The soft hiss of linen sliding across skin shattered the silence.
White fabric, lined with delicate red stripes, settled perfectly around the small frame. In the polished bronze hand mirror she held, a hazy reflection of her form took shape.
"Beltu Shehertu¹... please set that aside until we're done."
Before she could protest, the mirror—its frame adorned with meticulously carved gemstones—was taken by a servant and placed on the table. A faint frown ghosted across her face.
It vanished just as quickly when a man appeared in the doorway.
"Ninuit."
"Abuya²!"
She wanted to leap up and complain, to lash out like she wasn't so small—small enough for the servant to hold in place without much effort. The grip wasn't painful, just annoyingly firm.
"Belu Rabu³, we'll be done with Beltu Shehertu in a moment."
"Good. Make it quick."
She looked at her father in silence, wanting—needing—to keep believing, even after these five years, that he was the strongest man in the world. That no one could ever defeat him or make him look... vulnerable.
But it seemed five years was all that belief would get.
She didn't know why the servants had taken out her hair ornaments and dressed her in these strange clothes. She didn't understand why a single lock of her hair had been tied with a stark black ribbon. But the look in her father's eyes planted a strange feeling in her chest.
It was unpleasant—but she ignored it.
The moment the servant's hands loosened even slightly, the child slipped from the backless stool and ran to her father. The servants said nothing, but since their lord didn't object, they excused themselves to join the others.
She beamed as she stood beside him, craning her neck to look up. Her tiny fingers wrapped around his pinky and tugged.
"Come on, abuya! Let's go see ummi⁴ now! She's been in that room for years!"
A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips, gone before she could notice. Or so he thought.
"It's been two days, Ninuit... you're exaggerating."
When he finally moved, she nearly bounced in place, eyes sparkling. The towering man led her toward the staircase.
The house had been crowded for a while—with people, priests, dignitaries, relatives. But when her eyes fell on the cellar entrance, she suddenly understood where they had all gone.
A boy older than her turned, noticed them, and approached. His eyes were somber in a way he couldn't hide, unlike their father's calm expression. It puzzled her.
"You took your time."
"Don't start, Ur."
Their father responded before she could. He knew they'd bicker endlessly if he didn't—and this was not the time or place.
As the priests noticed their arrival, brief looks of sympathy and solemnity passed among them. They stepped aside.
She didn't quite grasp what it all meant—but the large wooden box drew her gaze.
Large enough to fit an entire person inside...
The priests surrounding the box began chanting softly, their voices low and mournful. A priestess approached, placing offerings—a pomegranate juice jar, an ivory comb, familiar jewelry.
Another priestess she hadn't noticed stepped forward, adding a white gown embroidered with gold, and crimson leather shoes.
"Bring the offerings."
In the hush, the high priestess called quietly. A younger one came forward, bearing a tray much like the jewelry one: a miniature winged bull statue—Lamassu—a clay figure of a woman in a servant's pose, a barley loaf, a jar of honey, and a bright red liquid—probably pomegranate juice. Finally, a wine jar.
The chanting ceased, and the priestesses began singing in eerie unison.
"You who have gone to the land of no return, where darkness swallows all life."
Their voices—discordant, off-key—sent shivers down her spine. She didn't even register the words.
"Take the bread of the dead and a heart of gold, and may the gates of the underworld open for you in peace."
The song, fragile and uneven, mingled with the soft wailing of women behind them and the mournful plucking of lyres.
"We shall weep like rain until Ashur rebuilds your bones."
"Oh Rab Ksire⁵, Adad-kun-User!"
She watched as her father let go of her hand the moment the priestesses stepped back and the high priestess called to him. She watched him approach the box.
He bent to look inside, hands steady on its edge—but his broad back looked incredibly alone among the crowd.
He whispered something. She couldn't hear the words. Not over the silence so sharp it could cut. Still, the weight of them lodged in her chest like a stone.
It wasn't grief. Not exactly. Nor was it pain. It just made her stomach churn uncomfortably. She wasn't used to places like this.
Her father picked up a small clay tablet and placed it inside the coffin. Then, he shaved off his beard.
That startled her. She'd never seen him without his carefully trimmed beard.
Then came the women—mourners—each holding a small blade. One by one, they brought the blades to their necks and cut locks of hair, tossing them into the coffin. Her aunts threw in entire braids.
Then, the women cried out as one:
"Take our beauty with you, for we no longer need it!"
A young priestess stepped forward, a bowl in her hands. But the high priestess whispered something, and she paused.
The high priestess turned her gaze to a specific spot. All the priestesses followed. So did the rest of the attendees.
She felt her heartbeat falter under the weight of so many stares. She glanced at her brother.
"Children of Rab Ksire—Ur Danu and Ninuit Mardit—come forward to bid farewell to Beltu Rabitu⁶."
A firm but gentle grip wrapped around her wrist. Ur Danu pulled her forward toward the wooden box.
Her heart raced—then seemed to stop when she saw her mother lying inside.
Sleeping. Unmoving. Beautiful.
"Ummi…"
She whispered the word like a secret—not with sorrow, not with pain, but like she was trying to rouse someone from a nap with a gentle nudge.
Ur Danu backed away immediately, as if the ground burned beneath him. She didn't catch his face in time, but the way his hand covered it as he stepped away told her he was crying.
Oh...
She looked again.
Her mother's hair—the hair others don't usually see—flowed softly onto a golden pillow that surely wasn't comfortable. Her face was calm, serene, untroubled.
She was wrapped in white linen bearing Ishtar's star. She smelled of rice water and honey, with a hint of fig leaves. Jewelry and charms ringed her head, hands, and feet. The pomegranate, honey, and wine sat beside her, along with a carefully folded wedding dress.
Gold threads bound her fingers. She clutched the small Lamassu. The broken mirror had already been placed.
Ninuit Mardit leaned closer, resting against the coffin's edge, eyes taking in the still, silent form of her mother—for the first time, and perhaps the last.
She reached out, touching her mother's cheek with trembling fingers.
Cold. Rigid. Foreign.
She didn't think she could ever get used to it.
A small smile appeared on her lips as she looked into her mother's closed eyes. As if she could see her. As if her mother could look back.
"Ummi was so loved."
A vague murmur spread among the crowd.
She pushed a few stray hairs away from her own face. Her mother, without a veil, looked even more dazzling. Now she understood why no one was allowed to see the Lady's hair.
Wars could be fought for it.
"So many people came to see you, ummi."
She picked up the golden blade laid by the coffin. Took a strand of her own hair and cut it.
A collective gasp echoed as they saw the black ribbon wrapped around the lock.
Then the high priestess spoke:
"Has no one told you a child should not cut her hair?"
Ninuit turned toward her, a mischievous smile blooming on her lips.
"I read she's not required to. Not that she's forbidden."
And with that, Ninuit Mardit turned away—utterly unbothered. Whispers of disapproval stirred, louder still when the black ribboned strand fell on the linen-covered chest of the deceased.
A child should not smile or laugh for forty days after the death of a loved one. Such as a mother.
But Ninuit Mardit smiled.
Because she didn't want her final moment with her mother to be ugly.
"Take my beauty with you, for I no longer need it!"
Her mother had been beautiful. Beltani Itu, the famed Flower of Nineveh—even now, even in this box.
No. She was especially beautiful now.
Astonished, Ninuit whispered, unthinking, her thoughts slipping out like water:
"There'll certainly be a war in the underworld."
The reaction was immediate—priests and mourners startled, disturbed.
"A p-prophecy…?"
And that was the tipping point. When a young priestess whispered those words, panic began to stir.
Ninuit Mardit looked up at her father with a sheepish grin—just as he facepalmed in despair.
She scratched her head helplessly as she watched the chaos. One of the priestesses screamed in panic.
"Burn the place down! It's a bad omen, a bad omen!!"
Well, people here like to overreact.
But Ninuit Mardit loves chaos, anyways.