Chapter 42: The old peacock had gone

Chapter 42: The old peacock had gone

Central Continent Calendar, Year 1241, May, 15th

The day when the sky refused to shine.

Clouds wept over the Imperial Capital. Rain poured down in unbroken curtains, seeping through banners, robes, and skin equally, but all remained still. Not one person took a step. None of them would dare shatter the stillness of the procession.

The bells rang.

Nine times.

One for each ten years of His Majesty Narathu's reign.

One for the Empire.

One for the world he left behind.

Above the Grand Avenue of Everlasting Flowers, which wound from the palace gates to the Sanctuary of the Supreme, there had been swept clear and paved with white lotus petals—a flower that the Supreme One holds in reverence, standing for purity and illumination.

Thousands had come.

From nobility in cloaks of peacock feathers to peasants in plain mourning white, from hooded monks with prayer beads in their grasp to beastkin mercenaries who had once borne arms under Imperial colors. Each of them beneath grey skies, heads bowed, shoulders trembling in silent mourning.

The Peacock Standard, symbol of the Empire, flagged from roof to roof—its dazzling blue plumage dampened by rain. The thunderous Imperial drummers rolled out no victory drum today. There sounded only the slow, melancholy beat of King's Funeral Dirge through the Capital. It was said to transport the ruler's soul to the Celestial Plains.

And at its center, the coffin—a massive work of sandalwood and silver, carved with the emblem of the First Emperor, etched with forms representing the Supreme One and inlaid with deep blue velvet.

Within him lay Narathu the Wise, the Empire's Father, the king who ruled over six decades of Pagan Dynasty.

His face, as they described, had a peaceful look.

The former Secon Prince, Regent of Empire, now Empreror AungIII, He wore his place at the front of the procession, dressed not in gold but in plain white robes with one sash of deep blue about his waist, royal mourning's dark colour. A feather of peacock lay at his shoulder, with a circlet of chill silver at his brow.

The flame of the Supreme One, carried in a censer in ceremony by High Monk of the Temple, stayed alight beside him, burning stubbornly in the rain. It was said this flame would not be smothered until by an act of will from the divine.

And still, it burned.

Aung's hands clutched tight behind his back. His shoulders squared, but he felt as though the weight of the skies upon him. Comrades he had buried. Enemies he had buried. But now... he buried his father.

He was not an ideal man, but he had steered the Empire through rebellions, famine, and invading forces. His hands constructed the foundation of peace. His words soothed noblemen, unified armies, and instructed his sons in service.

"I was too late," Aung thought resentfully. "I only had to fight for the Empire when he couldn't anymore."

Rain fell down his brow. It had the flavor of sorrow.

Alongside him, standing there in silence, stone-faced, was Prince Min Ye Kyaw Htin. No longer Crown Prince, but still first son. In his hand, he clutched an incense staff—The Wand of the Royal Flame—reserved for rulers' funerals.

Between brothers, there existed an understanding—wordless, indelible. The past lay buried. There remained only duty.

The Funeral March began.

Ten thousand paces from Jade Palace to Sanctuary of the Supreme One.

Ten thousand prayers said with each step.

Monks accompanied their path, heads shaved, dressed in flowing saffron and silver. They chanted in words from an ancient language, phrases from the Sermon of Eternal Balance, which had been taught by the Supreme One in the world's chaotic days.

"From dust to dust, silence to silence. The world departs, and the soul comes back. To the sky we send him. To the stars we say goodbye."

Behind the coffin trailed a sea of white: officials, generals, priestesses, servants. Even guests from enemy lands, still in the Capital, knelt in homage, palms to the ground.

And people wept. Three millions of people have assembled here to offer respects to show last farewell to late king.

Women hugged children as tears streamed down. Elders hammered at the ground, invoking His Majesty's name. Street musicians set down their flutes. Food vendors offered free food in respect for the King's spirit.

Each of them grieved.

For most, Narathu had always been their king. When he died, an era came to an end.

The Sanctuary of the Supreme, normally reserved for religious ceremonies and coronations, had been decorated with more than one thousand lotus candles, their blue flames dancing gently like silent spirits. Central to all of this was the Pillar of Remembrance, upon which all of the Emperors from the First onwards had their names etched.

It was put before the coffin.

Next came the rites.

Forward he stepped, this man so ancient his eyes were shrouded by hazy whiteness, but his tones sounded clear.

"Everything is impermanent. As our great Supreme one instructs us: the stars come and go. The rulers are born and die. What is left is not might, but ethics. What is left... is remembrance."

He lifted the Sacred Flame and transferred it to the new Emperor.

"Your Majesty... your father awaits."

Aung, his hands shaking, lowered the flame to the bottom of the coffin, where he had poured sandalwood oil. It flared brightly blue and gold upon being touched by the flame.

The Royal Pyre had commenced.

As the smoke rose, chants echoed from the thousands gathered outside the sanctuary.

"O Highest of all, receive Narathu the Wise's soul."

"O Light of Eternity, grant him peace."

"Let the Empire not forget his name. Let rain bear him gently."

Emperor Aung knelt in front of the fire, weeping openly now.

Min put his hand on his shoulder.

They remained so, until the last ember became ash.

The Peacock Standard was dropped to half-mast throughout the Empire. Celebration, festivity, and all forms of music were prohibited for seven days. Even temple bells fell silent.

The Supreme Temple announced Seven Days of Candlelight, and candles glowed in front of every doorstep, every shrine, every windowsill throughout the provinces.

There was no speech by Aung Kyaw Zeya after he was crowned Emperor.

His silence thundered in my ears.

He stood at the Jade Palace's balcony, observing as the populace wept. One prayer escaped his lips.

"Guide me, Father. I will bring the Empire to the greatest glory in the entire world's history."

Above him, thunder boomed again. The storm had gone.

But grief, too, would linger for a little longer. The old peacock had gone and the young one was born.

(Continue….)

Chapter 42: The old peacock had gone

Central Continent Calendar, Year 1241, May, 15th

The day when the sky refused to shine.

Clouds wept over the Imperial Capital. Rain poured down in unbroken curtains, seeping through banners, robes, and skin equally, but all remained still. Not one person took a step. None of them would dare shatter the stillness of the procession.

The bells rang.

Nine times.

One for each ten years of His Majesty Narathu's reign.

One for the Empire.

One for the world he left behind.

Above the Grand Avenue of Everlasting Flowers, which wound from the palace gates to the Sanctuary of the Supreme, there had been swept clear and paved with white lotus petals—a flower that the Supreme One holds in reverence, standing for purity and illumination.

Thousands had come.

From nobility in cloaks of peacock feathers to peasants in plain mourning white, from hooded monks with prayer beads in their grasp to beastkin mercenaries who had once borne arms under Imperial colors. Each of them beneath grey skies, heads bowed, shoulders trembling in silent mourning.

The Peacock Standard, symbol of the Empire, flagged from roof to roof—its dazzling blue plumage dampened by rain. The thunderous Imperial drummers rolled out no victory drum today. There sounded only the slow, melancholy beat of King's Funeral Dirge through the Capital. It was said to transport the ruler's soul to the Celestial Plains.

And at its center, the coffin—a massive work of sandalwood and silver, carved with the emblem of the First Emperor, etched with forms representing the Supreme One and inlaid with deep blue velvet.

Within him lay Narathu the Wise, the Empire's Father, the king who ruled over six decades of Pagan Dynasty.

His face, as they described, had a peaceful look.

The former Secon Prince, Regent of Empire, now Empreror AungIII, He wore his place at the front of the procession, dressed not in gold but in plain white robes with one sash of deep blue about his waist, royal mourning's dark colour. A feather of peacock lay at his shoulder, with a circlet of chill silver at his brow.

The flame of the Supreme One, carried in a censer in ceremony by High Monk of the Temple, stayed alight beside him, burning stubbornly in the rain. It was said this flame would not be smothered until by an act of will from the divine.

And still, it burned.

Aung's hands clutched tight behind his back. His shoulders squared, but he felt as though the weight of the skies upon him. Comrades he had buried. Enemies he had buried. But now... he buried his father.

He was not an ideal man, but he had steered the Empire through rebellions, famine, and invading forces. His hands constructed the foundation of peace. His words soothed noblemen, unified armies, and instructed his sons in service.

"I was too late," Aung thought resentfully. "I only had to fight for the Empire when he couldn't anymore."

Rain fell down his brow. It had the flavor of sorrow.

Alongside him, standing there in silence, stone-faced, was Prince Min Ye Kyaw Htin. No longer Crown Prince, but still first son. In his hand, he clutched an incense staff—The Wand of the Royal Flame—reserved for rulers' funerals.

Between brothers, there existed an understanding—wordless, indelible. The past lay buried. There remained only duty.

The Funeral March began.

Ten thousand paces from Jade Palace to Sanctuary of the Supreme One.

Ten thousand prayers said with each step.

Monks accompanied their path, heads shaved, dressed in flowing saffron and silver. They chanted in words from an ancient language, phrases from the Sermon of Eternal Balance, which had been taught by the Supreme One in the world's chaotic days.

"From dust to dust, silence to silence. The world departs, and the soul comes back. To the sky we send him. To the stars we say goodbye."

Behind the coffin trailed a sea of white: officials, generals, priestesses, servants. Even guests from enemy lands, still in the Capital, knelt in homage, palms to the ground.

And people wept. Three millions of people have assembled here to offer respects to show last farewell to late king.

Women hugged children as tears streamed down. Elders hammered at the ground, invoking His Majesty's name. Street musicians set down their flutes. Food vendors offered free food in respect for the King's spirit.

Each of them grieved.

For most, Narathu had always been their king. When he died, an era came to an end.

The Sanctuary of the Supreme, normally reserved for religious ceremonies and coronations, had been decorated with more than one thousand lotus candles, their blue flames dancing gently like silent spirits. Central to all of this was the Pillar of Remembrance, upon which all of the Emperors from the First onwards had their names etched.

It was put before the coffin.

Next came the rites.

Forward he stepped, this man so ancient his eyes were shrouded by hazy whiteness, but his tones sounded clear.

"Everything is impermanent. As our great Supreme one instructs us: the stars come and go. The rulers are born and die. What is left is not might, but ethics. What is left... is remembrance."

He lifted the Sacred Flame and transferred it to the new Emperor.

"Your Majesty... your father awaits."

Aung, his hands shaking, lowered the flame to the bottom of the coffin, where he had poured sandalwood oil. It flared brightly blue and gold upon being touched by the flame.

The Royal Pyre had commenced.

As the smoke rose, chants echoed from the thousands gathered outside the sanctuary.

"O Highest of all, receive Narathu the Wise's soul."

"O Light of Eternity, grant him peace."

"Let the Empire not forget his name. Let rain bear him gently."

Emperor Aung knelt in front of the fire, weeping openly now.

Min put his hand on his shoulder.

They remained so, until the last ember became ash.

The Peacock Standard was dropped to half-mast throughout the Empire. Celebration, festivity, and all forms of music were prohibited for seven days. Even temple bells fell silent.

The Supreme Temple announced Seven Days of Candlelight, and candles glowed in front of every doorstep, every shrine, every windowsill throughout the provinces.

There was no speech by Aung Kyaw Zeya after he was crowned Emperor.

His silence thundered in my ears.

He stood at the Jade Palace's balcony, observing as the populace wept. One prayer escaped his lips.

"Guide me, Father. I will bring the Empire to the greatest glory in the entire world's history."

Above him, thunder boomed again. The storm had gone.

But grief, too, would linger for a little longer. The old peacock had gone and the young one was born.

(Continue….)