Interestingly enough, he didn't remember the actual funeral. Try as he might, he could never conjure any images of the wake or burial; all he recalled was his mother kneeling as she adjusted the high, stiff, itchy collar of his formal robes. She hadn't looked sad, then – just gaunt, and tired, and a little pale. The sadness had come later.
"Don't cry, Igor," she'd said. He distinctly remembered that. "Don't cry in front of them."
He'd obeyed, but only because he was really too young to understand. Later, he would, but by then there would be no place for tears.