MoonlitSeas
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in memoriam
tw: death, overall dark themes
1395 words
–
In the beginning, he was too young to understand.
When his mother slept, he did not have the eye to see how her chest lay still, no longer rising and falling with the rhythm of life. Instead, he danced around the edges of threadbare curtains, humming to himself.
Extracting a single, pristine rose from his mother’s precious garden, he left it between the pages of one of many volumes. The ritual was one she had taught him – she had always said it was essential to cherish the few bright colors in their lives.
In time, the boy would come to understand that his mother was gone, and brittle petals would be showered across her grave. With the petals would fall a single teardrop, a silent memoriam to his mother.
–
OBITUARY: Lynne Haviland Baker
Birth: June 7th
Death: April 15th
Age: 32
Born in the small village of Agloe, Westeville, Lynne Baker was the youngest of Archer and Evelyn Haviland’s three daughters. As a child, she was best known for her charming personality and love for dance, though the people of her village seldom found a cause for celebration.
At age 18, Lynne married Hunter Baker, the nominal son of two bakers. Soon after the birth of their son, , Hunter was drafted into His Majesty’s forces, where he was lost in action. Left to raise their child alone, Lynne gathered up her few belongings to establish a new home on the edge of the village.
Though Lynne often made herself scarce following the disappearance of her husband, neighbors report that she was a compassionate mother, enamored with the carrying for her son. She also loved to sing, and would hum a cheerful melody as she tended to her garden.
–
The second time he witnessed death, he stood among a crowd.
He was no longer a boy, but instead a young adult. His hands were long calloused with the dirt of the fields, and he was old enough to understand the execution at hand.
A man stood, chin up and shoulders squared, upon a hastily constructed platform in the village square. The charge at hand was an account of treason, specifically, mishandling of food supplies.
In truth, it wasn’t hard to sympathize with the man’s cause.
Around the square, the young man saw children, not unlike himself. They laughed and played, carefree in spite of the sharp angles of their limbs and intake of their mothers’ breaths.
When the axe came to fall, he silently applauded the man’s courage in righteous.
–
OBITUARY: Alex Golsteine
Birth: November 13th
Death: August 9th
Age: 28
Alex Golstiene was born in Altonie, Westeville. The identity of his father remains unknown, and his mother, Ariete Golstiene, passed away shortly after her son’s birth, likely as a result of malnutrition. As a result, Alex was raised in a collection of orphanages, where his caretakers noted his inclination to protect and befriend younger children.
In his early adulthood, Alex was recruited to the local task force, and later elected into his village council. He was best known for his outspoken nature, with a particular passion for orphanage reform and equitable resource distribution.
Frustrated with the bureaucratics of governmental reform, Alex was rumored to spearhead a regional underground movement. While his involvement may have led him to die a traitor to king and country, locals remember him as a champion of the people.
–
In the years after that fateful execution, death would learn to follow in his footsteps.
Though memory has long since forgotten the faces of individual young men he met in the fields, they remain as a whole. Blood stained his improvised uniform, threadbare as the curtains that had decorated his mother’s house.
Despite the quiet calculation that he harnessed the blade with, he could never quite bring himself to look away from their eyes. In them, he saw the love of families and the laughter of children, perhaps unborn.
Sometimes, he wished he could feel a semblance of remorse. Still, their sentiments were not ones he could share.
Once, a wounded man pressed a small newspaper cutting into his hand. It was an obituary, a memoriam to someone he might have known. In spite of himself, he kept it through the years.
–
OBITUARY: Henry Kestilde
Birth: September 5th
Death: February 12th
Age: 32
Born into a family of farmers in Harrington, Westeville, Henry Kestilde was best known for his outgoing personality and boundless love for the outdoors. He was the fourth child of parents Eleanor and David Kestilde and one of many, many Kestilde cousins.
From a young age, Henry demonstrated a talent for captivating audiences with displays of amateur puppetry. He enjoyed inventing stories for a variety of mundane objects that surrounded his everyday life, and entertained other children with his portrayal of the ordinary as extraordinary.
As he grew into adulthood, Henry maintained his love for storytelling, becoming a scribe for the local council and working as a journalist for the local newspaper. He also continued his performances of puppetry, and was last seen performing for a group of school children before the blazing fire that claimed his life.
–
The final time death came about by his hand, it was waiting.
Revolutions, as it were, are a remarkable breaking ground for alternate lines of succession. When a general stood in his way, it was only natural that he did what was necessary.
It was a beautiful evening. The sky was painted with the gilded light of the sun, casting its glimmer on to the waters of a lake below. It was a night fit for the crowning of a new sovereign.
When he entered the tent, the general stood waiting. His hand was on his sword, but he did not draw it. He only gestured for the young man to sit.
“I know what you intend to do,” he said. His voice was flat, concealing emotion. For a moment, the general paused, considering his words, “I seek only to ask of you to return these to whom they belong.”
In his open hands, the general’s blood dripped upon a handful of unblemished rose petals, each as carefully dried as the last.
–
OBITUARY: Hunter Baker
Birth: April 15th
Death: June 7th
Age: 46
Born in the small village of Agloe, Westeville, Hunter was the nominal son of two bakers, Adeline and Edward Baker. As a child, he was best known for his undisciplined energy and his charming personality as he chatted with customers around his parent’s shop.
At age 18, Hunter married Lynne Haviland, a beautiful young woman with a love for dancing. Soon after the birth of their son, , Hunter was drafted into His Majesty’s forces, where he was believed dead by official records.
In truth, Hunter found his way into the revolutionary elite, disappearing from the map under a variety of pseudonyms. Under this cover, he organized the revolution’s militant initiatives, coordinating a series of assaults that ultimately claimed the capital.
On April 15th, his life was taken by before he could establish a post-martial government of the country, leaving his intended legacy unfinished.
–
In the end, he understood all too well.
He was a cold-blooded tyrant, a revolutionary turned against revolution. He sat upon his throne in gilded glory, ordering execution after execution in a desperate ploy to maintain his stolen empire.
Perhaps it had worked; he did not fall from his post.
Yet with each passing year, the tyrant grew older as the men in his army grew younger. He was, in the end, only a man – he could not hope to surpass death when he had born witness to it once and again.
Where others had fallen, there were those who had loved them carried on their memory. When the compassionate, the courageous, the beloved, and the visionary had perished, their accomplishments were narrated in memoriam of their lives.
He, the tyrant, would not be so lucky.
He was cruel.
A coward, murdering his own father.
Unloved, for the mother he had known was gone.
Imprudent, in his rule of the country he had once loved.
His name would be erased from his own history, a silent protest to his crimes. He was no longer the son his mother had loved, only a shadow of the boy he had been.
In the end, the tyrant slept.
(They found rose petals in his hands.)
tw: death, overall dark themes
1395 words
–
In the beginning, he was too young to understand.
When his mother slept, he did not have the eye to see how her chest lay still, no longer rising and falling with the rhythm of life. Instead, he danced around the edges of threadbare curtains, humming to himself.
Extracting a single, pristine rose from his mother’s precious garden, he left it between the pages of one of many volumes. The ritual was one she had taught him – she had always said it was essential to cherish the few bright colors in their lives.
In time, the boy would come to understand that his mother was gone, and brittle petals would be showered across her grave. With the petals would fall a single teardrop, a silent memoriam to his mother.
–
OBITUARY: Lynne Haviland Baker
Birth: June 7th
Death: April 15th
Age: 32
Born in the small village of Agloe, Westeville, Lynne Baker was the youngest of Archer and Evelyn Haviland’s three daughters. As a child, she was best known for her charming personality and love for dance, though the people of her village seldom found a cause for celebration.
At age 18, Lynne married Hunter Baker, the nominal son of two bakers. Soon after the birth of their son, , Hunter was drafted into His Majesty’s forces, where he was lost in action. Left to raise their child alone, Lynne gathered up her few belongings to establish a new home on the edge of the village.
Though Lynne often made herself scarce following the disappearance of her husband, neighbors report that she was a compassionate mother, enamored with the carrying for her son. She also loved to sing, and would hum a cheerful melody as she tended to her garden.
–
The second time he witnessed death, he stood among a crowd.
He was no longer a boy, but instead a young adult. His hands were long calloused with the dirt of the fields, and he was old enough to understand the execution at hand.
A man stood, chin up and shoulders squared, upon a hastily constructed platform in the village square. The charge at hand was an account of treason, specifically, mishandling of food supplies.
In truth, it wasn’t hard to sympathize with the man’s cause.
Around the square, the young man saw children, not unlike himself. They laughed and played, carefree in spite of the sharp angles of their limbs and intake of their mothers’ breaths.
When the axe came to fall, he silently applauded the man’s courage in righteous.
–
OBITUARY: Alex Golsteine
Birth: November 13th
Death: August 9th
Age: 28
Alex Golstiene was born in Altonie, Westeville. The identity of his father remains unknown, and his mother, Ariete Golstiene, passed away shortly after her son’s birth, likely as a result of malnutrition. As a result, Alex was raised in a collection of orphanages, where his caretakers noted his inclination to protect and befriend younger children.
In his early adulthood, Alex was recruited to the local task force, and later elected into his village council. He was best known for his outspoken nature, with a particular passion for orphanage reform and equitable resource distribution.
Frustrated with the bureaucratics of governmental reform, Alex was rumored to spearhead a regional underground movement. While his involvement may have led him to die a traitor to king and country, locals remember him as a champion of the people.
–
In the years after that fateful execution, death would learn to follow in his footsteps.
Though memory has long since forgotten the faces of individual young men he met in the fields, they remain as a whole. Blood stained his improvised uniform, threadbare as the curtains that had decorated his mother’s house.
Despite the quiet calculation that he harnessed the blade with, he could never quite bring himself to look away from their eyes. In them, he saw the love of families and the laughter of children, perhaps unborn.
Sometimes, he wished he could feel a semblance of remorse. Still, their sentiments were not ones he could share.
Once, a wounded man pressed a small newspaper cutting into his hand. It was an obituary, a memoriam to someone he might have known. In spite of himself, he kept it through the years.
–
OBITUARY: Henry Kestilde
Birth: September 5th
Death: February 12th
Age: 32
Born into a family of farmers in Harrington, Westeville, Henry Kestilde was best known for his outgoing personality and boundless love for the outdoors. He was the fourth child of parents Eleanor and David Kestilde and one of many, many Kestilde cousins.
From a young age, Henry demonstrated a talent for captivating audiences with displays of amateur puppetry. He enjoyed inventing stories for a variety of mundane objects that surrounded his everyday life, and entertained other children with his portrayal of the ordinary as extraordinary.
As he grew into adulthood, Henry maintained his love for storytelling, becoming a scribe for the local council and working as a journalist for the local newspaper. He also continued his performances of puppetry, and was last seen performing for a group of school children before the blazing fire that claimed his life.
–
The final time death came about by his hand, it was waiting.
Revolutions, as it were, are a remarkable breaking ground for alternate lines of succession. When a general stood in his way, it was only natural that he did what was necessary.
It was a beautiful evening. The sky was painted with the gilded light of the sun, casting its glimmer on to the waters of a lake below. It was a night fit for the crowning of a new sovereign.
When he entered the tent, the general stood waiting. His hand was on his sword, but he did not draw it. He only gestured for the young man to sit.
“I know what you intend to do,” he said. His voice was flat, concealing emotion. For a moment, the general paused, considering his words, “I seek only to ask of you to return these to whom they belong.”
In his open hands, the general’s blood dripped upon a handful of unblemished rose petals, each as carefully dried as the last.
–
OBITUARY: Hunter Baker
Birth: April 15th
Death: June 7th
Age: 46
Born in the small village of Agloe, Westeville, Hunter was the nominal son of two bakers, Adeline and Edward Baker. As a child, he was best known for his undisciplined energy and his charming personality as he chatted with customers around his parent’s shop.
At age 18, Hunter married Lynne Haviland, a beautiful young woman with a love for dancing. Soon after the birth of their son, , Hunter was drafted into His Majesty’s forces, where he was believed dead by official records.
In truth, Hunter found his way into the revolutionary elite, disappearing from the map under a variety of pseudonyms. Under this cover, he organized the revolution’s militant initiatives, coordinating a series of assaults that ultimately claimed the capital.
On April 15th, his life was taken by before he could establish a post-martial government of the country, leaving his intended legacy unfinished.
–
In the end, he understood all too well.
He was a cold-blooded tyrant, a revolutionary turned against revolution. He sat upon his throne in gilded glory, ordering execution after execution in a desperate ploy to maintain his stolen empire.
Perhaps it had worked; he did not fall from his post.
Yet with each passing year, the tyrant grew older as the men in his army grew younger. He was, in the end, only a man – he could not hope to surpass death when he had born witness to it once and again.
Where others had fallen, there were those who had loved them carried on their memory. When the compassionate, the courageous, the beloved, and the visionary had perished, their accomplishments were narrated in memoriam of their lives.
He, the tyrant, would not be so lucky.
He was cruel.
A coward, murdering his own father.
Unloved, for the mother he had known was gone.
Imprudent, in his rule of the country he had once loved.
His name would be erased from his own history, a silent protest to his crimes. He was no longer the son his mother had loved, only a shadow of the boy he had been.
In the end, the tyrant slept.
(They found rose petals in his hands.)
helloo <3 to be quite honest, i didn’t expect to finish this story at all, much less to be entering it now, but here we are! for starters, i wanted to write something different – i’ve sometimes felt that i rely on pretty imagery to the extreme, and, in part, this was meant to be my way of proving to myself that i don’t need to write in a lyrical fashion to be a “good” writer. this piece was inspired by its namesake, “In Memoriam” – though i’ve yet to finish the book (to be honest, soldiers at war is perhaps not exactly my taste in literature), what struck me as interesting about it was the way it opened with a few pages of newspaper, including the in memoriams for the men who had died at war. i wondered if i could tell a character’s story almost entirely through the lost lives they encountered – obituaries also strike me as interesting because they attempt to tell the story of someone’s entire life in only a few hundred words. i’ve often been one to use several thousand words to describe the details of a single moment – so it was certainly an interesting challenge, to say the least, but i’m glad i pushed through it and have certainly enjoyed it <3 (thank you so much to reese and luna for offering their encouragement and brief thoughts along the way!)