Hail

Twenty-eight

I do not comprehend the words. The eloquent speech the minister is giving in his deep voice sounds like nothing more than a buzzing in my ears that I cannot decipher. I can tell from the sounds of crying that reach my ears that whatever he is saying is heartfelt and touching to those that are gathered here, but it makes no sense to me. None of this makes any sense to me. I feel as if I am watching it all from afar. It feels strange to look around and see so many faces. The people fill the few pews and overflow to stand along the walls and be crowded in the back. It is like a cloud of black that covers every surface in shadow. I let my eyes drift to the side where my mother's tomb rests and am pleased to see there are none crowding around her statue, none standing on the stones above her grave. I am glad that she is being given the honor and respect she deserves from her former subjects. It seems almost fated that the stone face of her statue is gazing where my father's coffin rests, as if she has been patiently waiting for this time when they would finally be reunited.

The minister continues to talk, but I cannot focus on the words. It matters not what he says. I cannot listen as he praises my family but only in the past tense. I cannot listen as he tells everyone how we will go on and life will continue as if everything hasn't been changed. I look over to Elisa and I am pulled back in time to when we sat here before. I can see the age fall away from her as she transforms before my eyes back to the younger girl she was when our mother died. That was the last time we were together in this abbey as now we both wish to come here alone as our grief is different. We both lost our mother, but that does not make our grief the same. Elisa was a much different girl then, five years removed. She wore black to show her mourning, but a simple black bow had held back her ringlets. She was a child, a young girl who could sometimes still be found climbing into our mother's lap. It is in these contrasting images that I can see how much she has grown. At mother's funeral she sat, the tears streaming down her face with no attempt to hide them. She was curled against Valeous, his arm around her shoulders, as he tried to quiet the soft sobs that still escaped her throat. She faced no chastisement for her crying, no rebuke to remind her that a royal cannot give into emotion as others do. A royal must remain steady no matter what is placed before them.

I was jealous of her that day, jealous that she was able to give into the grief that she felt without fearing what others would whisper. No one would discuss her 'weakness' or 'temperament.' She was still seen as a child, and children are granted special privileges that are not extended beyond childhood. I was old enough and that privilege no longer was allowed. It seems ridiculous to me that royals are not supposed to feel this grief that had ripped apart the very fabric of our family. It seems absurd that because of the station and nobility of my birth I was not supposed to cry as I bade farewell to my mother forever. I was supposed to stay poised. I was supposed to show the others that the grief was not an overwhelming force and that their royals were all in control. I kept my hand curled, the nails biting into my palm so that my mind could focus on that pain rather than the pain that filled my bones with every breath. I remember when Valeous saw the blood on my hand after. He had been horrified at the sight and had found a piece of cloth to wrap around my wounds and hide the blood. There are still small scars on my palm.

Today, it is different. Today Elisa's face is not streaked with tears and there is no one's arm for her to hide under. Today she sits and the only indication of her emotions is in the stiff set of her shoulders and the way her fingers shake as they play with the lace of her dress. Her eyes are focused on Valeous' casket and I wonder if her mind is back on the day of our mother's funeral as well.

I can remember the minister's words as he spoke of my mother's kindness and beauty. He spoke of her loyalty and love of her country. He spoke of her devotion to her children. He gave beautiful flowery phrases of the joy and happiness she brought to others. He lamented her death, insisting that it had come too soon. He made promises of how her memory would continue far beyond her years. He said all of the things that a minister could be expected to say of anyone, yet it still didn't feel like enough. It felt as though he should have talked until his voice was lost. It didn't seem possible that all there was to say about my mother could be said in the space of a day, in the time of a single hour, yet that was all she was given.