Work Text:
Bix Caleen has seen funerals before. She has seen the uniforms pass, has joined the solemn march, even if the first time she was too young to know fully why it all was quiet when the flutes began to play. Even then, though, she understood.
Eyes on the stone, eyes on the sky.
She knows more now, though. She is all of eight years old and the anvil calls, and just like every child of Ferrix, she stirs to its ringing. A strand of hair blows into her face with the dust. She blows it back away.
Around her, boots are shifting. She knows she should not stay here. She knows it is time, and that the back of her jacket must already be covered in grit. Somewhere, a horn joins the anvil.
Eyes on the stone, eyes on the sky.
“Here.”
There is a hand in front of her, reaching down, crimson sleeve probably already smearing as it brushes against the walls of the place where she has sequestered herself. The strand of hair is back out of place. Bix looks up despite it.
Maarva’s eyes usually twinkle like eager indicator lights, but today they are calm. Or– not quite. They are solemn. She supposes it is fitting. She looks away. She does not want to think about what is fitting.
Eyes on the stone, eyes on the sky.
“I have something that I need you to hold for me. Can you help?”
She’s holding a box now. It’s one she’s seen before, not uncommon here in Ferrix, but special, all the same. Maarva flicks the latches open with practiced ease. There are more horns singing with the anvil now.
Five components, each of carefully-cleaned metal, gleam in the noonday sun. Gentle hands lift them out, piece them together one by one until the instrument Bix knows takes shape. In the impression of the case, there is a short strand of hair, dark. She blinks hard.
Eyes on the stone, eyes on the sky.
“Hands like this, watch me.”
And Bix does. She watches as Maarva lifts her own flute to join the horns, that high clear note as the anvil keeps its calling. She does not think about it as her hands try their best to do the same. She cannot think about much while the single note becomes a chord and the drums begin to roll.
Bix Caleen has seen this funeral before. She has seen her mother lifted, has joined the solemn chant, even if the first time she was too young to have passed by that stone on Rix Road on the way to work every day on the days without the music.
But there is music today, and just like then, her hands try their best to follow Maarva’s lead. Outside there is a crowd and soon there will be a hologram, and though she hears, she does not see it. Not while her fingers still pattern those triplets, even here. And then the music and the chanting stop, as they do at every mother’s funeral.
Eyes on the stone, eyes on the sky.
“My name is Maarva Carassi Andor.”