His Father’s Funeral
His father’s
body lay upon the stacks of wood. Each step the death priests took made his
shoulders droop. A drum pounded out a steady beat.
Step, droop,
beat.
He reached
over, his small hand trying to take his mother’s beside him.
She smacked
his hand away. The sting just tingled. It couldn’t compete with the ache in his
ten-year-old heart.
“Mother?” His
voice lifted the question, but cold eyes—not a teardrop sparkled within them—focused
upon him.
The death
priests lifted the torches to the firebowl.
“Phoebus,
your father died because he was weak. His daimon rejected him.” Her voice had
hushed to a sharp whisper. He glanced around, but no one heard her words except
for him.
Step, droop,
beat.
The fiery
torches went from the firebowl to the pyre. His eyes filled with tears, and
they trickled down his face and dripped upon his boots.
“Now stand up
straight, don’t snivel for the dead.”
With eyes
closed and tears still dampening his cheeks, he straightened his shoulders.
It did
nothing for the pain. The loss. His breath held in his chest until he thought
he would burst under the pressure, or pass out.
When he
opened his eyes, smoke obscured his father’s body, and he could almost pretend
he wasn’t dead and gone.
Almost.
Step, droop,
beat.
