Lunesday, 25th of Juno, 470th Year of the Fifth Era

Parulian sat cross-armed next to the still, lifeless body of his father, the late King Parhal. It had been a few days since the tragedy of his passing. What was supposed to be Parulian's proudest day up to that point as a father seeing his son getting married turned into something of a disaster.

After the shock of the sudden tragedy had somewhat passed, preparations were quickly made for the king's funeral rites. The wedding venue had been quickly converted to a funeral parlor as the king's body was placed at its center.

There on a velvet bed they laid his body. The body of a great warrior who had worked most of his life to defend and protect the Halaklands. It was Halak custom to display the body of such a heroic figure like that for days on end. This was why preservation techniques had been developed by the Halak for such occasions.

The priests, mages, and physicians of Goria had worked quickly to embalm the old king's body. They sought to preserve the late king just enough to let him be put on display for a few days before burying him. They put him in his most splendid tunic and in the most exquisite linen as befits a king. The king looked so regal, as if he was merely sleeping, waiting to be awoken. It was a fleeting hope.

But regardless of how finely they dressed him up or how alive he looked, it did not change the most important fact. Parulian's father was dead. His body was there, but his soul was no longer present. He had passed. Parulian's greatest hero in his life, his role-model, his provider, his father. He was dead. He was now well and truly an orphan at nearly forty years old.

Rows of chairs were placed at either side of the funeral bed for the grieving and bereft family to sit. It was an unfortunate irony that the king's death had taken place during such a joyous occasion. It had embittered the celebratory joy of the wedding, but at the same time, it was fortunate that the king still managed to see three of his grandchildren become full members of the community through marriage.

It was also because of that timing that the traditional adat funeral rites could be done in earnest without having the need to wait too long. Usually Halak funerals lasted days to weeks because they had to wait for far flung family members and relatives to arrive. With the wedding that invited even the kings of all twenty realms, they could immediately commence with the celebratory rites.

Parulian could only laugh at the irony of Halak customs. According to the ways of their ancestors, his father had been granted a 'perfect' death. It was called the 'saor matua'. A position in which someone died with all their children already married and having children of their own. It was the pinnacle of achievement for any Halak man to be granted such a death. It meant one had lived a full life and had made sure their legacy would continue.

Such a meaning to the 'saor matua' was also the reason why instead of grief or sorrow, the bereft family were expected to welcome the event with a modicum of cheer and celebration. But Parulian felt deep within him that nothing about his father's passing was worth celebrating.

He had lived his entire life with the belief that his father was a hero who was nigh-invincible. Even if his mind had been wrestling with the fact of his father's poor health, the boy in his heart still wanted to believe that despite all that his father would pull through. But it appeared as though God had a more realistic outcome planned.

And of course, the death of such a unifying figure as his father caused cracks to immediately appear within the fabric of the Halak tapestry of peace. Just last night during the 'Ria Raja' – a meeting between the various clans and communities involving a person's death – Parulian had almost killed another king when he lost his temper.

The damned King of Nainiari – just because he was King Parhal's hulahula by virtue of the late king's mother being from the Arimonang clan – had demanded for the funeral rites be observed in full accordance with the traditional Halak rights. He had demanded that the death of the Hulubalang Nabolon be overseen by the Raja Malim and not by the prelates of the Gorian Halak church.

King Sailas Arimonang insisted that the traditional rites of prayers to the ancestors should still be observed. He also wanted for the tradition of 'soul summoning' the spirit of the deceased to 'come and give their blessing' upon the living to be done. Parulian had outright called the King of Nainiari an idiot to his face, citing how stupid it was to ask the spirit of someone who was a christian to bless heathens in their ritual.

A duel had almost erupted between the two but luckily enough, Archbishop Ludwig had intervened and provided a more conciliatory tone towards the pagan Halak kings. Oddly enough, King Lombutua of Saorma had stood up and expressed his opinion that the kings should respect the traditions and choices the deceased had chosen in religious matters.

However, because they didn't want to alienate the foreign kings any more than they had to, the Gorian elders and priests of the Church had held a long discussion with the heathen priest-kings and their shamans. They wished to arrive at a middle point in incorporating as much tradition as they could without compromising their christian ideals.

Parulian hated the fact that he had to acquiesce to these political intrigues even in the wake of his father's death. He wanted to mourn and grieve in peace but that looked to be difficult. Such a thing was a luxury for someone who was to bear the kingship after his father's passing. Even in such a trying time, he had to consider things by the larger picture.

And with that, an agreement had been reached as to how the funeral rites would be observed. Most of the traditional rites were kept in-tact while the meaning of such rites were interpreted through a more christian lens. Not many were happy with such a compromise, but they had to make do.

The funeral celebrations would be held throughout the next few days with the burial being planned for Freeday that week. Because all the kings of the Halaklands were already gathered there, it was also decided that the official 'Tonggoraja Nabolon' to elect a new Hulubalang and reaffirm the old treaties would also be held at the end of the week.

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The first day of the funeral celebrations consisted of the various clans coming to give their condolences and prayers for the bereft family. They had given the grieving family various 'ulos' while also offering prayers of strength and resilience. The somber mood of the grieving however contrasted with the cheerful music of the drums and flutes being plalyed.

If Parulian was allowed to rip out and tear apart all the instruments in the damned venue, he would. Unfortunately, he had to play the part of a 'respectful king' now. The Halak peoples didn't have official crowning ceremonies or other such formalities in regards to a transition of power. The day his father died, the elder council of Goria had already automatically proclaimed him as 'Raja Parulian Nasilua Sigumogo', King of Goria.

Why did he have to pretend to be happy, joyful, and thankful when he was not? Why were the kings, elders, and clansmen of the other clans laughing and cheering when his father's cold corpse lay in front of him? Why were they congratulating him on becoming king when he never wanted it in the first place? The position of a king was a curse, not a blessing. He no longer only had the lives of his family to think of, but of the entire realm.

As much as he advised his own son of the contrary, now Parulian found himself with a mountain of worries, grief, regret, and pain. Worries on how he wouldn't live up to his father's example as king. Grief for the loss of his one greatest role model in life. Regret that he wasn't able to do anything more for his father. And pain because the only constant that remained of his old life after the death of his mother was now gone.

When the day turned to evening as the sun set upon Goria, many people had left the venue to return to their lodgings. Though, many more people still remained in the venue. The mood now was less festive. More dreary. More somber. The air now more suitably fit Parulian's grieving state of mind.

Around his father's funeral bed, rows of chairs had been pulled up for his family to sit and grieve in a more private manner. Next to Parulian sat his wife who had been with him throughout his process of grief, holding him close to her as they sat there together. Both were in tears and both were sharing each other's pains.

Next to Parulian and Hotma sat Partogi and his wife, also sitting there looking like they were in quiet grief. By far the one who had most outwardly shown their grief and pain was none other than the king's youngest child. Their sister, Pauli.

Pauli stood there at the side of their father's corpse, her reddened bulging eyes still streaming tears. She had done her best to control herself during the day's ceremonies, but now the whole venue was filled with her pained shrieks and wails. Her husband stood there holding her to comfort her but she was understandably inconsolable. Their father had always been the most openly affectionate to his one and only precious daughter. Her grief was understandable.

In a way, Parulian envied his little sister. Halak society would not judge a woman for showing such emotion, especially when it concerned her father's death. Yet there Parulian sat. Having to try his best to act stoically as the king's eldest child. A beacon of strength towards his younger siblings despite the fact they all already had their own families. It had always been like that. He was the abang and he had to act like it.

As much as his heart cried out to scream with all his aura because of his grief, he had to content himself with the endless tears that flowed from his eyes.

After wailing and crying, Pauli had laid her head on their father's cold chest. She cried before finally beginning to wail melodically in the Halak tradition of 'mangandungi' (lit. 'lamentation'). Her beautiful yet grieved voice resounding throughout the venue, quieting even the sounds of the people who were still conversing there.

"~Ale among… tu dia ma ho lao, ale among?? Dang boi do among molo ihut au? Huida ma dagingmu dison, ale among, alai boasa so dibege ho soaraku? (O Father, where did you go, father? Can I not come with you? Your body is here, father, but why do you not hear my voice?)" Pauli sang with sobs between her notes "~bege ma among, borum na manjou hamu… dungo ma among! Ai tu dia, among, mago supingmu?? Ungkap ma among simalolom…! Baen muse podami tu au borum! Murukki ma au, Apoi ma au, ajari ma au, ale amang… Asa unang ho maradi ison… tu sada inganan na so boi au dohot saonari…!!"

(Hear me, father, your daughter calls out to you… wake up, father! Where did your smile go? Open your eyes…! Give your wisdom once more to your daughter! Get angry with me, berate me, teach me, father! Just don't lay still there… to a place where I can yet follow you!)

***

Partogi stared blankly at his father's corpse as his younger sister's melodic wails entered into his ears. Even after several days had passed, even with his father's body laying still in front of him, he could scarcely believe it himself. His father, that indomitable wall, finally laid dead. Only his lifeless flesh lay there in front of him.

Partogi's heart was a mix of emotions. Regret, rage, melancholy… emptiness. He didn't know what to feel.

By all accounts, he should be feeling most ecstatic right now. The man who for the past few months of his life had taken everything meaningful away from him now lay dead. The man who would rather choose a foreign ideology than his own flesh and blood had passed. But not a single ounce of joy filled Partogi's heart.

Instead, all he was filled with was more and more sorrow as his gaze fell upon his father's lifeless body.

Partogi's eyes moistened as he held out his hand and touched his father's cold body. The warm hands that had once embraced him. The harsh fist that had been curled to strike him. It was now cold. It no longer had any strength behind it.

His father had left him. He had left him with an unfulfilled promise. He said that they would discuss things after his nephew's wedding, yet here they were now. His father could no longer speak, let alone engage in discussion. Partogi knew of no mage or sorcerer among the Halaklands who had the power to commune with the dead. At least none who weren't either tricksters or charlatans.

But even if there were such mystics around would his father even say anything good towards him? Or would he just be further rebuffed like King Saul was by the prophet Samuel when he summoned his spirit through a witch?

No. It was too late for regrets. They had drawn their lines in the sand and that was that…

But… that last discussion with his father left him feeling at the very least somewhat hopeful. Perhaps it was because of his old age or the coaxing of his sister, but his father did not outright shame him or deny his request. All he said was that he would discuss things after the wedding celebrations.

Maybe, he still had a chance. His father was no longer the king but his brother was. And his elder brother had always been more partial to him. Maybe if he asked him now, he would be open to the idea. Many of the great elders of the Halak realms were already in Goria. Surely there was someone among them who was a powerful enough shaman to be able to commune with the dead. If the old stories were to be believed, it was very much possible.

"...Abang…" Partogi called out to his elder brother who turned his head at his call.

"...Aha ma? (What is it?)" Parulian asked.

"What if we called a datu (shaman) here? They can try and communicate with our father's spirit and maybe we can derive a better form of closure, no?" Partogi asked with hope. However a tug on his arm by his wife had quickly brought him back to reality. He saw her look at him worriedly while shaking her head but by that point it was too late.

"...Are you fucking insane?" Parulian asked as he turned his gaze fully towards him. Partogi saw in his brother's eyes that moment, something he'd never seen before. Pure rage.

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