In Which Jadin Sees the Ghost of His Mother

April 12, 1167

Peasants were lucky. Peasants were buried the day of the funeral, put to rest as soon as all initial respects had been paid, but the nobles were not so fortunate. They spent the night in their caskets, above ground, so any late-coming mourners might catch a last glimpse of the deceased. It must have been a great stress, having to entertain even after death; Jadin's mother was looking down from her cloud and cursing at them for not just getting it over with, he was sure of it. It wasn't as if they were expecting anyone else anyway. News of her death could not have reached Dovia yet, and it seemed a horrible disservice to leave her out long enough to rot in full view. She would be buried in the morning.

Jadin was the only one still by her side, though it wasn't as if the rest of his family had been given a choice in the matter. It had taken both the baron and Master Indruion to haul Jadin's father away, insisting that he needed rest if he wanted to be awake and alert for the burial--not that Jadin supposed it would be a problem, since he doubted his father would sleep tonight anyway. Minutes later, Raia had ushered their younger siblings off to bed as well, but she had told Jadin to stay as long as he felt comfortable. As the eldest son, he would make it his duty--not to leave his mother's side until she was well protected by a headstone and several feet of dirt.

And yet, it was unnerving to look upon her face. Perhaps the rigor--if there was still time for that, he wondered--had come into play, or perhaps his eyes were deceiving him, but if he stared hard enough, he thought he could see movement in her face--lashes fluttering, her parched lips creaking open as if to call someone by name. The first few times, he'd let childlike hope get the best of him and checked her pulse--nothing. She was about as alive as the stone walls that enclosed them.

He didn't think he could continue like this. He looked her over one last time--her red curls, her slender figure, the green dress that she'd told the duchess to bury her in and that his father had insisted on dressing her in himself, with only Raia for help--and turned away. He did not wish to spend the night being taunted by a ghost.

Jadin sunk into a seat by the coffin's edge and sighed. Where was she now? Heaven, he supposed, but he wasn't sure he cared to think of her in such a place. Mass always made it seem so boring--who cared to endure an existence of fluffy clouds and harp music and no sex? It sounded like a baby's paradise; then again, his mother had always liked babies. Perhaps she had gone off to be a mother to all the babies who had never been given a chance to know theirs, the unborn siblings Jadin himself had lost included.

But why should she be a mother to them? he thought, even if it was rather impractical to direct bitterness toward the dead. We need a mother too! Why do they get to take ours?

And they'd taken Had's mother--and Sparron's, even if she hadn't been much of a mother in the first place. They'd taken Lorn's father too, and many others. Didn't those babies have all the parents they would ever need?

It wasn't fair. Who said God didn't play favorites? He did--and clearly, Jadin's family weren't among them. Dead babies with hundreds of mothers apparently deserved her more than Jadin and his siblings did. Late husbands with living widows apparently deserved her more than his father did. And why? What had they done wrong?

He'd been told to put out the candles before he left for bed, but he didn't bother. He didn't think he would even move tonight, much less sleep.

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