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styled her hair, and put on a light coating of makeup. Surprisingly she didn’t have to cover any bruises on her cheek. Only a light shade of redness remained, which could easily be mistaken for a blush once her other cheek was made to match. Amiel moved through the actions, dressing in a sleek black dress with the mechanical movements of a person still deeply nestled in shock. At the funeral pyre Malinda played the part of the properly distressed mother, crying into a dainty lace hanky though careful to not smudge her makeup. She gave equally dainty sobs during appropriate places in the preacher’s speech. Amiel sat numbly in her chair, staring at the gleaming wood box surrounded by fancy expensive flowers.
    Somehow her brain was having a difficult time grasping the idea that her brother lay within it. This had not been an open casket funeral. The poison leaking from Jaron’s pores had seen to that. Perhaps if the casket had been open the loss of her brother would feel less surreal than it did at the moment. She was unsure if she should be grateful for that closed lid or not. Malinda gave a particularly agonized whine at her side, and it was all Amiel could do to keep from rolling her eyes. The cameras drank up every ounce of it. Malinda’s whine became a more realistic squeak when the soldiers of Jaron’s company fired salutes in his honor, startling her from her act. Amiel drank in the sounds of the trumpets as they played their own farewell to her brother, trying to imbed them in her memory. When the last note faded, they carefully folded the flag that lay across Jaron’s casket. A soldier approached, holding the flag reverently in his outstretched palms.
    “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” The man’s voice rang out with clear authority, demanding the attention and respect of those present. Amiel’s heart ached as they placed the flag in her mother’s lap, who merely glanced at it before continuing her performance. How she wished she could have been the one to receive the honor that her mother so easily sniffed at.
    A female soldier lit a torch, carrying it to the soldier that had presented the flag. The man turned with a click of his heels to offer the torch to Malinda. But when he held it out for her, she merely sniffed and waved it away. Amiel could see the slight stiffening of the soldier’s posture and flash of indignant frustration as it welled in his eyes. Obviously this man had held her brother in the highest regard and Malinda’s slight was a slap in the face to that honor. Amiel stood woodenly, her shaking hand reaching for the torch. The soldier’s eyes shifted to meet hers, searching. She could dimly feel the pain in her own eyes reflected in his, a grieving kinship of sorts founded between them in that moment. The soldier nodded gravely, placing the polished wooden handle in her hand.
    Her hand dipped slightly under the weight of the heavy wooden torch, symbolic of the heavy weight of grief that her shoulders currently bore. Her father’s funeral had been much the same, with Malinda refusing the torch then as well. Only that day, it had been fourteen year old Jaron who had carried the torch. Today it was Amiel who carried the torch for Jaron.
    Swallowing hard against the tears that were once again demanding escape, she watched as other soldiers reverently carried Jaron’s casket up a pair of removable metal steps to place it on the tall wooden pyre. When the steps were pulled away all eyes turned to Amiel, waiting. Her legs wobbled beneath her on the first step forward, forcing her to pause. She took a deep breath, praying her limbs would hold strong. She managed to pull it together, striding purposefully toward the pyre. She stared up at it for a long moment, vaguely aware of the people standing behind her and the clicking of cameras. How many of them were here to