Open  The Prince ((Wheatley Funeral))
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Ghost he/him
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#1

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News spreads quickly, bad news, even quicker. Like a forest fire so hot, and angry it travels through the roots underfoot. This news, was no different, the voice came... He didn't know who delivered the words as they backed away quickly. "Sir, Prince Wheatley is dead." Leaving the giant man who suddenly felt like a small boy, by himself. Eyes widened, blurring with emotion as Ghost quickly darted to a bush and heaved the contents of his stomach. He'd lead back, queazy and shaking of his limbs growing more violent in grief. Ghost allowed himself to curl down in on himself, and sorrow crashed over him in whips of searing fire.

A hour passed as Ghost lay there, feeling vulnerability as he rose on deer legs to drink, clean up and push water through his fur to straighten up the mohawk Wheatley teased him about as children. A lump formed back in his throat at the memory. Ghost then moved along, beckoning anyone he came in contact with to stop their tasks or play follow him. For the company, but also for the support of what they must now do for a Prince gone too young. He felt as if he would be sick again. "Dad?" A strong voice, as Elias' attention was caught by the heartbroken King, she stuck to his right side. Following in silent concern. He did shift his head to push his nose into her cheek as they walked, don't leave.

As they arrived to the open space, he'd glance to whomever followed to wait here. Ghost continued on, he didn't know how long he numbly walked, but he found himself where they'd held Wheatley's body. Tearfully taking in whomever stopped him from getting to close to what had been the cause of his untimely death. "We need to honour him, please call for me... When he is ready to cross." Ghost said crisply, his voice growing thick toward the end. They would do something they never got to do for Sage, or Moons, or individually for the many lost to the war.

With that the King would turn back to where hopefully pack members would be waiting, and sat amongst them instead of up above them. Addressing them by their sides, leaning closer to his Daughter for strength he didn't know he needed in this moment. "We lost Prince Wheatley, t-today we'll honour him. As well as the many we've lost too soon." Said with his sad features glancing around to those around. With that Ghost tilted back to let out a long sad call to those not present to join them.



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Pareidolia she/her
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#2

What did the young princess know of death?

The answer was fairly obvious just by observation. She conducted herself with the sort of reckless confidence of someone who simply did not realize how fragile her thread of fate really was. Just a snip — no more Pareidolia. It reflected kindly upon her parents and her home how she had been sheltered from horror thus far, but innocence was invariably finite in this world.

Perhaps some of the veterans here might envy or resent her privilege. Others might just tell her to enjoy it while it lasts. Kashmir, well... she was his queen’s daughter. Here was just here to play the safe escort.

“Who died?” asked Doli, a little too casually, looking for extra crunchy leaves to step on as they walked. Already she was his size at not even a year old, a shaggy preteen.

“... Prince Wheatley.” The jackal masked a wince at her candor. He had never been too familiar with the absent royal child, but he had been Inarian like them and that was enough. “We’re going to honor him and those we’ve lost in —”

“He died? A prince died? Why?” She seemed incredulous. How could Inaria let that happen...?

“They say he fell ill. There’s King Ghost — go give your respects.” He nudged her a little, as one would a cub, though she almost definitely outweighed him at this point. She went ahead and did so, bowing like a lady should and hoping her face looked sufficiently sad.

“King of Shields, I’m sorry for your loss,” recited the princess dutifully enough. Elias caught her eye and so she bowed to her agemate as well. “Um, you too. I’m sorry.”

Kashmir followed, mirroring her bow and setting the small something he’d been carrying in his teeth at Ghost’s paws. It was a makeshift bouquet, threaded with lilac and white arum. A solemn nod, my condolences, before he gave the grieving family their space and took a seat next to his charge.

Sometimes these things happened. It was still pretty fucking rotten when it did.


 The sea waves are my evening gown
and the sun on my head is my crown
I made this queendom on my own
and all the mountains are my throne

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Amando He / They
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#3



The timbre is no stranger to death. He's both taken life, and brought it into the world. Sometimes, between the trees, on the edge of sleep, he imagines he can hear them. Amando is even more uncomfortable than usual, because the jacarandas have gone quiet. He doesn't yet know the purpose of Ghost's silent entourage, but he knows what it means to be lonely, and-- contrary to popular belief-- how to be quiet.

There weren't burials, in IvyPack. The groundcover was so thick, you had to strip your kill the same day, or it would be lost in the leaves by next morning. Wakes, however, he's handled. His name was Wheatley, the King says, and a Prince at that-- and it couldn't have been long, because they still need to deal with the body. Amando didn't know him-- he doesn't know any of them, even now-- but grief is universal. He squeezes his eyes shut, and sighs. There's nothing words can do now.

He's heard plenty of condolences, and they never helped.


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Blaise He/Him
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#4
(This post was last modified: October 21, 2018, 05:27:19 PM by Blaise.)

Blaise had never known Wheatly all that well, merely who he was and enough to recognise him in passing. His death still came as a shock. It was supposed to be the old that died, not the young. Perhaps he should have been pleased to see such a blow struck against Haylyn, but even his bitterness could muster no pleasure in this. Though he could not help but wonder if karma had a hand, he let out a small, resigned, sigh. Kita had loved the young Queen like a daughter and that love had been torn into little pieces and spat back at her. They were dead to each other from that moment. Now Haylyn knew the pain of loosing a child too. The scales were balanced a little - But even so Blaise thought karma was a bitch. No parent should ever have to bury their child.

He had wondered if he should come at all or if his presense would be seen as some attempt to rub salt in the wound. His enmity towards most of that family was no secret after all. In the end he decided it was only right and proper to pay his respects to a fellow Inarian, one of the few times he was actually able to. At least Wheatley had a finite ending, so many others did not and their many, many, names and faces flickered through his mind until it settled on the two he missed most Moons and Gin, mother and son, both vanished. He liked to imagine they had set out to start a new life somewhere... But with out so much as a goodbye? His and Moons friendship had its rough patches but it endured through everything, through so many dufficult years. He knew she wouldn't have just left like that, but if he knew that then he also knew that she must be- He pushed the thought away. Better to leave a shred of hope.

He brought a gift, lightly held in his jaws, a Jacanda sapling dug from his garden. Soil still clung in a ball around its roots and the delicate purple leaves quivered with his breath. He laid it gently before Ghost. "To mark his grave. It's mother was one of the trees just beneath Whitewind's hill. It seemed... fitting." He smiled sadly, unsure what to add to such a somber occasion as one who apparently held so little love for the bereved family. "I am sorry for your Brother, I would not wish this on any family." And he meant it, truly he did not. He nodded his head to the King and sat quietly to one side, if they asked him to then he would leave quietly too.













Send me a wish or give me a sign
Even though you're gone I'll always call you mine
You said I'll always be with you
Said I'll always be with you.
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Hashmal He
Prepare for an aching the rest of your life
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#5




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#7c0a02

Him and his wife both had to calm down a teary eyed Leonora, a shaken and stammering mess, just as hysterical as Haylyn had been, so he heard. The red male's heart sank, he had been surrounded by death at a very young age, and each time was never easier. Emotions crept and bubbled to the surface, but he silenced them as best he could. This wasn't a day dwelling on that past.

When he had heard King Ghost's call, he was in the gardens. How long had it taken for him and Leo to find all sorts of new herbs and flowers to replace the ones that were damaged, his heart gave a twist as he plucked one for his own and turned on his heels.

The wind pulling through the trees with a sad rustling song, like some kind of dreary tuned woodwind instrument. He was not the first to arrive, blue gaze eyeing the group of mourners before him. Hashmal stepped forward, tail limp and steps careful, as if he was afraid of interrupting them all. Eye would anxiously catch Blaise in attendance to this, but he didn't have the courage nor willpower to approach the male. The last time he'd seen him was during one of Cappella's outbursts, it wasn't a day he ever liked remembering.

But as the large, rotund fringe made his way forward, he'd pause a little ways before the King. Peace lily in his jaws, he'd place it at his own feet. He was my brother too, he was...  His heart wavered, and he did his best to keep himself composed, but the tears welled up in his eyes. Quickly, Hashmal looked to the ground. "I'm so sorry." His voice trembling on those words, deeply pained. Spathiphyllum on his grave.





When I'm older, I'll be silent beside you
I know words won't be enough
And they won't need to know the names or our faces
But they will carry on for us
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Geronimo He/him
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#6



g e r o n i m o //




He followed his father silently, his own gift clenched so gingerly between his teeth.  The young male was not as close to Prince Wheatley as Nora was, or even his own father, but the loss of someone so young weighed heavy on everyones hearts just the same.  Inaria was a place of family, of growth and prosperity, but in the wake of the war between them and Saboro- the one which caused him and his sisters, and his mother so much grief- it was hard to remember the good things.  Good things, Geronimo would think, such as the many glorious flowers that bloomed here.  If you just sat and breathed, it was hard to miss the different types of perfumes that would engulf your nose.  They were hard to ignore.  

Just as ignoring the pain he could see his father struggling with, made him ill.  The white-backed youth slowed, as he had to, only momentarily as he could feel his legs begin to shake beneath him.  He did not call out to his father to wait, he simply watched him go.  His head low and tail limp, just as Nora's was when he had left.  The aching in his legs did hurt, but oh how his heart ached more.  It ached for Nora, for his father, for his mother- and for Prince Wheatleys family.  It ached actively for Inaria, in all it's troubles.

Taking a short break, Geronimo began walking again, taking his time to get to the gathering of others who had come to display their respects for the young Prince.  Geronimo stayed silent as his father set his gift by King Ghost, no words exchanged between the two, and he could not blame them, what words could you say to ease the heart of a loss?  It would all be lost on deaf ears anyway.  

Taking a moment, Geronimo walked forward, placing his bouquet of lavender by King Ghost, and his family.  He remained silent not knowing what words he could say, or what he could do without his heart turning on him.  He let out instead, a quiet small whine of condolences, before turning to sit next to his Hashmal.  A silent pillar of strength for his father to lean on if need be.  It was all he could offer.

Just this once, he'd be the strongest one here.  






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#7



ANGLACHEL



They didn't hold funerals in Saboro. A natural death was a rare one for Saborans seldom died of old age or accidents or disease, but instead succumbed to the jaws of their own pack mates. The weak and injured were left to crawl away in obscurity to die in solitude. Traitors and dishonored were killed, their bodies left to rot as reminders. They did not call others to gather and grieve, but to observe and learn.

(He still remembered the lesson by the river, the mangled body of grey and white and dusty red. The taste of acidic sick upon his tongue. He remembered the graveyard of skulls—)

But Inaria was different. Inaria was not Saboro — they grieved and honored. Spoke respectful farewells and buried their dead. And for those reasons, Anglachel hated having to prepare a pyre rather than a grave. But an unknown illness, a vicious and deadly ailment... He could not risk it tainting the lilac land. The healer worked in dutiful silence, pausing only to stop King Ghost from getting too close. "I'm sorry." Anglachel murmured as he stepped in front of the grieving brother. He loathed to stand between the mourning and their loved one, but Anglachel had job to do — he would keep Inaria healthy.

"We need to honour him, please call for me... When he is ready to cross.

"Of course." With a small dip of his head, the former Saboran prince watched the pale king leave before turning to finish his work. It did not take Anglachel much longer to prepare the remainder of the pyre — a bed of lilac, jacaranda petals, lavender, and white arum nestled in a ring of layered stones. And beside the barrier of stone, a small kindle of fire, awaiting the ceremony.

And finally, a crown of white poppies — peace and the end and remembrance — perched upon the prince's head. He looked almost peaceful, as though resting amongst the flowers and herbs.

With one last glance toward the readied pyre, Anglachel turned and quietly made his way toward the growing congregation. Wine reds pass over the faces of each mourner, offering a dip of his head here and a small nod there as he weaves amongst them. Gaze lingers just a little longer upon Kashmir — for it seems there will always be that prickle of unease and a bite of phantom pains across his cheeks — but the healer gives the King of Swords a dip of his head before turning toward King Ghost.

"He is ready."

He doesn't ask if the King and his family are ready — they never would be, but will move forward regardless.








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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
We think too big, we think our self is one whole thing
And we claim that this collection has a name and is a being
But deep inside, when every cell divides
It sets upon the rule that states self-interest is divine

Cancer, too, lives by this golden rule
That you must do unto the others as the others unto you
All for the best, cause that’s all the life accepts
And so we kill it like a buffalo
With awe and with respect
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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Pisces She/Her
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#8

Grief was strange.

It came at you slowly. It came at you all at once. The young princess knew absolutely nothing about it. She knew more than she could say. She knew that the wind whispered soft farewells through the trees. She knew that her father passed silently. She knew that she followed him, as dutiful daughters should. She knew one more thing, too:

Fathers shouldn’t have to look so sad.

She passed a covert glance to her sister between Ghost’s legs, but said nothing to Elias as she walked with them. He had been a boy who died too soon, a young king of Inaria lost to useless bloodshed. Names held such importance. It was funny that they had no idea what importance five letters held. Oh, they were heavy. Inaria knew how heavy they were.

There were others that walked with them. She peeked at each, taking note of the lines worn into their faces, the sullen arch to their backs. This was loss. Silent, mournful funeral march—and somehow she knew. This is sad. This is sad. This is sad.

They came to journey’s end before she realized it. She sat with a soft ringing in her head, flanking her father and looking without seeing—faces swam around them, offering condolences, gifts, tearful glances. She felt, for a moment, like she could not breathe. “Where,” she whispered quietly, blinking glassy eyes at Hashmal and his son as they came and went, “Wh—

The words catch in her throat and they sink like stones in a deep, still lake. It looked so serene, like glass, but you plunged deep if you thought you could walk on the surface. Oh, the water was cold. This is sad. This is sad. This is sad. “Where… do lost people go?

Unbidden, a thought rises like a bubbling gasp—how sad that beautiful blue boys have to die. Sad. This is sad.

She takes a shaking breath and looks to the healer with his scarred, red eyes. They were like hers. She stares for a long moment, listening only to the thumping of her heart between her ears. “Where is he going?” she asks quietly of the uncle she’d never known, eyes dropping to the myriad of gifts left at her father’s feet. This is sad. This is sad.

This is sad.


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Ghost he/him
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#9
(This post was last modified: November 09, 2018, 01:06:21 PM by Kay ✨.)



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Ghost had spent much of this time with his pale eyes glued to his feet, eyes watching young Elias as she sat stuck to his side, flicking to his small little lamb as she joined them. He felt his heart soften at the sight of her. Watching their innocent confused faces, this would be their first experience with death. Ghost found the strength to give Kash a respectful nod as he arrived quietly, followed by one of the young bright princesses form Haven. Doli, she'd always been a loud one. Full of questions, Ghost enjoyed the child.

“Who died? ... Prince Wheatley. We’re going to honor him and those we’ve lost in — He died? A prince died? Why? They say he fell ill. There’s King Ghost — go give your respects. King of Shields, I’m sorry for your loss, Um, you too. I’m sorry.

He couldn't help but give her a small strained smile, chest heaving slightly under the weight of their losses. "Why? Well, We don't live forever Princesses," He murmured to all three "One day, when our jobs are fulfilled, we move along. Life might be short, or it might be long. We must do our best before our time is up... We never know when." Looking up as Blaise arrived, gaze still soft and sorrowful. Glad that someone so rich in Inarian history had come, he had always been fond of Blaise. Especially as a young Prince growing up, watching the energetic freckled male explore their allies. As he himself had done with Moons... Moons. His heart wept.

"To mark his grave. It's mother was one of the trees just beneath Whitewind's hill. It seemed... fitting. I am sorry for your Brother, I would not wish this on any family." He nodded as Hashmal arrived, knowing the now huge male used to know his brother well. He felt worry for the man, he'd always had a gentle disposition from what the King had known... How he handle his adopted Sister was beyond him. Would Cappella join them? Ghost would suddenly long for her presence. "I'm so sorry." "I'm sorry." Exchanged to Hashmal as well.

Then Ang came forward, "He is ready." There would be no pause as Ghost shuffled his little family along to the tall pyre, Ang had done a remarkable job. For what it was... It was beautiful. Moving to pick up a sweet smell bunch of lavender of his own, adding it to the pile gently. "Wheatley was the happiest of us three, even as children, he always won our races up Whitewind's hill. He could make anyone joyful, I hope each story we ever remember of him brings joy. We will miss you Brother. Just as we miss Sage, Moons, and the many we honour alongside Wheatley today. Thank you all for being here, we're all Family." He struggled, pulling Pisces closer with a large paw.

He would take her along with him later, to explain a little more about death. For now, he'd hope someone would speak. Share their memories of Wheatley.





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Weiss She/Her
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#10

Weiss arrives silent and as if in a fog, Ghost's call tumbling around in her head as she occupies the fringes of muted conversations and struggles to process her thoughts. Wheatley... ? The dark grey girl feels as though she's almost interrupting as she fails to recognize known packmates and family, though disassociation washes the feeling away alongside the others. Shivers threaten to tumble her stomach from between her teeth, but she does not feel them.

The wraith follows when Anglachel comes to collect them. Listens without a word to her brother's words. Shifts to lay sprigs of baby's breath and forget-me-nots alongside lavender when her brother's eyes turn to her.

Her brother... The other was... Wheatley was... what?

She swallows around the thick lump in her throat and struggles to break the surface.

"He wanted to be an Elite Guard... even though he claimed to be no good." A lift of the corner of her lip as she remembered her brother for the light in the darkness that he was. Her voice carried, soft as it was, as mismatched eyes watched petals shiver in the wind instead of meeting the pale ones of her brother-King. "But he was good- the best, I mean. He took care of me when I was ill, was there for me when some days I had no one else. He always knew how to cheer me up." A soft, reflexive chuckle dies in her throat to a silent audience. A pause dilates in the vacuum as she tries to find the words, and she tucks her chin against her aching chest before continuing. "He took many here to safety when the tattooed beasts sought to do us harm. Truly his was a kind, bright soul that'll never go out." What could she say that many of them did not already know?

"There will be no one else like him."

Her words trail off into breath as her heart seizes like a squeezing too hard fist in her chest; her face turning away from their pitying eyes as she finds herself craving both solitude and the desire to be held. She would not seek out her mother or father's eyes if they were present. Eyelashes dotted with moisture flutter to hide the welling tears underneath, the pressure in her body swelling to a crescendo until the white noise spilled from her ears as she oh so desperately tries to hold them in. The girl's frail body shakes and shakes as she stands alone, and she would not look up again until the last of them left.

She thinks on the boy with the bleeding feet.

Her own toes unknowingly dig nails into the hard dirt until fireworks of pain shoot up her front limbs.

The smell of iron hits the air underneath her nose.


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