Two incredibly complicated holy days and festivities held nearly back to back from one another made the new Dowayne of Valerian House very busy. Even her own strict schedule of prayers and visitations to the Temple district had to be realigned in order to make sure that preparations for the Longest Night and Mara’s Eve went off without a single hitch. Indeed, she was still in the final stages of the latter, but Rosanna made sure some of time and effort was dedicated to honoring the passing of one of their own.
When the news of Heliotrope’s loss made it to her, Rosanna instructed her Second, Tryphosa, to immediately send a letter of condolence as well as the best flowers that they could attain in winter. Having incorporated Philomena into her life only recently, she did not know the deceased well but knew the other woman’s heart must be broken. So, a gift to her in the form of lavender syrup from Eisande was also sent, the product of her own family’s extensive cultivation. A token from one Dowayne to another, beyond the socially acceptable and expected offerings.
Arriving at the wake, Rosanna dressed in somber colors, umber and burnished bronze, with her hair piled atop her head and covered in a veil. Modest and respectful, with her back fully covered. She paid her respects to the dead, saying a prayer over him and wishing a swift arrival to the Terre D’Ange that awaited them all in the next realm.
After that, she maneuvered through the mourning crowd to find his heir. As was to be expected, she appeared wan and sorrowful, and sympathy welled up quickly in Rosanna’s heart. Being close to her own beloved grandfather, she knew such a time would be upon her one day as well. Even thinking of it made her eyes sting.
“My sincere condolences for your loss, Philomena,” she greeted kindly. “I am sorry that I did not know your grandfather better, but his reputation was a splendid one. He will be in my prayers, as will you. If you should ever need me, for anything, my door is always open to you.”
Mena reached out and gave Rosanna a hug, “Thank you so much, my friend. I appreciate your attendance, I know it’s a difficult period to make time. I will be sure to reach out to you so we can catch up after the mourning period has passed.”
Loir noted the sky growing lighter, so she slipped up next to Mena and whispered to her, “It is getting to be time.” She then moved silently to her room to gather what she needed and change her clothes. Olivier had commissioned a garment for her that mimicked what the priestesses she grew up with wore, without being a copy. Loir had overseen the construction so it represented what she remembered with what she knew now. It was easy to put on, and she picked up her basket of supplies and went out into the garden.
For three days, the strongest had been stacking the supplies that the weaker had been purchasing and former adepts had been arriving from all over Terre d’Ange. In the final hours of the wake, the oldest three began building the pyre. A collection of large flat rocks had been installed at the most eastern point of the property at some point in the House’s history. Dowaynes of the past had erected three stone walls around it; a gap on the west wall allowed access with the east remaining completely open. There, the elders carefully built the pyre as they’d been taught, being assisted by all the children, as was custom. The pyre took shape, the materials selected as was the custom: apple wood that burned long and hot on the bottom covered with bedding from his deathbed so that all of him went to Terre d’Ange Beyond, then walls on three sides of the same wood. One by one, each person in the House took a piece of their own clothing or bedding and filled the gaps between the logs: a piece of each of them died with Olivier.
While that was happening, Mena cleared her throat and spoke to the gathered mourners. “Loved ones, thank you for coming to remember Olivier. The time has come for us to lay him to rest in our customary way. You are welcome and encouraged to stay and even to participate if you want. Again, thank you for coming, each of your faces has made the mourning easier.”
As she made her way outside, the members of the House lined up from the bier Olivier rested on all the way out to the pyre with Mena and Loir at the end. Loir had placed herbs among the fabric pieces and had carefully rubbed a thick oil-based anointment on the logs. The space smelled comforting and relaxing, making the tension and grief start to drain out of Mena’s body as she stood waiting.
The adept closest to Oliver lifted him from the bier, his long illness made him light enough that she needed no assistance. Carefully, she passed him to the person next to her, murmuring, “May Elua welcome you, you will be missed,” as she did. One by one, each person in the line passed him to the next, some speaking quietly to him one last time before relinquishing him to the next person. After many long minutes, he made his way from Laurent to Mena’s arms.
When she held him, she was instantly reminded of all the times he’d held her over her life, and her tears started again. She moved towards the pyre, it was her job as his surviving family to lay him down one last time. As she did, memories flashed through her mind like lighting in the night sky: Olivier at her bedside when she was sick; Olivier helping her pick flowers for the wreath she wore when she dedicated herself to Namaah; the two of them talking for hours about everything and nothing; the proud look on his face when she’d debuted; how he’d held her as she cried; each moment broke her heart as it paid tribute to the man he’d been. It was hard to place him on the bed so lovingly made for him, a sob breaking out of her without her control as she did so. When she turned around and saw the mourners gathered in the space and only Loir to comfort her, it took all she had not to collapse next to him. She heard his voice in her head telling her that she had to stand tall for herself and for the House, that she would find her Sun, that he loved her more than he loved himself, that he was proud of her.
Loir reached for Mena when she stumbled, pulling her in for a tight hug. She didn’t want to release her, but she had to in order to move the ceremony forward. Two of the children came forward with the canopy they’d woven of the flowers brought by the mourners. Loir took it from them with gentle hands, then turned to lay it over the roof of the pyre. She then took wood and carefully built up the missing wall. When it was complete, she turned to the assembled and said, “Olivier has gone to a place where we cannot follow. In time, our steps will lead us to where he is, but for now, he has gone ahead. We will remember him always and keep him alive in our hearts by speaking freely of him. He wanted to remind us to be good to one another, and to make sure that his beloved Laurent and cherished Philomena know that they were loved deeply and fiercely.”
She paused for a moment to glance over her shoulder and saw the signs of the sun’s imminent arrival. Turning back she said, “In my homeland, we also commend our dead to the sun and sky, this is why he granted me the gift of being his Dernière Montre, the one who stays with him until the end. And now, that watch begins.”
From her basket, she retrieved a bottle of Olivier’s favorite alcohol and a flint. She poured the alcohol on the bottom of the pyre, soaking the fabric and other tinder that she had added there. Loir found herself humming the first song she remembered hearing, a lullaby her mother sang only when her children were frightened. While she couldn’t recall the words, the melody was enough to soothe her own grief. The sounds of the mourners weeping faded into the background as she finished her task and stood. The first edge of the sun was starting to cross the horizon and she took a deep breath, crouched down, and started the fire. While it started small, it traveled quickly, and she smiled, pleased at the work they’d put into Olivier’s final tribute. She then knelt on the stones, close enough that she could feel the heat, but out of harm’s way.
Dernière Montre meant ‘Last Watch,’ and that was what she would do, be the last watch over him: she would stay where she was until the fire burned itself out, then she would carefully gather the ashes into the jar Olivier had selected, sealing it carefully. Then she would inter his remains next to his wife’s remains and reseal their resting place. She was to be the last mortal hand that touched him, the last person to wish him well on his last journey. Loir bowed her head and offered up prayers as the mourners began to leave the space.
~
By the time Mena made it back inside, the sun was almost at its highest point, and she was beyond exhausted. Once his ashes were interred, the official mourning period would begin, and every member of the House would have a white item on for the next month. Her grief ebbed a little as she accepted a bowl of porridge from the cook and headed towards the parlor to oversee the removal of the bier.
The room was silent when she arrived, and something about it put her on edge. Now that he had been mourned, Oliver had told them to return to the love and laughter that was the trademark of their House. Silence was not what she should be hearing. As she approached the bier, she saw the cause for the silence: a large vase with an extravagant floral arrangement sat in the middle of it, a red ribbon tied around the vase with a card attached to it. The reason for the silence was that all the flowers were dead; dried, shriveled and in some cases, white with mold. Mena gasped and reached for the card with shaking hands.
Pet, I hear the old man finally died. Could not have been a man who deserved it more than him. May Elua shut him out of Terre d’Ange Beyond so he wanders the land forever
—K