The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
Niccolette watched his reflection in the mirror, sitting silent on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were red and swollen from weeping; the deep black fabric of her dress made her look even paler than usual, and her thin veil was pushed back over her hair.
Aremu looked up and met her eyes. Niccolette thought that perhaps he tried to smile, but it seemed to slide off his face before it was more than a thought. The Bastian watched it go - then, yet again, she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
Niccolette wasn’t sure how long it was, but then Aremu was crouching next to her; he didn’t quite touch her, but his voice was low and soft. “We can’t stay here much longer.” His voice broke too, and Niccolette could hear the harsh sounds of his own stifled, teary breaths, layered between hers.
“I cannot,” Niccolette sobbed. She lifted her face from her hands, looking at the imbala. “I cannot - I cannot do it.”
“You have to.” Aremu said, firmly. “There’s no choice. I’ll stay with you.”
“No,” Niccolette shook her head from side to side, slowly. “No,” she wiped her nose on the back of her hand, grimaced slightly. Aremu was pressing a handkerchief into her hand; she couldn’t seem to take it. Instead, Niccolette pushed it away; pushed him away, one small hand resting against his chest and shoving.
The Mugrobi sighed, not shifted in the slightest by the galdor’s efforts, still crouched next to her.
“I cannot,” Niccolette repeated, and began to sob again.
“All right,” Aremu said, quietly. “All right.” He knelt in silence for a long time, until Niccolette’s eyes were even more swollen, until her nose ran with snot once more, until she had wept so hard that she thought she might be sick.
“Give that to me,” Niccolette snatched at the handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes, sniffling; she held it to her nose and blew, hard, taking a deep breath.
“We are going,” Aremu said, quietly.
Niccolette sniffled again, looking up at him.
Aremu was looking back at her, dark eyes flat and hard. His shaved head gleamed in the light that filtered in through the window, and the edge of his forearm rested against his knee. “My poa’xa’s wife is no coward.” He said.
Niccolette’s eyes overflowed again. Slowly - slowly - she nodded.
“Come,” Aremu took the handkerchief from her and set it to the side. He rose, and extended his hand to Niccolette, waiting and holding firm.
Niccolette stifled something that felt like another sob. She stared at Aremu’s hand for a long moment.
“Come,” Aremu repeated, firmly.
Niccolette shuddered, but she set her hand in Aremu’s and let him pull her to her feet. She brushed at her eyes with the fingers of her other hand, taking a deep breath.
Aremu let go of her hand, turned -
“No,” Niccolette sobbed. “No, I cannot do it,” She shuddered, her arms wrapping across herself, gripping her own upper arms in a tight hug. Her knees felt weak; she shuddered, and nearly sank back to the edge of the bed.
“Flood it,” Aremu said, turning back. He gripped Niccolette’s elbow, forcibly holding her up. “You may cry as much as you like, Niccolette. But you shall not shame Uzoji by refusing his funeral.”
Niccolette jerked violently back away from his hand, letting go of herself in her outrage. Her chin lifted. “How dare you!” She cried, anger flooding her voice. Her field snapped in the air around them, red-shifting in the harsh light.
“How dare I what?” Aremu’s voice was cold; he didn’t flinch or step back. “How dare I tell you the truth?”
“You are a liar,” Niccolette spat at him. “You always lied for him.” She couldn’t tell if she was crying; all she could feel was anger, throbbing through her. “He felt pity for you, that is all. How could you be his brother, you? Where is your ohante?”
“You shame him,” Aremu said coldly. Niccolette couldn’t tell if he’d even heard her; his face was hard as stone. “If you refuse to attend, it tells all who knew him that Uzoji married a woman so weak that she could not honor his death properly.”
Niccolette shuddered. Her field flexed; it slanted, and the air went hot around the two of them.
“Casting won’t change it,” Aremu warned. “Nothing will. Show me! Was he wrong to choose you?” He didn’t look away. “He gave up everything to have you! Was he wrong?”
“No!” Niccolette shuddered. “You would not - you cannot dare -“
“Cast, if you like. Brail, even,” Aremu spat the words. “Give yourself an excuse. But you and I will know the truth. Liar that I am, who will believe me? Perhaps you don’t mind.”
“Stop!” Niccolette was shaking now; her hands clenched to fists at her side. “Stop - stop - just stop - you do not understand. I cannot, I cannot face them -“ tears welled up once more; she lost her anger, lost the red-shift of her field, and a few more broken sobs shuddered from her chest.
“So you’re a coward then,” Aremu said, flatly. “At least Uzoji is dead - at least he was never here to be disappointed by you.”
Niccolette slapped him, hard enough to turn his head. The mona flared to lift around her again, the room hot and red once more. She went to slap him again, and Aremu grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly.
“Coward,” Aremu said, coldly, letting her go.
Niccolette screamed in fury; she squeezed her eyes shut, squeezing the last of the tears out down her cheeks. “You are a liar!” She spat, eyes opening again, watery but clearer than they had been. “I will never shame Uzoji - I will never - I shall go! I shall go now, I shall - I shall do whatever it takes!”
The words hung in the air between them, taut; Niccolette’s field still buzzed in the air, but the last of the red tint drained from it, leaving a faint feeling of exhaustion behind. A long few moments passed, like heartbeats between them.
“I know,” Aremu’s voice softened. He shifted closer – slowly, and when Niccolette didn’t push him away, he wrapped his arms around her.
Niccolette tensed, her whole body taut. Slowly, slowly, she let herself relax into the hug. Slowly, she lifted her arms as well, and clutched the imbala tightly. “I am sorry,” Niccolette whispered. “I know you loved him too.”
Aremu sighed; Niccolette could feel the rise and fall of his chest. “I loved him,” he said, quietly. “I am a liar, but I loved him.”
Niccolette sniffled. “He loved you,” she whispered.
“I know,” Aremu rubbed her back, drawing slow circles with his hand. “No more crying, hmm poa’na? At least until this ten times flooded funeral starts.”
“No more crying,” Niccolette took a deep breath. “Maybe a little.” Her voice shook.
“Maybe a little,” Aremu’s voice shook too, and he sniffled. “Come on, then.” He stepped back, and offered Niccolette his hand again.
Niccolette took a deep, shaking breath. Slowly, she put her hand in Aremu’s; slowly, she let him draw her out, through the door, into the hallway beyond; slowly, she let him lead her towards the mourners that awaited. And if a few more tears slid down her cheeks, at least she did not stop; at least she could manage that much.
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
“Uzoji Ibutatu shone a light on all those around him,” Osefe pez Nuru was elderly – bent and stooped with age, and today bearing the weight of it more heavily than ever. He stood in front of the assembled company, his dark skin and white clothing in sharp contrast against the pale sandstone walls. His gnarled hands were locked behind his crooked back, and he had drawn himself up to every inch of what height was left to him. Normally, his eyes crooked up at the edges thanks to the laugh lines that extended back into his temples; normally, his face smiled with effortless ease.
Osefe’s eyes drifted over those gathered at the wake. “In the classes of mine he took,” the Thul’Amat professor said, “his curiosity burned bright, an inspiration to other students. Uzoji was a natural leader, but he never led by force – only by example.”
Niccolette sat at a small table at the side. She tried to look at Osefe, but nothing but the ornate casket at the front of the room could hold her gaze for long. A few tears trickled from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, and Niccolette wiped them on a handkerchief, doing her best at least to stay quiet. She looked back at the casket, at the whirls of gem-studded gold crossing the stone. Empty, she thought. Empty, empty, empty. There wasn’t anything of him to bury – not even scraps.
Niccolette shuddered again, and doubled forward. One small pale hand grasped the edge of her seat, and she choked back a taut breath in her throat.
Heads nearby snapped towards her, and the Bastian pulled herself upright again, shaking slightly, her chin lifting and her eyes focusing back on Osefe. Nalia pezre Rayowa, her youngest son straddling her knee, was looking at her; Niccolette could feel Uzoji’s sister’s glare against her skin. She could not bring herself to return the look.
It was Rayowa’s hand that found her back, gently, a soft brushing weight against her black dress.
Niccolette turned to look at her husband’s mother. She could feel herself crumpling; she could feel the sharp tears in her eyes.
Osefe was still speaking; not the first and not the last, one of more than a dozen gathered there today to speak of Uzoji, to honor his accomplishments, to celebrate his life. “… and he leaves behind him a wealth of love…”
Rayowa smiled at her, and for a startling moment Niccolette thought she saw a glimmer of tears in the older woman’s eyes. Gently, Uzoji’s mother gestured to the door nearby.
Niccolette nodded, the faintest motion. She rose – as careful and quiet as she could – rose, gripping her handkerchief in one hand, and edged her way from her seat. She slipped through the door; it was hard to hold the heavy thing with shaking hands, but Niccolette did the best she could. She slid into the hallway beyond – took a few steps away – then doubled forward, pressed her face into her handkerchief in her hands, and sobbed, her whole body heaving with the force of them. A few minutes, Niccolette promised herself. A few minutes, and she would go back inside – she would not shame Uzoji –
The thought tore through her, ripped her apart like paper, and the Bastian sobbed harder, dropping to her knees on the cold sandstone, face still buried in her handkerchief.