Tu Es Ma Lumière

158 - Deprivation - Modern - Part 2

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Prompt - This made me cry so hard.... could you please also write about Mary's funeral/death?

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The air around him smells like his brother after one of his rides around the countryside. All he smells are the dampness of the leaves surrounding him, the sweetness of the crimson roses and the alabaster lilies. The damp, sweetness of the wet ground and the hardness of the stone at his back, it is indescribable. It's surreal, it's unimaginable, it's a thousand other things he does not have the heart to try and explain, even to himself. If he does, if he feels it, he doesn't think he will ever, ever stop. The numbness, the disbelief and the denial, anything is better than the horrid grief.

The beer is bitter upon his tongue. The bottle is cold upon his hand. The growing puddle of empty glass bottles near his legs should concern him, but he is too damn numb to do anything about it. More are near him, held together by wet paper packaging, full of the golden coloured liquid that couldn't possibly mean what everybody said it meant. How could liquid that held so much power to numb the pain he felt be bad for a man? It should be prized over everything else, having the ability to at least take the edge off the pain he felt within his heart and his mind. What else could do such a thing?

He hears footsteps nearing him, but he pays it no mind. Many people work in a graveyard, and more are here now that she's buried. Think of it, a life so full, just getting started, so energetic and good, snuffed away with the sound of shrieking tires and breaking glass? A life, a girl so beautiful and unique, forever trapped just a few feet underneath him, in a white tomb lined with crimson satin. Forever parted from him. Good god, it hurts. How many of these fucking things does he have to put away until the pain isn't so bad anymore?

She is gone, gone to whatever life is after this one, and he is stuck here without her. Pining and hopeless until the day he finally leaves this painful, cruel world and joins her in the great beyond. Perhaps, with how fucked his medical history had been over his life, that day would be soon. Now that his light, his life, his heart, his soul, his moon, his stars, has taken to her eternal slumber, he may join her. Now that his reason to fight had gone, what reason did he have to stay upon this cruel, harsh world without her?

The footsteps grow closer to him. He closes his eyes, hoping that they'd leave him be. However, the blonde can hear the squish of the dew and the crinkle of the leaves under heavy boots. There is no mistake of who it is, who it would always be.

"Francis," Sebastian de Portiers sighs sadly, kneeling before the long, gangly body of his little brother. He observes the empty beer bottles, he counts them with a sad exhale. Then, the brunette brings the blonde in for a tight embrace. He bites his tears back as he hears his brother let out a choked cry, one so vulgar it seemed that it was pulled from his very soul, before he begins to weep.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair. Any of it. He'd just recovered from his latest bout of meningitis, and the two of them had prepared to spend the rest of their lives travelling the world and having adventures together. One day, they'd settle down and start up somewhere, they'd have a football team of children and they'd grow old together, sipping iced tea as they swung upon the bench swing, their grandchildren squealing as they played in the back garden. A future so disgustingly perfect, forever taken away from him because one selfish bastard didn't want to take a cab home after a night in the bar. That bastard so vile he didn't even have the gaul to live and suffer the consequences of his choices, for the fucker died on impact with their car.

He weeps louder, not realising when he'd begun gripping onto his brother so tightly that he thought he'd disappear. He didn't realise when he'd started muttering and crying out words he couldn't find it within himself to stop or cease. They continue on and on and on.

Everything had been so perfect. A couple months before the all clear, when he was really, really fucking sick, the two had gotten married in his hospital room. A spur of the moment decision in case he had actually died, so how ironic was it that she was the one to take his place in the grave? Mary's attire was far from an ivory gown, but a lacy white mini dress and she'd worn it twenty times before that, but she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, standing there with her hair braided so lovely, the bunch of roses within her hand smelling so sweet, promising him the world and a lifetime together. One lifetime. One. Her own.

"She's left me! She-she's actually left me!" he continues to wail within his brothers' chest. He's warm and smells of cinnamon and mint, it's comforting but it's not the right comfort. However, it's comfort nonetheless and he takes full advantage. Bash didn't know if it was the grief or the alcohol talking, or both. But, he just kneels there and strokes Francis' messy blonde curls as his seventeen year old brother continued to wail his grief.

But, after the wedding, things began changing. He had overcame the latest bout of sickness and they hag begun planning their lives. One car ride gone wrong, thanks to a drunk driver, taking away everything they could have had and should have had.

The funeral had been beautiful and painful. Mourners in black filled the cathedral to the brim. They sung and cried and prayed, he had been clutched so tightly by Marie de Guise and his own mother that he thought he'd explode. Everybody except the immediate Tudors had filled the cathedral they should have said their vows within. Two hours after, her body had been carried by her brothers, and two days after, her husband drunkenly sat in front of her tombstone, being held by his own blood, not holding the strength to read the words behind him.

Here lays the body and entombs the spirit of;

Mariposa Victoria Elizabeth Matilda Valois-Angoulême.

1997 - 2014

A loving wife, daughter, sister, cousin and friend.

A light in life, now a light in the stars.

Meum est finis, meus in principio.

In my end, is my beginning.

But in Francis' end, how lucky was he, even whist he cried in the arms of his brother? To have experienced something so profound and wonderful, that it made saying goodbye so hard?

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Annd I'm sad :(