Amber Waves - 15. Chapter 15

AARON

The Hall of the Dead stood open to the public. Aaron watched on the tv in his room as crowds stared at King Finley’s body, laid out in state in the royal catacombs. Around him, six guards kept the viewers at a respectful distance, their dark azure uniforms bearing black capes out of respect for the dead.
It had been three days since the werewolf had found Finley, dead from sepsis. There had been a more private vigil held on the second day, in the palace itself. Then the palace had been full of subdued energy, as neko and elf lords and ladies came to view the deceased. Now it was time for the people to pay their respects.
A fresh guard rotated as the elf watched, and Aaron turned away, pulling on the heavy silver cloak he was expected to wear in public. The elf emerged from his room into a busy palace, carefully weaving through servants as he made his way outside.
The trip to the barracks was mercifully short. Approaching the captain’s apartment, Aaron knocked loudly. Captain Darren opened the door a minute later, his own silver robe held closed.
“Can you send Itumak to me when he returns from his vigil?” Aaron asked quietly.
“Of course your Highness,” Darren replied.
“Would it be permissible for us to go for a run later?”
The captain’s lips turned down, and Aaron’s heart sank.
“If it were Lynestra’s Day, it would be. But if you went for a run on Lumara’s Day, the temple would see it as an assault,” the man said gently. “I know it’s difficult for you right now, but you cannot be seen in your wolf form until after midnight.”
Aaron nodded slowly, silently cursing the temples who preyed on werewolves. There would be no time to shift tomorrow either. On Zasar’s Day, the body of the deceased would be interred, and he would have to stand vigil over the white cedar sapling placed over Finley’s grave while his mother stood vigil over Finley’s statue in the Hall of the Dead.
“I would like Itumak to join me for lunch,” the prince added. “I know it’s unusual, but he’s a close friend. Surely the lords and ladies won’t mind.”
“I believe they would mind very much,” Darren frowned. “But I will make sure he is properly turned out.”
“Thank you Captain.”
Aaron turned back toward the palace, retreating from the flashes of cameras that seemed to haunt his every step. At a time like this, there was no getting rid of the reporters. The elf just had to bear their eternal scrutiny.
The prince’s steps carried him to the small gym, looking at the large black drapes that were pulled over the massive window. They left the room dark, but Aaron was grateful they were closed. Maybe he could shift in here, safe from sight. His body burned with the need to do something, to stave off the helplessness he’d felt since finding King Finley.
But turning into a werewolf on the day of mourning dedicated to the lunar god would be the most grievous insult imaginable. Whether people saw it or not, Aaron could not bring himself to dishonour the dead in such a way.
Instead, he did the only thing he could do. The elven prince turned on a treadmill, and began walking.
An opening door roused Aaron from morbid thoughts, and his head turned slightly, expecting to see Itumak coming into the room. To his surprise, an Ythin neko entered instead, an uncertain air to his steps.
Biting back a groan, the prince stepped off his treadmill, turning to meet Khuyag. The neko paused, before dropping into a bow. Dark clothes spoke of mourning, clashing with the almost fiery orange fur that covered his body.
“Your Highness,” he murmured.
“Lord Khuyag. Warm sands keep your steps and may oases be found wherever you roam,” Aaron said, slowing his speech to make sure he remembered the proper platitudes.
He knew the queen didn’t hold to cultural traditions as much, and that many viewed her as somewhat crass because of it. For someone who had been slowly dying for years, Aaron figured Amber should be forgiven for trying to make the most of the time she had.
But the prince still held himself to the standards set by his predecessors, especially when speaking to potentially volatile lords.
“And may the mountain breeze bless your home,” Khuyag replied smoothly, an appropriate greeting for an elf, though Aaron had never visited Mydara in his life.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” the elf asked, ignoring the fact that the gym was supposed to be a part of the royal family’s private quarters.
The son of the Khorsan mayor seemed to tense up at the question. Aaron watched the noble façade crumble rather abruptly, and the neko glanced at the ground, not daring to meet the prince’s gaze.
“Forgive me your Highness. I needed to get away from the cloud of despair that hangs over the palace, yet I am not permitted to leave.”
“The palace isn’t usually like this,” Aaron said, just barely stopping himself from sighing.
“I know. I was here a few months ago, and found the hospitality a close rival to our own. It was a pleasant experience.”
Aaron chewed his lip, seeing the veiled insult in the neko’s words. But Khuyag didn’t seem malicious; it was almost as though the palace was expected to be lacking, yet was surprisingly adept.
He let the insult slide, but kept it in his mind. Before he could reply, the door opened again, and Itumak stepped into the room.
The two nekos looked at each other in surprise, before Itumak dropped into a short bow.
“Forgive me, Lord Khuyag, but the gym is open only to members of the royal family. Please allow me to escort you to your rooms,” the Niwo said with more grace than Aaron had ever seen from him before.
The Ythin looked back at Aaron uncertainly, as though waiting for something. Aaron weighed a couple of options in his mind, holding back a frown. Khuyag needed companionship, but so did the prince.
At this moment in time, the prince of Astara decided his people came first.
“Guard Itumak, if you are coming off duty, perhaps you might enjoy a bowl of kumis with Lord Khuyag,” he suggested.
An eyebrow raised as Itumak contemplated his friend’s words. He nodded a moment later, barely long enough to notice any hesitation.
“Of course, your Highness. My lord, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to get some refreshments.”
Aaron watched the nekos leave the room, acknowledging their deep bows before he turned back to the treadmill.

ITUMAK

“Steady! Lift!”
The neko moved as a drum slowly beat, his right hand lifting the stretcher off the catafalque. Ahead of him, Captain Darren stood stiff, his drawn face adding to the sombre mood that filled the Hall of the Dead.
Across from him, Itumak saw the grizzled former captain of the palace guard, Darius, standing out of the corner of his eye, the stretcher bearing King Finley held evenly between them, at waist height. Behind the nekos, two elven guards took up the middle of the stretcher, a pair of humans at Finley’s head. The six bearers stepped with the drum beats, their feet walking in unison as they carried their dead king out into the light of midday.
Itumak’s tail twitched as voices began chanting around them in a language he couldn’t understand. He tried to ignore the throbbing of his ass as he walked, tried to keep his mind on the solemnity of the occasion, and not the entertainment he had provided for Lord Khuyag the night before. They had a five mile walk through the old gates of Astara and around to the Queenswood, and he could not allow the stretcher to dip even a centimetre.
Neko mourners lined the road they walked down, dark skin and fur trails marking them as Askani. They were interspersed with the general public, a choir that stretched a third of a mile, giving an unbroken voice to the people’s mourning. Beyond them stood an Ythin choir, chanting the same melody in their own tongue as the nekos of the desert paid their respects to the deceased monarch.
Slowly the procession moved through the city, passing from the Ythin to the Niwo as the unbroken song continued in the national language of Astara. Itumak found his mind struggling as he walked, the miles passing unnoticed as he bore his share of the weight. One day he would likely have to do this for Queen Amber. The neko reflected on Aaron, contemplating the fact that elves lived such long lives. He wouldn’t be alive to support his best friend, and Itumak wasn’t sure if that made him happy or sad. Moreover, he wondered if he was a horrible friend for feeling relief at the thought.
The neko mourners made way for their human counterparts, stretching another two miles as mages added their voices. Beyond them waited the elves, and finally the werewolves, a mournful howl echoing along the last mile of the route as the procession moved through the Queenswood.
Finally, they reached the grave that had been dug for King Finley, so close to Prince Consort Zaddis’ tree. Itumak passed beside a bier that awaited the stretcher, carrying King Finley’s body over the flat surface.
“Company halt!” Darren snapped, and the pallbearers froze in place as the drums faded away.
Silence took the forest over, and Itumak watched his captain, his guardian, as the man took a breath to compose himself.
“Steady! Lower!”
Carefully, the six pallbearers let the stretcher rest on the bier, and Itumak bit back a sigh as he finally allowed his arm to relax. He turned with the other guards, backing up smartly as a neko stepped forward.
All around them stood mourners, kept at a respectful distance by city and palace guards alike. Itumak forced himself to stare straight ahead, watching Darius as the former captain stared back. He could have sworn he was seeing things. By all accounts, Darius had never allowed himself to weep in public, yet Itumak could see tears glistening on the aged neko’s face.
The neko priest’s ceremony passed quickly, a supplication to all the gods to see King Finley at peace. An elf approached the bier, Queen Amber at her side, and a saw in hand. The drums picked up a slow beat as the two took places beside the dead king, and Itumak watched as the saw was placed on a mark the embalmers had drawn on Finley’s neck.
A minute later, the deed was done. The elf wrapped Finley’s neck in a blanket, before offering the king’s head to Queen Amber with a bow. It would be taken back to the Hall of the Dead, where it would be kept as another reminder of the ruler who had led Astara.
Together, the pallbearers raised the stretcher again, and Itumak fought the morbid urge to look at the decapitated body. They set the king on supports over the grave, and at Darren’s command, the six slowly lowered the stretcher into the grave.
Over the next hour, the grave was filled slowly. When two feet of space remained, Aaron stepped forward, another guard carrying a cedar tree in a pot. Itumak and Darius approached the prince, bowing low before helping the elf remove the tree. Together, they set the sapling into the ground, before covering the roots with dirt.
The crowd began dispersing as the last of the dirt filled the grave. Darren dismissed the pallbearers, but Itumak and Darius remained, standing guard over the tree until everyone else was gone.
Darius approached Aaron, the two meeting each other’s eyes. The neko set a hand on the prince’s shoulder, before kneeling beside the grave. He took a flask out of his breast pocket, emptying clear water over the tree as a tear fell from his eyes.
“Itumak…”
Itumak approached Aaron silently, wrapping his arms around the elven prince.
“How do I get through this?” Aaron asked quietly. “I hated him. He fought my every move. But how do I hate someone who’s dead? And how do I stand vigil for someone I despised in life?”
Itumak bit his lip, looking at the grave where Aaron would spend the next twenty four hours. To his surprise, it was Darius who spoke.
“You honour the memory of who he was, not who he became. You do your duty for the people of Astara, knowing that there were those who loved him regardless. And you honour Prince Consort Zaddis with your vigil, for this was the neko he devoted his entire life to.”
The older neko bowed to the prince, before leaving Itumak and Aaron in peace. Itumak studied his friend briefly, Aaron’s dirt covered face stricken with tears.
“Go,” Aaron whispered.
“Will you be okay?” Itumak asked quietly.
The prince nodded silently.
“I’ll make sure I’m the one Captain Darren sends to relieve you,” Itumak promised. “You’re not alone.”
Yet as the neko walked away, he realised that was a lie. Prince Aaron Etaro would spend the night alone in the forest, with only the dead for company.

AMBER

She waited for the pallbearers to be dismissed before starting the long walk back to the Hall of the Dead.
Amber cradled Finley’s head in her arms as elven and human guards closed in around her protectively. The numbness of the past three days hadn’t faded, but she still had her duty to do.
It wasn’t fair. She was too young for this. Her father had been fine only four days ago, maybe complaining of a bit of tooth pain, but there hadn’t been anything life threatening.
And it made her think, had she caused Finley’s death? A toothache would have seemed so miniscule next to a fight with cancer; what if Finley had been hiding how he was actually feeling out of some sort of embarrassment?
Her feet moved mechanically down the open road, slowly moving through the city as the guards guided. Finley’s head was on display for the city, a desecration of his body turned into a normal ritual. She could never see it for anything but what it was, an attempt by Queen Erin the First to utterly humiliate the nekos.
And it was a tradition that would continue, as the human monarchs insisted, to keep the nekos and the elves from fighting even more. One day, Amber’s head would be carried to the Hall of the Dead, in King Aaron’s arms. She just prayed that day was far away.
The transition from the afternoon light to the dim lighting of the Hall was startling. Amber took a deep breath as she followed her guards to an open door. A flight of stairs led down into the catacombs, and the queen descended slowly, letting the musty darkness swallow her.
Lights flicked on, illuminating the base of pillars throughout the large room. Amber took in the rows of statues lining the walls. Each was a look at the monarch in their prime, a painting behind them an image of the monarch in youth. Cupped hands each held a skull almost lovingly, caring for the monarch in death.
Amber passed an empty statue, studiously ignoring the place where her own head would one day rest. She stopped before Finley’s statue, carefully tucking his head in the statue’s hands. Stepping back, the queen bowed low, and backed away to a bench that faced the wall of statues. Behind Finley’s statue, she studied the painting, noticing a large black wolf nearly hidden in the background. Yellow eyes seemed to meet her gaze, as Amber looked past King Finley and at Prince Consort Zaddis. It made her wonder, were yellow eyes common in born werewolves? Idle thoughts, to chase away the trauma of spending an entire night with the dead.
She heard the soft steps of the guards as they explored the catacombs, making sure the room was empty. Ten minutes later, they returned to Amber, bowing low.
“The catacombs are clear, your Majesty,” an elf announced.
“You may go,” the queen said quietly, watching their eyes flick nervously.
She didn’t blame them; the catacombs always creeped her out. But Amber would remain alone here until midday, guarding her father’s remains.
A minute passed in silence. Beyond that, Amber stopped counting. There was little reason to keep track of the time; it would only drive her mad to think about how much longer she had to spend with the dead.
Her legs were burning from the ten mile march to and from the forest. Yet Amber forced herself to stand, and made her way through the statues. She stopped before a neko, the statue staring back listlessly, captured in a moment of weakness.
King Joren would never have been called a strong monarch. He was stifled by his mother, and had barely managed to maintain the peace Queen Erin had been forced to declare after the Neko Rebellion. Amber’s eyes flicked toward the elf queen’s statue, a soft grunt escaping her at the sight of the royal painting that showed the queen in gilded armour. It was a ridiculous image, and one no other monarch had seen fit to copy.
Joren’s skull stared at Amber, and with the flickering light, the queen could almost imagine dull eyes looking out at her. His painting showed a frail neko, likely painted as such to appease the dowager. Weak, helpless, it only made sense for Erin to take charge of the nation when Joren was ill.
“How much of it was real?” Amber muttered. “You were a sick neko. It wasn’t physical, was it? Anyone who had been through war, seen what you saw… they’d be messed up too.”
Her hand reached out to touch the statue, to offer some kind of support to this neko who had never been given a chance to make the world a better place. But she paused, and withdrew the hand, mindful of the antiquity of the statue. If it broke, Joren’s story would be lost to the ages.
The queen of Astara returned to her bench, taking her time as she walked. Each statue received attention, each skull was given life once more through memories, however limited as they were. Finally, she reached Finley’s statue once more, and sat down, waiting for her vigil to end.