The drums began a slow march. As rain poured from the bright sky, a dreamer would beat a drum, engraved with his name.
The king.
Prospitans watched the long line of mourners parade sadly down the street. Rain splashed onto little white feet, feet that would never know of the greatest leader who reigned over prospit.
The king.
Flowers, almost dead flowers, were laid along the moist road. Tears dripped from many eyes, following the procession.
The queen stood at the beginning of the line, wiping her eyes with a yellow handkerchief. Her face was covered with thin lace and was soaked in tears. Her beautiful brown hair clung to the sides of her head. Her dress was flowing around her tired feet. She had been preparing the body all night long.
The king.
As the trumpets droned, a foreigner arrived on foot. His attire was a dark purple and his eyes were hidden behind a dark shield of plastic.
Dersite.
The man walked to the queen and bowed. The queen started to cry again.
Dersite.
After a short conversation, the man walked to the coffin. He looked at the dead corpse.
The king and the dersite.
The purple foreigner reached down and, with the help of the royal guards, picked up the coffin. Flowers brushed the man's face.
The purple man and the guards marched towards the final resting place.
The king was calm.
Halfway across the pavement, rain dripped onto the king's face. The man stopped the guards.
The coffin was lowered. The king was shown. His hair was fluffed up. His glasses fogged.
The dersite smiled.
The foreigner wiped the king's face and fixed his glasses. The man's smile wobbled.
The dersite cried.
The man lifted the coffin again, letting tears run down his face, onto the yellow flowers bellow.
The last half mile trudged along, the music buzzing. The air fogged. The light was gone.
Skaia cried.
Sshh, the world is quiet.
The gates opened, prospitans crowed behind the fence.
The ground was opened, revealing a deep hole. The queen stood in front of the tombstone.
Mourn.
The queen sniffled, staying mostly strong for her citizens. Between her silk gloves was a yellow rose.
The man stood next to her, wiping his eyes. The queen fell into his arms.
"I miss him."
"Me too"
The king was lowered into the hole, growing darker as the shadows encased him. With a nod from the stranger, the queen shakily took the rose and dropped it. It landed onto the king's chest.
Skaia clouded over, more rain splashing onto the weary heads of the citzens.
They bent their heads in prayer.
The king is dead.