Chapter 16.3

As Eirwen focused her senses on him, she could tell he wanted to hesitate, to ask if she was sure, what her plan was. But he forced that down and opened the carriage door, unfolding himself through the doorframe, his cloak still concealing his identity. He would not undermine her. Instead, he asked but a single question.

"As before?"

As before.

He made a few steps forward to the position of Sir Caerbychan, while behind him his image took shape. Even on the massive image, his face was still concealed, so all they could see was the cloak of a nameless, marked front and back with the Verglas coat of arms. Until he took off the hood of his cloak and revealed it for all to see. Oh, they recognised it, and suddenly the moment became real for them. There stood their Marquis, his hair bright red, his face in turmoil as he handed over his cloak and sword.

Now all that was left was the clothing he wore underneath, no coat of arms or any symbols, just well-fitting grey. He made his way towards her, his image slowly tailing him, accompanied by silence as even the need of people to whisper was suppressed by the shock of this reveal. The nobles too were shocked, several clearly holding back their tears. His former personal guard stood at stiff attention, hands secretly clenching in an attempt to restrain their emotions. And Eirwen gave him a quiet command.

Withdraw your senses and extinguish your flame. Only the image may remain.

He obeyed without a moment of doubt and she could feel his senses retreat as something inside him went out. A fire takes time to grow, a crucial weakness for Flamehearts. So he found a solution, carrying embers within, always ready to burst into flame. Now there was a void instead. Eirwen could tell who of the nobles noticed. It was too subtle to tell normally, but if the wind suddenly stopped blowing, its absence would be heard.

His footsteps led him past the nobles, closer to her than any had come so far today. His face betrayed his confusion, but he walked without hesitation, until she finally gave him the signal to halt. Only mere strides removed from the Verglas nobles, he knelt and bowed his head in silence, as did his image behind him, waiting for her to address him.

"You who held the name of Flameheart. You who I once called my betrothed. For years you led your armies against mine, until the day that you killed your father and gave me his head in full surrender. First you sided with him. Then you killed him. Neither of which you felt you could be forgiven for, so you forfeited your name and destroyed your ancestral blade."

She ignored the shocked gasps from the crowd. "But you carry blame for neither. Your father's death was well deserved, payment for the murder of my parents that he confessed to, just before you struck him down. And you cannot blame yourself for not stopping him before. That was the duty of the council, a duty which they neglected to fulfill. When all you knew stood by him, there was nothing you could have done."

A sigh. "Still you insist on carrying the burden of the sins of your father. You are a mad fool, and neither madmen nor fools can be reasoned with. So knowing you desire punishment, knowing you surrendered your life to me, hear my command. Serve by my side until your dying day. Aid me in rebuilding these territories. And witness with your own eyes how this world is a better place without your father in it."

Without his senses, all he could do was wait for her instructions. But she wasn't done yet, her eyes now addressing the crowd. "As it is not a tradition followed in these lands, you may not fully understand what forfeiting one's name truly means. It cannot be compared to your own traditions of leaving one's name behind while proving oneself. That is a temporal act, whereas forfeiting one's name is permanent. There will never be another Flameheart in these lands."

Her eyes moved back towards his figure, her image looking at his for all to see. "When this man forfeited his name, Aodhán was gone, without leaving so much as a body to mourn and bury. That is why his name has been scratched out. That is why, even though this nameless man stands before you, we still mourn the seventh Duke. Because we lost him forever, and cannot even say goodbye."

The silence was deafening, only Eirwen's voice was audible. "The weight of forfeiting one's name is heavy. Even surrendering one's life is less intense a vow. I may rule two Dukedoms, but there is nothing I can do to bring Aodhán back." She paused for a few counts and took a deep breath. "However, I can permit you all to pretend. To act as if this man in front of you is not a nameless living man, but the body of the late seventh Duke. To say goodbye, one last time."

All eyes shot towards her, bar two people's. The weapon master still looked down, barely managing to control himself. And Eirwen's accomplice Pertrellan reached for her saddlebags, taking out a navy blue cloak, which she draped over his shoulders.

"Rise, Aodhán, and say goodbye to your people. Until the eight hour arrives, we will pretend we are attending your funeral." He rose to his feet, holding the cloak tightly. The blue he had always worn, which suited him well. No coat of arms, but it fit him perfectly, Lady Róisín's finest work. Pertrellan bent a knee for him, almost instantly followed by the other Verglas nobles. Less than a count later, others began to follow their example, until only Eirwen still stood standing.

Aodhán looked in her eyes, gratitude and grief dominating his emotions. As she looked at him, she sent out one last command, not to him but to the servants she had positioned elsewhere.

Ring the bells.

From various places, bells began ringing, some meant to officially declare a public funeral, others to call for all to come to the plaza. Eirwen felt even the patrolling guards should get the chance to say their goodbyes. With a sigh, she released her own image and sat down, taking care to not make her armour clang against the shield. Her work was done, now it was his turn.

As he released his image and everyone rose to their feet, her knights made their way towards Eirwen, while Verglas soldiers and Flameheart guards quickly began steering the crowd into a proper procession. With Aodhán, gods it felt weird to use his name again, positioned so near her, it was only natural that everyone who paid him their respects, then had to face her as they moved on. There was a large variety of emotions on their faces, from remnant anger to sorrow, but all of them at least bowed their heads in greeting.

The Verglas nobles had moved up onto the dais, now flanking Eirwen as they looked at the crowd. She could tell they felt the need to gossip, though they held their peace for the sake of her public image. She threw them a bone with a mental link, allowing them all to speak without being overheard. While they discussed her actions and how everyone had responded, nearly half an hour went by and the crowd had all had their chance to say goodbye.

The nobles she had punished, had left quickly. But both the old and new council members stuck around, eagerly talking emotionally with Aodhán. To no surprise, Ailbe shed his tears publicly, which proved infectious for the others. She could tell, and even overhear, how the previous generation all regretted not helping him, while the new generation were glad he was still alive. 

Eirwen didn't even realise she was falling silent, didn't notice her hands clenching, until Pertrellan put a hand on her own. With a gentle smile, she spoke softly. "Your Grace, wouldn't you say it's your turn now?" Eirwen looked around her, seeing encouraging smiles everywhere. She found herself getting up, slowly walking down the steps, up to him, standing right in front of him, without even having putting thought into the action.

She looked up at his eyes, filled with kindness, love, but also realising just what they had lost. He had held himself together well while confronted with the grief of so many people, but being face to face with her, that was breaking him. As she felt something wet roll down her face, she realised she too was falling apart. He opened his arms wide and embraced her, using his cloak to hide her figure from the world. She planted her head against his torso and wept silently, until the bells stopped ringing and the eighth hour arrived.