The ceremony dragged on. There was a finite amount of chants, prayers, and sermons any individual could endure at a time. Myrkas had long passed his quota. With his aching, pulsing head on top, Myrkas could barely restrain himself from walking out. His guilt, born from his lack of emotion regarding his family's passing, was nowhere large enough to make the experience bearable. Myrkas could not even remember one tender feeling related to any of the departed. It was hard to feel grief–or guilt for its lack–for those who amounted to strangers. He did not wish to add mourning, and a possible righteous revenge, on his to-do list.
The Hakhmir boy refrained to chuckle at the thought. According to most fantasy works, he should have felt a rising anger, a burning desire to avenge his dead family. Only to later find out revenge did not carry many benefits in and of itself... Myrkas had reached this conclusion on his own, without the need for the usual tribulations. Revenge was way too much trouble.
No thanks, he thought.
The overarching vengeance plot had officially been killed in its shell. Myrkas simply had better things to spend his energy on. Such as figuring out who he was and what he wanted from this life.
It took what felt like hours for the funeral to end. The few remains which had been found were further cremated in golden flames, directly in front of the audience. The ashes were then buried in the temple's garden, under the eyes of the gathered crowd. The mortal cycle ever turning. The immortal souls released to the heavens, on their way to judgement and reincarnation. A final prayer blessed the souls' journey to Allrikh's warm embrace, concluding the whole thing.
The sun was setting as they exited the temple. At last, it was time to head home for Myrkas, to his uncle's house at least. If it was "this" Myrkas' home was to be seen. Myrkas simply followed Nirrina and Master Hakhmir, letting himself be led without any resistance on his part. He saw no better option to choose, and he preferred not to run away on his own. Myrkas was dead–pun intended–tired.
Nirrina and his uncle were the only people around with an ounce of care for Myrkas. Sticking with them was his best bet for survival in this unknown world. Too many transmigration stories were strife with mortal dangers hidden in plain sight. Myrkas was desperate for support, for trustworthy people to help him navigate his new reality. He could have gotten much worse, he concluded. He hoped his situation would provide the respite he needed. Especially while his identity remained fuzzy. Fuzzy to himself, to be clear–the people around him were pretty convinced he was this boy named Myrkas Hakhmir, to be honest.
The trio walked home, winding through a number of paved streets. Simple gray-beige brick buildings gave way gradually to larger and larger estates, glimpsed through cement-like walls bordering the road. Lush greeneries grew along those borders, interspaced by mature fruit trees. The walls became taller and fuller as they went, the plant similarly becoming more curated as they neared the richer neighbourhoods,
Myrkas recognized citruses and peaches among the fruits hanging from branches. They were early in the season, not yet in the middle of spring, Many trees they passed intrigued him, their fruits and flowers not any he recognized.
Small, pink-and-white berry clusters particularly caught his attention. They gathered three-by-three atop the highest branches. Myrkas salivated at the thought of eating one. Their sight and scent evoked warm summer nights and whispered lullabies to his addled mind.
"The louktams are almost ready. It's your favourite fruit, right Myrkassa?" asked Nirrina.
Myrkas nodded reflexively in answer. Darkness had fallen when they veered left. They turned just shy of a large, gray-and-white marble arch. It was set in an intricately carved inner city wall, with guards standing near the open doors. They jealously guarded the most prominent domains of the city of Piercing Jade Valley. The walls and greeneries, ever more extravagant, continued past the arch and down the road, keeping the rich–and maybe famous'–secrets. Sprawling estates were visible above the barriers, imposing in their unabashed grandeur. Lanterns, statues, and private gates completed the tableau.
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Myrkas stood agape, wanting to look his fill despite his aching head and feet. His curiosity had been sparked. Unfortunately, they had arrived at his uncle's estate, adjacent to the inner wall, on the "wrong" side of the marble arch. They passed through the estate's gate at once.
Myrkas' new house–although housing complex might be a more accurate term–was somewhat modest in comparison to the truly wealthy's domains. Its gray and tan stone blocks–an upgrade from cheaper bricks–made up a dozen squared pavilions, arranged around extensive gardens. A small, domed tower stood above the largest building. Plain stone paths ran through, leading from one feature to the next. Small bridges crossed streams and ponds where carps could be seen and heard breaking the water's surface.
The view upon his entry stopped Myrkas in his steps. He had not dared to have any expectations about his living situation. Myrkas had feared the worst. The apparent low level of technology had hinted at crudely made houses without running water. So far, Myrkas was more than pleasantly surprised. His uncle's estate was way more luxurious than he could have reasonably hoped for. What the grounds lacked in extravagant flourish and art pieces, they more than made up in magnificent blooms and meticulously cared for bushes and trees. Furthermore, Myrkas had definitively avoided the classic "street urchin orphan" trope. With such a large and well-maintained estate, there was no way his uncle would notice one more month to feed. Myrkas could survive without flushing toilets, most likely.
As long as I have a nice bed to collapse in.
"Come boy," his uncle urged while grabbing Myrkas by the shoulder.
Koriss walked his nephew towards one of the smaller buildings in silence. On the way, they almost collided with a man so concentrated on his rose bushes he was oblivious to his surroundings.
"Master Hakhmir! Welcome back. I apologize, I was entranced by these beauties. We already prepared a light dinner in the secondary hall. Marta and I thought it better to leave you with your family tonight. Is there anything else we can do?" said the man, unfazed by the situation.
" No," Koriss answered, short and to the point.
"I see. My condolences again. Let me know if there is anything," replied the man with a sad smile, " Have a good evening then, Master, Young Master," he concluded, kneeling right back to his roses.
Said dinner passed quickly, none in the mood for useless chatter. Nirrina, ever-attentive, made sure Myrkas ate his fill, if not more. The fare was simple but filling, eaten with metal chopsticks. Myrkas was quite glad he knew how to use them, even if he was too tired to be embarrassed by anything.
Without needing to ask, Nirrina guided the boy to his room, anticipating his lack of familiarity with the estate. Collapsed in his bed, Myrkas was finally alone. His headache lurked in the background, memories still clashing. As he closed his eyes, he heard a knock at his door.
"Yes?"
"Myrkas," said a gruff voice, no doubt his uncle. "Can I talk to you?"
Without waiting for an answer, Koriss Hakhmir entered the bedroom. The large man had changed from his light-gray mourning robes to some beige night clothes. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were still wet from washing up before bed. Rigidly, Koriss sat down next to his nephew, the bed creaking under his weight.
"I wished to talk to you. We need to discuss... how to say it... hmm... what do you recall of the past two weeks?"
He paused.
" It's important. There were some... things... I found earlier, in your soul I mean. It may be concerning."
The young boy stared, unsure how to answer. Myrkas had already deduced his state was far from ordinary, yet he lacked the knowledge required to guess the kind of danger he was in. If he should keep his cards—his past life—close or reveal everything. His diverse fiction knowledge had limits. And it was, for all intents and purposes, based in fiction, unclear if truly applicable to his current reality. So Myrkas stared, letting the growing silence fill the room. Crickets sang outside, the only sounds to be heard in the quiet night.
Visibly disheartened, the older man sighed.
"Well, I'm not sure what you heard today or how much you remember, but you must be tired, so I will let you rest. Sleep well."