“In the fields and cities of our beloved Ibelir, every life lost in battle is an echo in the history of our struggle to build the world envisioned by the Founder. A world where global peace reigns, a world where all countries are united under the same flag. For he knew that the only way for this cruel and ruthless world to survive was to unite all nations into a single one,” began Commander Froel. The wrinkles on his stern, semi-cybernetic face were tense, aching from having repeated the same words over and over again.
Before the commander of the Fierce Stewards, on a ceremonial table, were lined up the funeral boxes containing the ashes of the bodies (or body parts) that had been recovered, or objects that had defined the fallen at some point in their lives. The sergeant’s box was slightly ahead of the others. His role in the Fierce Stewards had been far greater than that of the other soldiers who had fallen at the Tagrei plant. To his right and left, on other ceremonial tables, rested the boxes of soldiers from the National Defense Corps and of the civil servants who had worked there.
That was another advantage of being a public employee: they had the right to a free, rather ornate funeral box, as well as a spot in the cemetery stacks. Those who did not serve the country had to pay for the ceremony, the funeral box, and of course, the coveted spot in the endless shelves of tombs. That was, of course, if people wanted to be buried in the common Ibelirian manner. Drauos, for example, followed a different rite. Dragen knew this very well.
In their case, the bodies of those who had not died of natural causes were cleaned and treated with the utmost respect. Then they were taken to an underground chamber along with their closest loved ones, and after a farewell, the bodies were crushed by funeral workers until they became nothing but dust. Finally, and similarly to funeral boxes, the bone and mineral dust was stored in urns until the remains were scattered somewhere in the underground world—where they belonged. According to Ibelirian drauo belief, they descended from the rocks, and as such, their remains were returned to them to once again become part of the stone and mineral. According to some sedentary sages, thanks to this practice, the mines regenerated and bore fruit once more.
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But how would he want it done? The question had come to his mind upon seeing the funeral boxes. How did Dragen want to be buried? On the one hand, he had been raised like any other drauo and had attended numerous funerals of family and friends, so despite his disdain for drauo traditions, somewhere deep inside, he had always believed he would follow the same path. But he was also in love with the vast sky, and his current self undoubtedly wanted to rest beneath it.
"Today we gather to honor not only the memory of a brave, tenacious, beloved, and equally respected sergeant," the commander continued. Every word he spoke was full of emotion. His uniform was immaculate. "But also the patriotic spirit of all those who have given their lives for their beloved country. Through their sacrifice, they remind us of the weight of our responsibility and the depth of our gratitude. In their courage, we find inspiration; in their loss, we are reminded of the price of peace. You have served fiercely, Stewards."
Dragen raised his eyes toward the triumphant statue of the Founder. He was depicted there as a human, although no one knew exactly what species he had been. The human version was the most widespread. But many others believed he had been a drauo, and in some cities or state-nations, he was represented as an aehul, a menudo, or any number of other species. There were even tales that in a small city near Argouk, there was a statue of the Founder depicted as a grok. But undoubtedly, the vast majority leaned toward his human or drauo origin.
Beneath his statue, large letters read: "Unity, Strength, and Honor. There is no victory without struggle, no people without unity, no future without sacrifice."
"You have served fiercely," Dragen said after lowering his gaze once again to the funeral boxes. His voice was quiet in the sea of voices gathered there.
Marian grabbed his arm, heartbroken. Dragen didn’t need to turn to know she was crying. Part of him wanted to cry too, to let all the pain inside him pour out. But he didn’t.
His kind did not cry. It wasn’t that their biology made it impossible—it was simply that all of them, regardless of gender, were taught from a young age that drauos did not cry. They endured, they fought, they honored, they worked, or they drank—but they did not cry. Never.
"He will always be with us, Marian," he said without looking at her. His red-orange eyes remained fixed on Sergeant Raed’s funeral box.
