For a fraction of second my eyes catch the chandelier above casting a soft, crystalline light across the hall, catching in his hair — golden strands glittering like flecks of sunlight trapped in ice. And I almost feel like he spared me a swift glance but I brush it off focusing on his words deprived of any unnecessary politeness and warmth as the sweet, waxy smell of the flowers catch my attention for a lesser moment.
"We are gathered today to mark the passing of Rose Algeria Ravienne... Duchess of Ravienne, my wife and our son— Ray De Ravienne's mother." He pauses — and this time he stares at me as if he could see right through my soul and read my thoughts. I look away and instantly regret but when I look back he's already back to speaking. And I hate him for not looking for a bit longer. For not waiting. For not caring. For being as dead inside as her. But the difference is His grace is dead emotionally and the Duchess is dead physically. Dead.
"She was born a princess, and she died a duchess....all because I dragged her down to my level."
I notice a slight tremor in his voice but he returns to his usual self in a fraction of second.
"I will not pretend she was perfect. Nor will I indulge in romanticized accounts of her character. Many of you here barely knew her. Some of you never cared to." He pauses for a second before continuing. "And that is none of my concern."
This time, not a single tremor rises in his voice — as cold as the room, and perhaps even colder than the corpse lying among us.
"Her death is unfortunate. It is always unfortunate when someone with such calibre, such name, such presence... disappears. Let this moment serve not as a stage for dramatic grief, but as a reminder that every life ends, and every legacy fades — no matter how brightly it once burned."
He pauses. Cold. Final.
"The rites have been observed. Let us proceed accordingly."
His eyes pass over me — not stopping, merely brushing. He steps back without another word, already turning away before the silence has settled.