Funeral (Juliette)

 When Isabelle had contacted me via overnight courier service with an urgent letter I had no idea what in the world could be the matter aside from an oblivion gate opening in High Rock. What I found when sitting down at my desk with the first of many morning cups of coffee was really quite the opposite, and nothing I ever figured I would end up doing, either for the blades or in journalism. In her rather hastily scrawled letter Issy informed me regarding the death of her dear friend Lucien LaChance just the other night, a death that was the result of murder most foul, and has bestowed upon me the honor or at the very least the task of writing an obituary. Given my background in journalism and current job at the Black Horse Courier newspaper when not on special operations missions it’s fitting. I’m honored to accept it. I only met Lucien a few times, apparently he was also a friend of Baurus as the two would meet by coincidence in the labyrinth of the Imperial City sewers while carrying out their respective jobs. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, if a bit odd, and highly sociable for someone with a profession such as his.

Upon returning to my desk with another cup of fresh coffee I sit and pull out a fresh piece of parchment, time to think. “Lucien LaChance died this past Sundas, the 24th of First Seed outside of Bruma, Cyrodiil.” I begin, the quill scratching the page as the ink flows steadily. “LaChance, a native of Daggerfall, High Rock who moved to Cheydinhal at the age of six passed away early in the morning this past Sundas. Lucien was often referred to as a light in the darkness, his quick witted remarks and at times aloof humor were known to make even the most serious of personalities smile. Lucien also loved music, and could often be found playing a variety of stringed instruments when left alone, or humming a tune while working. When not busy with work he could often be found cooking, playing music, sailing, or taking care of his beloved horse. His cause of death remains undisclosed.” Finishing the paragraph I find myself needing to take a break, partly to prevent the ink from smudging, and mostly to allow myself to process emotionally what exactly I’m writing. The dear friend of my own dear friend is dead, and in a rather gruesome way from what I hear. It will take a long time for Isabelle to heal from this, if she ever does fully heal.

 Steeling myself I manage to continue, I’ve got a deadline for submissions after all. “Lucien will always be remembered for his kindness, sense of humor, and his courage. He has no living family.” That line hits me in the gut, and yet the one I write after doubles it. “There will be no funeral.” The body from what I hear is too mutilated for even a closed casket funeral, if Issy hadn’t been informed she most likely would not have recognized the body. “Instead a private celebration of life will be held at a date to be announced. In lieu of flowers, please consider donating to your local animal shelter.” Lucien did always enjoy meeting any animal he came across, I still remember during one of the few times I met him where he tried to pet a fox. “He was 25 years old.” I finish, putting down the pen and letting the ink dry. What a way to go, framed, betrayed, and murdered by those you trusted, only to get no funeral and no recognition. Fading away from the world into the void, like a forgotten memory lost to the world, outside the less than savory underworld people like us inhabit. Holding back tears I manage to seal the letter and hand it off to go to those in charge of printing. Goodbye, Lucien LaChance. You will have no mourners aside from those few who knew you. Wherever you are, I hope death brings less pain than the end of your life. You really do deserve a funeral.