to what I say. It’s just the three of us now. And you can’t go and do any more bad things. Amie says I have to grow up quick and learn all kinds of things. But you’ve got to grow up even quicker.”
Hunching forward, he whispers straight into the infant’s ear.
“So… listen to me, OK? Be quiet. We have to listen to Amie now.”
Satisfied that he had done a proper job, he straightens up and glances at his sister. She still looks much more like their mother than whatever is in the casket.
A few moments later, the baby stops crying and begins to hiccup just as they are called to sing to the Brixellian flag.
He takes advantage of the shuffle to finally scratch his rear end.
He stands in front of the casket, eyes downcast, tightly holding the hand of his sister. He does not cry. It has only been a few weeks, after all, since he was last in this position, and he remembers what he had been told.
It is his duty to be strong. He is the man of the house now.
“Taken from us before her time… So suddenly and so soon…”
He is vaguely conscious that he has not properly adjusted his mourning clothes. He has a distinct itch in an unmentionable region. But it would not do to scratch his rear end, and he silently squirms in place instead, assuming that it would merely appear as if he were adjusting his stance. There are approximately five hundred people behind him and all five hundred of them are staring his way.
He wonders, not for the first time, why funerary services go on for so long. It isn’t as if they ever made anyone feel any better.
“She leaves behind her three children. Her finest achievements and her greatest pride. They carry on her noble spirit, and in their lives, her legacy is fulfilled.”
He had always thought her finest achievement was guessing ‘hoisted by your own petard’ when they played charades. He still isn’t quite sure what a petard is. In many ways, he is certain he has been a terrible failure to his mother. He has never finished memorizing his times tables, and he does not think he ever shall. Only last week, he had skipped his etiquette lesson to go wading in the creek instead.
He cannot bring himself to feel very guilty. It isn’t as if she cared anymore.
This melancholic train of thought is interrupted by a sudden choking cry from his right. His baby brother has awakened, unsurprisingly, and in vain, his sister attempts to shush the infant over the faltering sounds of the now decidedly uncomfortable priest.
He masks a quiet smile.
“Lady Alba has – The Lady Alba is, er, reposing now in eternal rest, er. …Resting with her love. May their… repose be long, as they truly deserve.”
“Amie?”
He murmurs quietly. His sister does not heed him at first, continuing to bounce the screaming child in her arms.
“Amie? …Give him here.”
She looks down with a blink of surprise.
“They’re going to ask you to say something soon, aren’t they?”
And indeed, someone is quietly motioning to his elder sister to step to the side. Furrowing her brow faintly, she nods and stoops over to pass the bundle, shushing it gently as she does.
He stands and stares into the reddened face of the child as his sister waits to give her eulogy.
“…You killed Mama, you know.”
The baby does not respond with anything intelligible. He continues to whisper nonetheless.
“There she is. Look.”
In the casket, a wax figure of some sort lies deathly still, molded into a shape meant to resemble his mother. It is not very convincing. Her cheeks are pale as alabaster, her face has been stretched and sunken, and even her hands… They do not look like her hands. They are not the warm, gentle hands that he knows. If it had looked more like her, he would feel more badly. But the way it is, he cannot bring himself to feel much more than an odd sort of detachment.
“You won’t ever get to know her, will you? But it’s your fault, anyway, so you can’t cry about it.”
The priest descends from the lectern, giving them a mildly reproachful look as his brother continues to cry. He ignores it.
“She had dark hair. …Not like this. Not all… flat and painted. It was dark, like the night. When she walked down the hall, it would go behind her like a train. Sometimes it would get caught on the portraits, and she would say that she would have it all cut off. But Papa always said it was too beautiful.”
Amie’s voice is much more difficult to hear over the hiccupping cries. But she maintains her composure, speaking softly and calmly. In many ways, she is a replica of their mother: the same jut of the chin, the same lilting voice. She has their father’s eyes, though. Dark and pensive.
“That’s right. Mama had blue eyes. Not like ours. They were bright – really bright, and they would flash at you whenever you did something wrong.”
A pause.
“Not at me, of course. Mama always loved me.”
He smiles to himself. The baby does not appreciate his joke, though its cries are beginning to calm, more from fatigue than his words. He gives it an experimental bounce.
“I guess Amie is going to have be your Mama now.” He is thoughtful. “She’s not as good. She can’t cook, and she ruins all her nice dresses. Last night, she tried to make dinner for me, and Caddy had to throw it in the rubbish when she wasn’t looking, because it smelled like rot.”
He gives a slight start, as if coming to a realization.
“And that means… I’ve got to be your Papa.”
He repeats those words, trying them out in his mind. They don’t feel very comfortable. What was it that Papas did? Papas were loud and cheerful and gave you pony rides down the hall whenever they were in a good mood – which was most of the time. Papas got angry quickly. And you couldn’t ever let them know that you hadn’t done any of your lessons because you were too busy playing in the stables with the horses. Papas went away a lot for a very long time when people were bad. He needed to go punish them. Sometimes, Papas went away for months and months and months.
Sometimes, Papas didn’t come back.
“I don’t know if I’d like that.”
On the lectern, Amie is reaffirming her dedication to the welfare of the provincial economical something or other. She is five years older than him and knows what words like that mean and when to say them.
“But if I have to be your Papa… you have to listen to what I say. It’s just the three of us now. And you can’t go and do any more bad things. Amie says I have to grow up quick and learn all kinds of things. But you’ve got to grow up even quicker.”
Hunching forward, he whispers straight into the infant’s ear.
“So… listen to me, OK? Be quiet. We have to listen to Amie now.”
Satisfied that he had done a proper job, he straightens up and glances at his sister. She still looks much more like their mother than whatever is in the casket.
A few moments later, the baby stops crying and begins to hiccup just as they are called to sing to the Brixellian flag.
He takes advantage of the shuffle to finally scratch his rear end.