Goodbye Dear One

“Death is natural dear one.” My Mother’s voice reminds me. “It’s the most natural thing in the world. Death can seem cruel, but it’s apart of nature like everything else.” My Mother kneels down using one hand to place a flower on Father’s grave, and the other reassuringly on my shoulder. Even with the lace veil over her face, and the tears, I know my Mother is beautiful. Young compared to my Father even now. Elves don’t age like the rest. She’ll be younger than even me one day. Though I thank the Gods that will be a long, long time away from now. I place my already wilting flower down next to her own. 

My Mother’s beautiful even in death. Like a princess in those fairytales. The mortician an acquaintance, and old co-worker of mine made her look just as ethereal in death as she had been in life. Still looking almost other worldly as high elves often do. The party carry’s her glass coffin to the open and waiting grave. I fallow the bouquet of black roses I carry already starting to wilt and decay. A petal falls and crumbles to dust. The mourners say nothing. Even if they had been cruel enough to do so at such an event, (voicing there distaste and suspicions of my natural affinity for necromancy and similar), they wouldn’t dare. Out of fear of me, and deep respect for my mother. She was the life of any party. She was the most charming, and charismatic person I knew. The people loved her. This village loved her. She was there shining gem stone. In an otherwise simple place. She had contacted some friends to put Ferry’s Adventuring Supply Shop on the map. It was her lending her voice at Monrose’s Tavern and Fine Dinning that had made it a must see for tourists. It was only when she had joined my Father’s snuggling merchants business that we had become truly successful. Upper-middle class. Successful enough to afford quite the funeral. No matter how unexpected it was. I stood back as people who only new her charms, or who barley new her at all said goodbye. I let them all take there turns. Many said how sorry they were to me. If not for knowing my mom well enough to know she would have wanted a civil, lively, and polished event I would have lost my temper. Why are you sorry? It wasn’t like it was your fault. It was the wrong this to say, but people still said it. Because maybe they knew nothing better. A broken heart the Priest had said. I turned out the rest of his speech. I walked to the grave next to hers. A ring of purple flowers grew around the head stone. Magic, her magic, had kept them alive for seasons, even during winters. How could a Mother’s and Daughter’s magic be so different to each other. I kelt down and read the inscription. ‘May our Memories be your own Immortality.’ Words of a woman who at the time thought she would far outlive us all, but she had succumb to her own sort of illness. We had visited his grave every night together. Tonight would be the first. The first time I would visit them alone. I had awoken after our visit to Father, and had just known she was gone too. Like I could sense Father’s slowly loose his tie this realm as well. Where would they go from here? Would they find each other? No one was left to answer my questions. The Priest cleared his throat. I turned my head. Everyone looked at me expectantly. One old woman looked a little annoyed at the ‘rudeness’ in the way I mourned. 

“Wonderer’s Daughter.” As I would always be known as her daughter among the Elves. I stop. 

“No matter how old you get, no matter how far you roam. You will always have a home amongst the elves.” This was the first time I had felt any true relief since the start of this funeral. The finely dressed man lets me go. I walk forward as if in a daze. I pick up a handful of earth. It works its way into my nails. The only thing between me, and the body of my others. I let it fall from my hand. A few of the human men in the audience begin to pick up shovels, but I don’t need them. I never really did. I raise my hand again, and the earth begins to fall on my Mother’s coffin, covering it like a blanket. The humans, and dwarves, and half-orcs look surprised, but not my mother’s friends. Not the Elves. They just seem… proud. 

Her Gravestone Reads: ‘May you find yourself on feathered Wings.’