Chapter 17: Ch. 017 – (Then) Laid to Rest

Jonathan stood there stiffly while the priest read the benediction, but he wasn’t listening. How could he? He could barely keep from weeping when his father’s casket was lowered into the earth. Jonathan thought that he’s already cried his whole lifetime of tears in the last few days, but he kept finding more with each new tragedy. How could any man with a heart not be reduced to tears when they thought about the terrible justice that the dwarves had inflicted on…? No. Jonathan forcefully pushed that memory away. He doubted very much that he would even be able to stay standing if he thought about something so vile. 

If he thought about the masacre right now he would be utterly lost. Instead he forced himself to be present, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms, painfully. This is what his father would have wanted - for the leader of house Shaw to stand her stoically and preside over his service in a way that the people of their lands could respect. There weren’t many people here today to mourn Lord Bernard Shaw today though, and respect was in even shorter supply. The manor staff had attended of course, along with Jonathan and a handful of Dalmarin’s most prominent citizens. In normal times the father of almost every household would have turned out of course, but this week was anything but normal. The people of the village had almost universally boycotted the ceremony even though he’d asked Boriv not to come for precisely the very reason everyone else stayed away. 

The priest was now gesturing to the attendees as he spoke, and as their names were called and some psalm was read they tossed flowers or earth into the hole to ease his father’s way into the afterlife. It was a traditional way to highlight the achievements of great men, but Jonathan still couldn’t focus on what the old priest was saying. Too much had happened. The best he could do was to watch the old man so he’d be ready to do what was required of him when he gestured to Jonathan. For the heir that part came last though, so he had to pay attention to everything else first. He was the only blood relative at his father’s funerals along with less than a dozen people who worked with and respected him for most of the last decade. It was a pathetic showing for such a great man. Even Jonathan’s sisters weren't here. They both lived on estates with their husbands that were much too far away to know anything that had happened yet. Riders had been dispatched of course, but it would still be days before they would hear the news, and longer still before they could respond or visit to pay their respects in person. 

That Jonathan had forbidden Marcus to attend went without saying. It wasn’t just that he was a patracide though. Thinking about his brother was something he had tried to avoid for days, but as hard as he tried he just couldn’t keep that image at bay. Every dreams he’d had since he’d gone to the railyard to kill Marcus had been a nightmare about his brother’s tortured body. Every night he’d woken up in a cold sweat feeling nothing but fear and pity for him instead of the anger he knew he should feel after everything that had happened. The need for revenge was dead. When Boriv had finally shown him to Marcus though, he’d barely recognized him. The dwarves were thorough with their questions. He’d never forget the way his brother looked at him in the shed, practically begging for death as he hung from those manacles. His clothes had been shredded and he was covered more in the slowly clotting blood from half a hundred painful wounds they’d inflicted on him in their search for their answers than in cloth. After that, Jonathan didn’t need vengeance anymore. What he needed was to move on and get things in the valley back to normal. The dwarves would handle his vengeance efficiently enough after their trial. After they learned everything they thought Marcus could tell them about Mr. Faen. That part of the equation wasn’t Jonathan’s problem anymore. 

Finally the priest pointed at Jonathan, and he emptied the cup of ashes he’d been holding into the grave. In a sane world this would have been Marcus’ job. The eldest son should have been standing here, telling everyone how their father deserved to enter heaven and sit at the right hand of Haden so they could toast to their accomplishments for all the days to come. Instead he could only manage to utter the old phrase, “He will enter that great golden hall and they will welcome him - for any can see that he belongs there” before he was strangled by grief and stepped back from the grave. Crying here wouldn’t have been inappropriate. It happened all the time at funerals. Even diving into the grave and demanding to be buried with your loved one as a show of devotion wouldn’t have seemed out of place. Jonathan couldn’t allow himself to indulge in such sadness though, because that’s not what his father would have wanted. The late Lord Shaw hated such theater, which was done only for the benefit of the living and not for the sake of the dead. 

Instead he stood there, eyes downcast until the ceremony ended, and people began to depart. Jonathan shook every hand that was offered, but never looked up to see the faces or names attached to them. He knew what he would find if he allowed his eyes to stray too far across the lawn so he made every effort to focus only on his father’s grave. When the well-wishers were all gone he just stared at the grave - dreading of the finality he’d find in his own home as much as the looks he’d get on the way there. Even when the gravediggers cautiously started filling in the hole as though they expected him to tell them to stop, all he did was watch them go about their business. That was when Claire appeared out of nowhere and crushed him with a hug he’d never have expected, but badly needed. When he was looking at the grave with something between envy and longing she wrapped her arms around him out of the blue. He knew it was her from the smell as much as the behavior. Not only would no one else have dared to impose such kindness on him, but he would have recognized that mixture of dirt and soap and wildflowers anywhere. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, clinging to him with all the strength her small frame had. “Mama said I couldn’t come to the service, so I waited for you at the gate to tell you—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Jonathan lied. “Thank you for paying your respects.”

“Respects?” Claire let go of her death grip enough to look up at him. “Jon - what are you talking about? I’m not here for your dad - I’m here for you.” For you - that was a thought that almost broke him, and suddenly he was hugging her back. Not even Miss Marne had told him that, he had no idea how much he ached to hear it until now. He’d lost an emotionally distant father, and never knew his mother, so he’d spent a whole life not knowing that right now all he needed was someone to tell him that they were there for him. 

“Thank you Claire. So much.” Jonathan spoke simply, unable to meet her eyes. 

“You’re welcome,” she smiled. “I know things look dark now - but in a season or two everything will be okay - things will get back to normal and maybe you’ll find a new reason to smile.” 

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“I’d like that,” Jonathan said, “but it’s too soon to think about the future yet.”

“Of course,” she answered. “When mourning is done though—”

“Not because of that,” he said. “Not because of the funeral or even the mourning. Gods know I would if I could. But I have to go below, with Boriv for my brother’s trial.”

“You’ll be back though, right?” This time there was a touch of fear in Claire’s voice. He couldn’t blame her. The deeps weren’t exactly a fit place for man - and he wasn’t looking forward to it himself. Every fairy story about a man that went down to dwell among the stone men ended badly.

“Of course I will,” Jonathan declared, with all the surety he lacked. “I just don’t know when it will be. It could be weeks or even months. I just…” 

Claire stopped all the doubts that were about to pour out of him with another kiss. It was a quick peck on the lips, but by the time it ended they were both blushing. “Then I’ll wait for you to get back.” she said finally. “That should give you enough reason to follow the breadcrumbs home, even if you start to lose heart.” 

Jonathan nodded, smiling even as he stepped back half a step from her as was proper. By the way the gravedigger was glaring at him behind Claire’s back he could see that perhaps they’d gone too far. “That’s all I’ll ever need,” Jonathan said, before adding,”Now go home to your mother before someone sees you here or you’ll catch a switch for sure.” She left but her smell lingered, mixing with the smells of freshly turned earth, turning grief for today into hope for tomorrow. That was what the priests preached wasn’t it? That today’s dead were what nourished the possibility of a tomorrow? 

Jonathan forced himself to look up finally, past his father’s grave to all the freshly dug graves that dominated this side of the yard. Unlike his father’s slate headstone, most of the rest of the graves used simple wooden crosses, but it was that very contrast that spoke so clearly to what had happened here. Boriv had made good on his threat so thoroughly that it would be a wonder if every last soul in town didn’t spit on the name of Shaw. They had no way of knowing that he’d threatened to warn them, no idea that he’d stood up to Boriv against his farce of justice, and no idea that he’d taken a beating for it. All anyone knew was what came after - that the last few days had been nothing but pronouncements of guilt by association and executions. Two days ago when a mob had been formed and a rebellion threatened, a show of force complete with brands being fired over the heads of the crowd had been needed to put a stop to it before things got completely out of hand. Every living soul in Dalmarin was sick to death of funerals now, and Jonathan couldn’t blame them. Just like he couldn’t blame them for thinking he was the cause of all their misfortune.

He turned and left the graveyard, slowly heading for home. The only silver lining for the journey he was going to have to take, was that a short time away might allow tempers to cool before he became the next Warden. Even in the best of times the hard working men of the village would have trouble seeing a fourteen year old Warden as anything but a child playing pretend, but with everything that happened in the last week there was no chance he could expect a reception even that warm. It wasn’t something he was ready for - his whole life he’d been groomed to be a clerk, and perhaps one day an academic, so he could assist his brother with the business of ruling. It was Marcus that had shadowed his father all these years and stood by his side during important meetings. His older brother had been taught how land titles and taxation should be implemented, not Jonathan. All and all it was an intractable problem, but one he would have to deal with later.

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