Chapter Twenty Nine
Acting The Part

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I can’t, it’s these bloodrotten, dungfecked buttons.”

“Ruben,” Caerella said, “if you don’t stand still, I’m going to shove this here candelabra all the way up y—”

“Shh,” Rubicus said, with a grin on his face, “you’re missing the ceremony.”

Vera was having a really, really hard time keeping a straight face. In front of her, one of the most important events in her life, in Clarus’ life, and in the life of most of those gathered was taking place. The crowning of a new king was the kind of thing people didn’t easily forget, but the ceremonial burning of the old crown and the forging of a new one by King-To-Be was a long process, with lots of pauses for chanting in languages nobody had spoken in centuries. And next to her were Rubicus and Caerella completely failing to take any of it seriously. 

“Do we have to wait for the metal to cool or is he going to put it on his head like that?” Rubicus asked. “Even after dunking it in water like that, that’s got to sting, right?” 

“That’s not water,” Caerella said, “it’s some kind of resin.”

Rubicus and Vera both slowly turned to look at her while still trying to keep up the impression that they were guests of honor who were honored to be there. “How do you know that?” Rubicus whispered.

Caerella’s face was a mask of steel. “I asked.” In the center of the throne room, on an elevated platform, Still-Prince Clarus was reciting some old and awkward text, recanting the responsibilities of Princehood and pledging himself to those of Kingship. 

“Why?”

“So that I could answer stupid questions, Ruben,” Caerella said with a sly smile.

“You bi—” Rubicus started, when Vera stepped on his toe and he clenched his jaw. The twinge at the corner of his mouth betrayed the effort that went into not laughing out loud. 

“Behave, both of you,” Vera whispered. “This is important.”

“Is it?” Rubicus whispered. “I can’t tell, the Godsman just keeps waving that incense and chanting.” He did straighten up again a bit, then scratched at the front of the jacket. It was honestly surprising they’d found a uniform in his size, and he looked suitably out of place. “How much longer do we have to stand here, anyway?”

“Until Clarus is crowned king, Rubicus,” Caerella hissed back playfully. “I thought that was obvious.” She pursed her lips. For the ceremony, an official had attempted to get her to wear a dress. He’d walked backwards out of the room under her withering glare, much to Vera and Rubicus’ delight. And then she’d shown up in a modest-but-nonetheless-elegant dress anyway, and her friends, Clarus included, hadn’t known where to look. Her muscular shoulders and arms were covered in a network of scars from a lifetime of battles, and the metal bands she wore on her upper arms did nothing to hide them. 

By contrast, Vera had opted for a long-sleeve dress. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Clarus had offered her the dress and she’d fallen over herself to accept it. It was beautiful, white lace on black silk, it made Vera look more elegant than she’d ever felt in her life. Of course she’d cried when she’d seen herself in the mirror, and Aesling had been more than happy to let her bask in it. The dress had belonged to Clarus’ grandmother, apparently, easily signaling to everyone present exactly who she was supposed to be. Whispers had bounced off the walls of the throne room from the second the doors had opened. 

“They’re likely done soon,” Vera said, “so at least try to look like you’ve been paying attention.” On the dais in the middle of the room, Clarus handed over the newly forged crown, kneeled, and the Godsman placed it on his head with a bunch more old poetry. The piece itself was cast mostly out of a mold, but its centerpiece was unique to each ruler. Of course, the sigil that adorned the crown on Clarus’ forehead was a tree. 

He looked over at Vera, who gave a small wave, and was then reminded by an annoyed Godsman that he was now king and that he should stand up instead of looking at the gathered guests, no matter how important they might personally be to King Clarus. There were a few sniggers from the audience, and Vera felt eyes on her. She blushed slightly, knowing what was being implied. 

As soon as Clarus stood upright, however, everyone fell silent. He looked around the room, his almost-white hair framing his face under white-gold crown. The weight of the title seemed to immediately make itself known. When he raised his head, it was with the knowledge that he was Prince Clarus no more. He was a king now, and Vera had never seen anyone in her life who wore that mantle as naturally as Clarus did in that moment. Those gathered seemed to all hold their breath as he looked at the crowd. He looked regal, and Vera knew how everyone in the audience felt. Every single one of them felt like he was looking at them, specifically, and like they were the most important person in the world. And then, of course, he smiled. The applause was immediate and enthusiastic. 

And when Clarus finally rested his eyes on Vera, she felt herself melt inside. She even managed to ignore Rubicus’ boisterous laugh when he caught her blushing like a twelve-year-old girl, or the noise he made when Caerella elbowed him in the ribs. 

Shortly after, everyone was ushered outside. As tradition dictated, coronation was followed by either the official resignation or the burial — Kings have a limited shelf-life — of the previous regent. Nothing, Clarus had explained to Vera, put your regency into perspective as laying your predecessor to rest. 

A large circle was formed out in front of the Palace, around two stone sarcophagi. King Lucius’ face had been carved into the largest one, resting for the rest of eternity. King Clarus walked up next to it and put his hand on the carving of his father’s. 

“My father,” he said, “was… a great man. In his prime, he stood against a foe of such overwhelming might that a lesser king would have buckled. But he stood. No matter what happened in the past ten years, that is how I knew him, and it’s how I will always know him. A man who stared the death of every single one of his subjects in the face and politely, yet firmly, declined.” He looked at everyone gathered. “That seems like an example worth aspiring to, don’t you think.” There were nods of confirmation, and a few smiled as they remembered King Lucius the way Clarus described him. 

Vera just nodded along. Most of the affairs of kings had been so far removed from her life, they might as well not have happened. The way she’d seen it, the actual people who had held off the Emperor’s armies had been individual men and women on the front lines, laying down their lives. But if Clarus was to be believed, his father did sound… kingly. 

“I loved my father, and I wished I had been there to say my goodbyes. But I would not have been able to bury him if it wasn’t for the help of just a few individuals.” Suddenly, Vera realized who the other sarcophagus was for. “If there’s one thing I would do differently than my father, it’s that I am not… as much a stickler for tradition.” A murmur went through the crowd, and a few frowns failed to hide themselves. “This sarcophagus will be buried alongside those of my family, as protectors of the royal family deserve.”

He looked at Vera. She looked at him. Clarus had promised her that Flaveo would be honored in some form or another, but she’d expected some kind of footnote in a history book and maybe a payout to Rubicus and Caerella. She hadn’t seen this coming, and it was… welcome. 

“I did not know Flaveo very well,” Clarus said. “I had only a few days to become acquainted. As far as I can tell, he was a man of a great many talents. He was loved, as befits great men. And he saved my life. He saved the life of every person in this city, and for that, he will be remembered.” He looked over at Rubicus, who was no longer laughing, and nodded. Rubicus took a step forward, hesitated, and then Caerella put a gentle hand on his arm. That seemed to give him the courage he needed. 

“Flaveo was my brother. He was a right bastard at times.” There were shocked gasps going through the crowd, but Rubicus pushed on. “If you’ve any brothers of your own, you know how good it is to have a right bastard on your side sometimes.” Some of the older generals chuckled. “He was a great man, like Pr— King Clarus said,” Rubicus continued. Large tears started to roll down his cheeks, and his voice started to crack, but he kept going. “But he was, he was also a good one. And— And, I think that matters more, I think.”

Vera hadn’t even realized she was crying until he nodded, frowned to himself, and then stepped back, wiping his face. The people gathered hadn’t known Flaveo, of course. But Vera hoped that maybe Rubicus’ testimony would have given them some idea that Flaveo had been exactly the kind of person that was worth remembering. She put a hand on Rubicus’ back. “That was beautiful,” she said. “He would have hated it.”

That got a chuckle out of the large man, and even Caerella cracked a smile. The remainder of the ceremony consisted of everyone paying their respects to the two stone coffins. Most stopped at the first to lay their old King to rest, and then, often a lot shorter, at the second one to thank him for saving the life of their new King. They clearly didn’t understand. 

Then Vera was up. She stopped by King Lucius first. The carver who had created the stone death mask had done an amazing job. She’d only seen the man across a room, of course, but the amount of detail was remarkable. And she could see Clarus’ features in the King’s. He’d been a handsome man, once upon a time, until the years had worn him away. But here, immortalized, he was forever as Clarus remembered him. “Thank you,” she mumbled. She didn’t know what else to say. 

“It’s okay,” Aesling said. “Pain simply needs to be felt, sometimes.”

The other one, the one without a face, with only a name carved into it, caused her some pause though. She stopped in front of Flaveo’s coffin. He’d been like an uncle to her most of her life. And then he’d barely accepted her for who she was. Well, until Caerella had threatened to turn him inside out. And Vera didn’t know if he’d actually changed his mind, or if he’d only done so out of respect for the other woman. To say she was conflicted was an understatement. But at the end… he’d looked at her, right? She put her hand on the stone. She knew he wasn’t in there — there hadn’t been enough left of him to bury —  Maybe she was that obvious, or maybe she wasn’t the only one thinking it, but Caerella put her hand on Vera’s shoulder. 

“He did,” Caerella said. Vera looked up at her. “Love you,” the woman said. “He might have been an idiot about it, but he did.” She pulled Vera a little closer, and Vera pretended not to see the tears in Caerella’s eyes. She moved over as Rubicus cast his shadow on the sarcophagus. 

“Bastard,” was all he said, but he smiled anyway, and Vera did too. Between the two of them, they had known each other long enough that words weren’t always necessary anymore. Flaveo being dead hadn’t changed that in the slightest.

Elamimax

I don't write many of these. I have a complex relationship with funerals and ceremonies.

But this one was important.