As they neared the palace gates, the drums slowed—each beat deep and steady, like a heavy heart mourning. The rhythm echoed through the marble walls and into the city beyond.
Outside the palace doors, a sea of thousands stood still.
They lined the road on either side, dressed in black or white—no colours, no banners, just silence. Most were commoners. Many wept quietly. Some sobbed, shoulders trembling. A few clutched flowers or held onto children, shielding them from the weight of the moment.
But not a single voice rose.
The gates creaked open.
The four carriers stepped out, holding the coffin. Behind them walked the old king and queen, their faces drawn with grief, but regal still. As the coffin emerged, a hush fell deeper. A single wail rang out—a cry that broke through everything.
From the silence, a voice sang.
Soft. Fragile. From a woman who collapsed on the ground, arms wrapped around herself.
"Let him sleep,
Let the sky have him,
He is our king... he is our king..."
Heads turned. No one moved. Her voice cracked on the last word.
A young girl picked it up, voice clear and trembling.
"Let him sleep.
If he dreams,
Let it be of green fields,
Of fireflies and butterflies..."
Another voice joined hers. Then another.
"Let him sleep, let him sleep."
One by one, voices lifted in song — not trained, not perfect — but real. Raw. Honest.
"Let him sleep, and we will pray,
That in our hearts, he'll stay, he'll stay.
Let him sleep, he is free,
And in our dreams, we'll let him be..."
Even the drummers, instinctively, matched their rhythm to the song. The slow pulse of their beat followed the voices like a heartbeat. The wind stirred. As if summoned by the song, the sky mourned too — rain falling softly at first. Not harsh. Gentle. Like tears.
The carriers stepped forward again. Their pace was slow, solemn — but something had changed.
The coffin, once so heavy with silence, now felt lighter. As if the people's grief, their song, their love, bore the weight along with them. As if the dead king was not carried by four — but by the thousands behind him.
"Lay his heart where lilies grow,
Where the gentle waters flow.
Let the earth take what he gave—
Let him find the rest he saved."
They carried him through the streets of the city.
And the city answered—wordlessly.
From the rooftops, from courtyards, from behind windows, the people emerged like slow-moving waves. Barefoot, heads bowed, they stepped onto the cobbled roads. They brought nothing in hand—no drums, no offerings, no adornments. Only themselves.
Some sprinkled the path with petals—jasmine, marigold, and crushed frangipani—letting the fragrance rise with the dust. Others lit sticks of incense, held low to the earth, the smoke curling like breath from a mourning soul. In some homes, women knelt by thresholds, sprinkling water and rice, their hands folded in prayer—but their eyes fixed not on gods, but on the passing of a man who had, in silence, become something sacred.
Windows were left open. Lamps flickered behind thin curtains. In every home, water pots stood untouched, fires left unlit. A day of stillness. A mourning beyond voice.
Children, too young to understand loss, imitated their elders. Tiny palms pressed to chests. Feet planted, unmoving. They watched the coffin pass as if it held the sky itself.
Some elders carried earth in small bowls, scattering it ahead of the procession—clay from their fields, sand from riverbanks. A quiet offering of land to the man who had walked for it, bled for it, died for it.
From balconies, women loosened their hair, letting it fall like dark rivers across shoulders — an old sign of grief once kept alive only in forgotten corners of tradition. No one told them to do it. No one needed to. Grief knows its own language.
Crows circled above in low, slow loops, as if even the birds marked the passage of a soul. Dogs and cattle stood still. A temple bell rang—not by hand, but by the wind alone.
And still, not a word was spoken.
As the coffin moved forward, the people behind it did not follow in rows or formation. They came in ripples. They flowed like rainwater down an open slope, gathering with every step, filling the spaces with presence—not noise.
The hush was not empty. It was alive. Full of meaning. Full of weight.
Every step was followed by footsteps. Every voice joined in chorus. People came from alleyways, balconies, and rooftops. They joined from doorways, from behind market stalls, from quiet corners of temples. They came barefoot, or in robes, or with dust still on their hands.
They came to follow the king—a king who ruled for only a night, but gave them everything.
By midday, the streets had filled with so many people that movement slowed. But no one complained. They walked. They sang. They cried.
Some travelled all night to reach him. Entire families. Children who didn't fully understand but sang anyway. Elders who hadn't stepped out in years. They all came.
By evening, the city had become a sea of flame. Everyone carried a candle — small, flickering lights held against the wind and rain. The flames wavered but didn't die.
The coffin reached the city centre, where a stage had been built from fresh wood and layered in white lilies and wildflowers. Guards stood at every corner. The four carriers stepped up slowly and placed the coffin at the centre.
The old king and queen followed, then Varyan, standing tall beside the coffin.
People filled every street around the square. Not a single noble was present. No knights. No banners.
Only the commoners.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, in silence or soft hums, their candles held high.
No one ate. No one drank. Not even water.
Mothers rocked infants on their chests, whispering lullabies alongside the funeral song. Children curled into shawls and cloaks, holding on to their flickering lights. Old men with weathered faces sang with hoarse voices. Young women cried openly. Men clasped their hands over their hearts.
And still they sang.
"Let him sleep, his watch is done,
Let him rest beneath the sun.
Hold him tender, let him keep
All our love—oh, let him sleep."
He was a king only for a night. But for one night, he had given them something no war, no law, no crown ever had —
Hope.
And so, they gave him something in return.
Not gold.
Not statues.
Not silence.
But their voices.
Their tears.
Their hearts.
They gave him a farewell that belonged not to a ruler — but to a soul loved by his people.