THE SILENCE AFTER HER NAME
A/N-
I recommend some sad music in background. The chapter is about 3800+ words, so read leisurely.
Also-
In the religion of Anatham, the dead is given articles by the family so that the dead may take them to heaven.
-----------ENJOY-----------
The chapel doors creaked open once more.
Four figures crossed the threshold—dark silhouettes carved from the morning mist. Military boots struck the marble aisle with solemn cadence.
Torren was the first to speak.
"Levi,"
He called—his voice low, roughened by restraint.
Levi turned from the pew, slow and unsteady, as though rising from the depths of some private storm. The candlelight flickered across his mismatched eyes—green and gold—rimmed red with sleepless grief.
"Brother Torren…"
He whispered.
Torren reached him and drew the younger man into a firm embrace. His arms were wide and steady, like the hull of a ship braving violent seas.
"How are you holding, little one?"
He murmured, his chin resting atop Levi's head.
Levi clutched the lapel of Torren's coat, his voice breaking like glass.
"It hurts," he admitted.
"No matter how much I steel myself… it hurts. Mother's truly gone."
Torren exhaled, the breath long and tremulous.
"She is not gone. She has simply… moved beyond our reach."
He drew back, brushing Levi's shoulder.
"She watches. From somewhere gentler than this world."
Behind them, Anthony approached in silence, his gloved hands shaking slightly before he, too, reached out. His arms folded around both brothers, forming a quiet triad of grief.
"We're here, Levi," he said.
"We came together, as she would have wanted."
But even as they stood united, a lone figure had already broken away—drawn as if by a magnet to the coffin.
Varkis.
He knelt at the casket's side with a slow, deliberate grace. His gloved hands gripped the edge of his trousers, knuckles white, back bowed like a man in prayer—or punishment.
His voice, when it came, was barely more than air.
"I am sorry… Mother."
The words cracked at the edges, frayed by weeks of silence and a lifetime of things unsaid.
"I should have written. Should have come. Should have—"
He paused, his throat constricting. A single tear fell, pattering onto the stone floor like the first drop of a storm.
"Please… say something. Scold me. Just once more."
He lowered his head until his brow touched the wood of the coffin.
The chapel held its breath.
And in the echo of his sorrow, memory bled through.
—
Moonlight pooled on the attic floor.
A young Varkis sat cross-legged, eyes heavy with sleep. Althaea brushed a hand through his unruly blond hair, her fingers gentle, her smile soft as moth wings.
"Varkis," she murmured.
"If I were to leave one day… would you be sad?"
The boy blinked slowly, then shook his head.
"You won't leave. You promised."
She chuckled, low and bittersweet, and pressed a kiss to his brow.
"My brave little child."
Then, wrapping the quilt around him, she whispered,
"If ever I must… know that I loved you most dearly. And I will wait—."
But Varkis had already closed his eyes. Althaea pressed her lips on his forehead.
—
Back in the present, Varkis gasped softly. His hands shook.
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
He turned.
Percival Brooke stood over him, face drawn, voice steady with age.
"Let it out, boy," he said gently.
"There is no pride in swallowing grief. We are not stone."
Varkis met his uncle's eyes, lips parting—but no words came. He turned back toward the coffin, resting his forehead against the cold, unyielding wood.
And then—he broke.
Not with ceremony. Not with the quiet dignity expected of a trained agent.
But with sound. A low, animal howl that cracked the chapel's stillness like a thunderclap. A storm of raw sorrow, buried for too long, now loosed like a dam giving way.
Tears streamed down his face in rivulets. His mouth opened in silent pleas. His shoulders shook with each breathless sob.
And no one stopped him.
Because in that moment, he wept for all of them.
The chapel held its breath.
Varkis' cries echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, bouncing off old stone and stained glass, until even the crucifix above the altar seemed to bow in mourning.
His forehead rested against her lifeless fingers—once warm, once full of life. Now pale, unmoving.
"Mother…" he whispered through cracked sobs.
"You said you'd never leave…"
Behind him, the others stood silent. Even the candles flickered softer now, as though reluctant to disturb the moment.
Annabelle's eyes shimmered. She had never met Althaea, and yet, in this chapel filled with broken sons, she could feel her presence. Her warmth. The absence that now scorched the air.
Levi stepped forward again, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Mother said the same thing to me…"
He turned his mismatched eyes to Varkis.
"She said if I ever cried, she'd come running. And now I cry... and she's not here."
He knelt beside his brother. Slowly, gently, he placed a hand on Varkis' back.
Torren's broad shoulders tensed. He stared down at the coffin. His voice was steadier, yet gravelled—like a cliff face slowly eroding.
"You know," he murmured,
"I once told her I'd protect everyone in the family. That I'd carry her burdens when I got strong enough."
He looked up, blinking fast.
"But she never let me. Even when I begged her, she smiled and said—"
"'My burden is to see you smile.'"
Anthony finished, standing beside him.
The four brothers now stood united around their mother's casket. A circle formed not by ritual, but by blood and pain, and the one woman who made them a family.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"Would you allow me?"
It was Halina.
Her figure stood just behind the brothers, hands clasped before her black mourning dress, her chin trembling.
She stepped forward—slowly, reverently—and knelt beside the coffin, opposite Varkis. Her eyes, a mirror of Althaea's, brimmed with tears yet burned with quiet determination.
"Please let me take care of her… just for a while," she whispered.
The brothers moved back without a word. Varkis wiped his face with a sleeve, nodding. Levi helped him rise. The others stepped aside as Halina reached for a small bundle wrapped in white silk from beneath the altar.
She unwrapped it gently. Inside lay a folded violet shawl—Althaea's favourite, embroidered with lilac flowers by her own hand.
"This was hers when she first came to the Beaumont estate," Halina whispered, voice catching.
"She wore it during winters… said it reminded her of home."
With trembling hands, she draped the shawl across their mother's chest.
"Rest easy now, Maman… you're free."
The chapel fell into stillness. Even the wind outside had gone quiet. For a long moment, nothing stirred but the flicker of flame in the old candle sconces, and the sound of quiet breaths braving against grief.
Torren's eyes grew cloudy,
'I can't cry. Not yet.'
The heavy door moaned on its hinges as it opened once more. A shaft of morning light slashed across the marble floor, cutting through the shadows like a divine blade.
Ragnar entered.
Beside him walked Ian Brooke, his cane echoing with each step. Following them came Father Jonathan, clad in sombre vestments. And flanking them at the rear—his polished sabatons clinking softly against the stone—was a paladin in full ceremonial uniform, his chest plate adorned with the insignia of the Order of Anatham.
His ginger hair, burnished like flame in the chapel light, was tied neatly back in a leather clasp.
Annabelle turned, her eyes widening.
"Gabriel?"
The paladin halted, eyes narrowing before they lit with recognition.
"Anna?"
He breathed.
She stepped forward at once, half in disbelief.
"What are you doing here, brother?"
"I am his friend."
He smiled gently, pointing to Ragnar.
They embraced, briefly, siblings reunited under the cold eye of grief.
Gabriel turned then, sharp yet courteous. His boots clacked softly as he approached Anthony.
"Brother-in-law,"
He said, bowing his head with military precision.
"Forgive the late greeting. There is much I would wish to say… but that must wait."
His gaze shifted to the coffin, and for a moment, even the paladin's discipline faltered. His jaw clenched.
"Please. Do not mind me."
Anthony nodded in silence, lips tight, fists clenched at his side.
Ragnar had crossed halfway through the chapel now.
His shirt was bloodstained at the shoulder. The scent of sweat, salt, and old gunpowder clung faintly to him, but it was his eyes—haunted and hollow—that drew them in.
He stopped before the altar.
"Torren. Anthony. Varkis. Levi."
His voice rasped, barely holding beneath the weight of it.
They turned as one.
And then the dam broke.
Torren moved first, closing the distance with heavy, unsteady steps before he collapsed into Ragnar's embrace. The oldest of them in size—yet his shoulders trembled like a child's.
"Ragnar… I'm sorry."
His voice cracked under the weight of his guilt. Tears finally streaming down his eyes,
"I made excuses. Foolish, damnable excuses. I told myself next time—always next time. And now—"
Ragnar held him tightly; one hand splayed across his back.
"She will forgive you, Tor."
He whispered.
"She always did."
Anthony stepped forward, the air catching in his lungs as though something sharp had lodged there.
"That's what shatters me, brother."
He clenched his jaw.
"That she would forgive us. That even now, she would smile… and say she understood."
He turned his face away; shame painted across it in crimson strokes.
Levi's shoulders hunched inwards. His voice was a whisper—a boy's plea beneath a man's form.
"I was lazy, brother… I was idle."
He buried his face into Ragnar's shoulder, shaking like a reed in storm.
"Please punish me. Say something. Anything. I can't breathe for the weight of it—of everything I never did."
Ragnar's arm encircled him wordlessly.
Varkis stood apart—yet close. He said nothing. He couldn't.
Blood trickled down from his lip, bitten through in the effort to stay composed. His tears traced the scars time and secrecy had etched into him. But this—this pain—it left no room for silence.
He met Ragnar's gaze at last.
And Ragnar, without words, understood.
He opened his arms—and Varkis stepped into them. All at once. His restraint dissolved.
Their grief, once separate, now merged—four sons crumbling around the elder brother who had carried their shadows longer than any man should.
Behind them, the great stained-glass window cast slanting pools of coloured light across the floor. Crimson, gold, and amethyst danced across Althaea's coffin like blessings from some silent, sorrowful God.
Ragnar's gaze, rimmed in shadow and sorrow, found Halina through the shifting lattice of candlelight and stained glass.
He opened one arm toward her.
Wordlessly, she moved. The heels of her boots echoed across the chapel floor as she crossed the distance and melted into his embrace.
A stifled sob escaped her lips.
"I'm sorry, Halina," Ragnar murmured into her hair, his voice barely more than a breath. "I should never have raised my voice. Not to you. Not that day."
Halina did not answer at first. Her fingers clutched the folds of his shirt as though they were the last remnants of a world already fading. Her forehead pressed into his chest, warm with grief, damp with tears.
Finally, she whispered, "You came back."
"I could never do otherwise," Ragnar replied, his arms tightening, "not today."
The silence returned, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the faint flickering of chapel candles.
Then—
"I hope I'm not too late."
A clear, composed voice cut through the stillness.
All heads turned.
A young woman stood beneath the archway. Short coffee-brown hair, tucked behind one ear, hazel eyes bright but rimmed with fatigue. A satchel hung from her shoulder, the dust of hurried travel clinging to the hem of her coat.
Elizabeth Hope, daughter of Emily.
She caught her mother's eye—Emily nodded silently—and then Elizabeth made her way down the aisle, her heels clicking softly across the stone.
Reaching the coffin, she sank to one knee.
From the fold of her coat, she drew a small bouquet—white lilacs, their scent gentle and familiar.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, Aunt Althaea," she murmured, placing the flowers beside the others.
"I brought your favourites."
Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.
Then she rose with quiet poise, turning to face the gathered children of Althaea.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, bowing gently.
"I know how much she meant to all of you."
Ragnar offered her a solemn nod, a flicker of warmth in his tired eyes.
Halina reached out, pulling her into a soft embrace.
"Thank you for coming, sister Elly."
Elizabeth returned the gesture with equal tenderness.
"I had to."
Then—
CREEEAK.
The chapel door swung open one last time.
A tall figure entered, his slim frame outlined against the morning light. His hair was neatly combed, his coat pressed, though the nervous flick of his eyes betrayed a man out of place.
Ron.
A loyal attendant of the house.
In his hands—almost too carefully—was a large bouquet of pink and white carnations, tied with a black velvet ribbon.
He stopped halfway down the aisle and dipped his head, overcome with reverence.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse:
"Master…"
He stared at Ragnar, and something within his expression collapsed.
"I... I came as soon as I could."
Ragnar stepped toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"She would be happy," he said, voice low but firm.
"Thank you, Ron."
Ron nodded quickly, blinking furiously, then approached the altar and placed the carnations down beside Elizabeth's lilacs. The scent of the blooms mingled—sunrise and spring, tenderness and farewell.
The chapel now stood fuller. Yet still silent.
The portrait in glass above the altar cast down its fragmented light—casting red across Ragnar's shoulder, gold upon Halina's cheeks, blue on Varkis' brow.
A moment longer, and the priest, Father Jonathan, cleared his throat gently.
"Shall we begin?"
The liturgy waited.
And the air, thick with sorrow, prepared to bear one final goodbye.
A hush fell, deeper than silence. The kind only grief could summon.
At the altar, Father Jonathan, garbed in charcoal and silver vestments, stepped forward. He carried a brass-bound book, worn by age and use.
The Rites of Passing—the sacred text used only for the noble dead.
Behind him, a young acolyte swung a censer. The incense—myrrh, lavender, and white ash—coiled through the air like ghostly vines, rising toward the rafters.
Jonathan's voice, when it came, was low but unwavering. Each word struck the stone walls with measured grace.
"In the presence of light and shadow, of flesh and soul, we gather.
We commend before the hands of the Almighty and the gaze of the departed, the soul of one Althaea Beaumont,
Daughter of the soil, wife to sorrow, mother of many.
In her breath was grace, in her pain was dignity, and in her silence, strength.
Her hands bore the weight of generations.
Her eyes, a sea of wisdom."
He turned to the congregation—small, tightly bound.
Ragnar and Halina stood nearest to the coffin, flanked by Torren, Varkis, Levi, Anthony, and Annabelle. Ian Brooke's hand rested on his cane, unmoving. Percival and Selena sat stiffly in the pew behind.
Ron and Elizabeth remained near the rear, heads bowed.
The priest gestured solemnly to the coffin.
"Ash to ash," he murmured, placing a pinch of dust upon the wood.
"Salt to salt," the acolyte followed, sprinkling grains in a faint crescent.
"Name to name," Jonathan intoned, drawing a circle with a silver-tipped rod.
He placed a white mourning veil—folded thrice—on the coffin's lid.
"By the blessing of Saint Raphael, may she pass the threshold with light upon her brow.
May the River bear her gently to the Veiled Shore.
May the Keepers of the Gate know her name, and open the door without question."
A pause.
Then he turned to the family.
"If there are any here who would speak the final remembrance, now is the time."
For a moment, no one stirred.
Then Ragnar stepped forward. His black coat hung heavily from his frame, and his voice—though low—filled the chamber.
"She was the hearth in a house built from frost.
When we were scattered, she drew us home with nothing but her smile.
And when death came… she met it with more dignity than the entire Beaumont bloodline could muster."
A murmur passed through the room—subtle, but undeniable.
"I carry her in my scar," Ragnar said, touching his chest.
"And I will carry her in my silence."
He stepped back. His place taken, almost immediately, by Levi, who knelt before the coffin.
"I was the one who never listened," he whispered.
"She never raised her voice at me. Not once. Not even when I deserved it."
He drew something from his pocket—a small metal locket, chipped at the edges.
"She gave me this the day I was conscripted. Said it belonged to someone brave.
I think she was wrong. It belonged to someone kind."
He placed the locket beside her folded hands.
One by one, they came forward.
Torren, removing his service medal and setting it near the flowers.
"I never got the chance to make you proud. But you made me what I am."
Anthony, holding a small vial of oil from the church where she used to pray with him.
"You kept me from becoming my father."
Varkis, saying nothing—only tracing the coffin's edge with trembling fingers, then placing a small notebook of pressed violets inside. A page he had once promised to write for her.
Halina, last.
"She once told me," She began, tears barely held back,
"That if we all forget her, the flowers would still remember.
So, I planted lilacs outside her window the night before she died.
I hope they're blooming."
A sob rose—but she swallowed it back.
Ian was next, he placed his forehead against his daughter's,
"You were the best daughter I could ask for. But I failed to protect you. Forgive me, my child."
Percival stepped up next,
"Sister, please rest easy. I will take good care of the kids. Please forgive your incompetent brother."
Selena kneeled next to her,
"Sister-in-law, thank you for all the love you gave me. You held my hand when I left everyone's. Guided me when I was blinded. Thank you."
Emily stepped forward next, putting a photograph of them beside her,
"For the sister I never had by blood but always had by soul. May you rest in peace."
Elizabeth came next,
"I am sorry for not visiting more, aunt. Thank you for all your love. May your soul find peace and joy in heaven."
At last, the Faye siblings came,
"Mother-in-law, I am sorry for not meeting you earlier. Please send us your blessings. Please rest easy, I will do my best to take care of Anthony."
"Miss Beaumont,"
Gabriel knelt,
"Though we never spoke. Ragna told me about you. A noble soul like yours will be guided by the Pathmaker himself. Please send your blessing to this lost child."
Ron only stood in silence, head bowed in respect.
Then silence returned.
The priest closed the book and bowed his head.
"So be it. Let her soul pass beyond the gates.
Let her memory linger where it is welcome.
Let her name be spoken when the wind is gentle."
He turned.
The acolyte rang a bell once.
GONG.
The bell's sound echoed through the chapel and into the cold morning air beyond.
The procession moved slowly through the winding path of Elder Grove Cemetery, nestled beyond the chapel's rear cloister.
Gnarled oaks lined the trail, their boughs bare, the air thick with late-morning fog. Moss clung to leaning gravestones like time's fingerprints. Ravens stirred in the distance but made no sound.
Six pallbearers carried the coffin, led by Ragnar, Torren, Varkis, Anthony, Levi, and Percival. Their steps were measured, deliberate, as if the very earth demanded reverence.
At the edge of a sunken grove, a freshly dug grave awaited, its sides braced with stone. The headstone was simple—white granite, hand-carved:
Althaea Beaumont
Wife. Mother. Light-bearer.
"To be good in a world gone cruel is a rebellion in itself."
The family gathered under a wrought-iron canopy shrouded in black drapes. Father Jonathan stood beside the grave, the censer now still in his hands.
A final hymn echoed from the acolyte behind him. No choir. No bells.
Only the sound of the shovel striking stone, as the coffin was lowered into the earth with the help of iron cranks. It moved slowly, descending like a ship beneath a silent sea.
Halina, her gloved hands clasped in front of her, stepped forward first. She held a single white lily, pressed a kiss to its petals, and dropped it into the grave.
"For your peace, Mother,"
She whispered, voice fragile.
Ragnar approached next. He knelt beside the grave. From his coat, he drew a sealed envelope, marked only with the family crest and tied with a black ribbon. He placed it upon the descending coffin lid.
"This is everything I never had the courage to say. May it find you, wherever the river leads."
Then Torren—rigid as stone—pulled off a bronze marine insignia from his coat and dropped it in beside her.
"You made me more than a soldier. You made me a man."
Varkis remained still for a moment. Then, without a word, he dropped a crushed tin of cocoa powder—a flavour Althaea once made for him when he first joined the family. He bowed low, as though before royalty.
Anthony, wiping the edge of his eye, removed a small wooden cross, carved by his own hands.
"You bore the cruelty of nobles and still taught us to kneel before grace. Sleep easy, Mother."
Levi, silent as the grave itself, placed a black-and-gold ribbon beside the others—once used to tie back her hair. He said nothing. His mismatched eyes lingered long.
A pause.
A few more stepped forward in turn—Elizabeth, Ron, Emily, Selena and finally Ian Brooke, her father.
The old man said nothing. But his gloved hand trembled as he rested a small portrait of Althaea as a child beside the lilies. Then he turned away.
Father Jonathan lifted his hand once more.
"From the dust we rose. To the dust we return.
May this resting ground be sacred. May the wind remember her name.
May no evil pass here, and no sorrow linger long."
He nodded once.
The gravediggers, quiet and respectful, began to work.
Soil fell.
Soft at first. Then steady.
Each scoop seemed to strike a nerve.
The siblings stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes not looking away as the coffin disappeared beneath the earth. Not until the final heap had settled, and the earth was once again still.
A single white ribbon was tied to the wrought-iron post beside the grave.
The family stood there, unmoving. Silent.