"He died long before he was buried."
That was the whisper that passed through the dimly lit hall of the Clan Citadel.
There were prayers, solemn and slow. Rites led by the fallen Patriarch's brother and Elyrion, his heir, now the new Patriarch and the officiant of the dead. Their words quivered with loss and sorrow.
Men of the Eastern Crescent, proud and battle-worn, stood in quiet mourning. Even those who had once contended for the throne lowered their heads.
Thin streams of smoke curled upward in slow spirals from the incense burners lining the hall. The women, especially the old patriarch's sister, were weeping in low, broken murmurs. She clung to the coffin, too frail to even weep properly.
At the back of the hall, the Regime's emissaries stood, cold-faced and overdressed. They wore strange masks hiding their identities and stood scattered through the clan hall, watching.
Larsen sat far from the funeral. His robes were simple, his shoulders slightly hunched, and his fists resting on his lap in silence.
Around the coffin, the elders and the finest of the clan gathered, tall and composed. They stood in place for the ritual led by the new Patriarch and his uncle, brother to the old. Their voices rose together, reciting the hymns of farewell.
Larsen watched as the final rites unfolded, the clan elders lowering their heads to offer their last farewells.
Only the young, bold and beautiful, looked unaffected. The chamber dimmed as the funeral flame lowered.
From the outside, familiar voices drifted in.
That's when Stephen, his closest companion in the Crescent, called in casually,
"Let the elders do their thing, we'll welcome the guests outside!"
Larsen looked up. The other boys were already slipping out of the hall, Stephen among them, their shoulders squared and faces composed. He stood and followed them quietly.
Outside the clan hall, the younger nobles stood near the entrance, greeting the arriving guests with bows and soft welcomes. They tried to look proper, and their voices stayed low.
Larsen joined them. He stood a step behind, out of other kid's sight. He didn't find his way to the front nor did he he try. Quietly he positioned his hands, doing as he had been taught.
Then the mood shifted slightly.
A tall, rugged man in travel-worn robes approached from across the courtyard. His stride was long, and his presence was hard to miss. Dust clung to his boots and shoulders. It was Hendrix. One of the few from the western edges of the Crescent, rarely seen this deep in the Citadel.
The man smiled broadly as he neared, his voice full and easy.
"Stephen! Look at you. You've all grown up."
He greeted the boys one by one, warmly ruffling their hairs. Larsen stepped forward.
"Uncle," he said softly as he nodded his head, "Many Blessings upon your return".
The man paused and turned. His expression changed for just a moment, curiousity with a faint trace of recognition. He offered a polite nod, a faint smile, and then walked past toward the main hall.
Larsen stayed where he was, staring after him as he disappeared into the crowded hall.