12-30-01, Gray Park Cemetery
The wind blows softly in an endless blue winter sky filled with gray clouds full of snow. Yet under those conditions, Giselle Craven is buried. A large multitude of persons in mourning clothes gathers together to mourn the loss of such an extraordinary young woman that had tragically lost her life in a fire still in her life’s prime.
A once tawny-haired older woman with large silver streaks in her hair leans against a pepper salted haired man’s shoulder. The man stoutly stares ahead as his eyes glisten with moisture, but no tears fall. A balding priest nods to the caretakers to begin lowering the casket into its final resting place. Soft sobs can be heard as the mahogany casket is slowly lowered into the ground. Silence ensues for a moment as a child yawns and a baby begins to wail. The sounds are quickly muffled as the priest lightly sneezes from the and swiftly wipes his nose with a tissue.
The priest takes a handful of dirt from the dirt pile and tosses a handful onto the casket. The preacher in a loud imposing voice says, “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the soul of this child here departed, we, therefore, commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust-.”
The priest’s words are interrupted as Mrs. Craven lets out a loud wail of sorrow and slumps into the arms of Mr. Craven. The rest of the priest’s words are muffled as Mrs. Craven continues to noisily wail. With the sermon finished, the crowd begins to disperse as they gather in line to convey their condolences.
The Craven family continues to greet the remaining guests and are astonished to find an unknown individual approach them. The figure is a gray-haired young woman in a sleek black suit with her hair neatly pulled back in a bun. The young woman seems almost eerily familiar, but they had never met her before. Her hair was too memorable to forget so easily.
The gray-haired young woman says, “I am sorry for your tragic loss. I knew your daughter.”
Mrs. Craven eyes fill up with emotion as she bittersweetly says, “Thank you. But may we have the honor of knowing whom we are speaking too?” Mr. Craven narrows his eyes in concentration unable to shake the feeling of familiarity.
The gray-haired woman solemnly answers, “I’m Victoria Starr.”
Mrs. Craven’s eyes flicker slightly in remembrance of the handsome, stern dark-haired man who had been her daughter’s boss once upon a time. Mr. Craven’s eyes that flicker with recognition of the name and relaxes having identified the reason for such familiarity. Mr. Craven nods to the young woman in thanks for her visit. Mrs. Craven softly says, “Thank you, so much for your visit. I was sorry to hear about your father’s death, Giselle had been rather fond of him when he was alive.”
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The gray-haired young woman’s eyes flicker for a moment at the comment. “I am sorry, but was your daughter ever married or ever have any children?” The gray-haired woman asked.
“Goodness gracious no! Our daughter only lived for her job, working for a non-profit organization,” Mrs. Craven firmly replied.
The gray-haired woman lets out a knowing sigh and says, “Thank you for your time, I shall excuse myself.” The Craven couple says their goodbye as they greet the next well-wishers. The gray-haired young woman only pauses to lay a single red rose on the tombstone, before striding across the grounds.
A sleek black car is waiting for her as the gray-haired woman climbs into the front seat. The driver is a pretty auburn-haired young woman in dark mourning clothes, 56. At her side, is a fuzzy teddy bear in his customary butler suit. #017 closes the door behind her as 56 swiftly starts the care and drives off across the gravel road.
“How did it go?” Mr. Wilkins softly asked.
“As expected,” #017 replied.
“Were they excited to see you?” Mr. Wilkins curiously asked.
“Wilkins, Giselle was never married, nor did she ever have any children,” #017 curtly stated.
56 coughs pointedly but does not comment on the harsh reply. Mr. Wilkins turns to glare at 56 who firmly keeps her eyes on the road. The rest of the drive and trip home is in silence. With no one daring to be the first to break the heavy silence. After all, everyone has the right to grieve privately in their own way.
*
On the other side of the world, another funeral was also taking place in the snowy Alps of Europe. A small procession was taking place, but every individual present was a high-ranking member representing the Changeling packs. From a snowy hill overseeing the snow-covered plane, an older man leans heavily against his cane in the snow. The tan woman in a thick coat and sari remains silent at his side. Their breaths can be seen in the cold weather as they watch the funeral procession.
Lady Ishnavi softly suggests, “Master Ferguson, would it not be better to go down in person?”
Master Ferguson is stony still as the cold winter Alps air. Lady Ishnavi shifts in discomfort as the silence stretches. Finally, Master Ferguson speaks, “I have vowed to not stand before his grave until I have avenged him. And I shall.” The definitive tone of Master Ferguson’s voice causes Lady Ishnavi’s tan face to grow pale.
“How? It is impossible to gain ground over the Conclave,” Lady Ishnavi hastily murmured.
The air turns once more awkward until Master Ferguson pulls his gaze away. Lady Ishnavi takes an unconscious step back in the bone-chilling gaze. “We will meet with Montgomery once again,” Master Ferguson declared.
“The council swore to never have dealings with that man again, Master Ferguson,” Lady Ishnavi protested.
“We are not the council, Ishnavi,” Master Ferguson snapped in a firm reminder. Lady Ishnavi trembles at the implications of that single sentence. Master Ferguson turns his gaze back to the funeral and silently vows, “I will have my revenge, my child. I swear it by thy holy and most innocent blood that was spilled.”
Master Ferguson turns back to gaze at Lady Ishnavi and growls, “Let us go.” Lady Ishnavi instantly reaches to touch Master Ferguson and vanish from the snowy landscape. The funeral continues until all the guests leave except for the graveyard diggers. In the swift cold weather, they cover the bury the body until nothing remains, but icy snow.