#2: Mattas Kovatar & What West Bung’ke Thought of the Eastern Monarchy
Light shone through the West windows of Minarin Headquarters. Mattas Kovatar, Matt for short, woke up with his head on his white plywood work desk. The only memory he had of last night was writing signatures on important documents. 80% of those documents were signed; the rest were a cinch if he continued through the morning. Still, he cursed himself for drooling all over the desk and missing precious hours.
2010 was around the corner. Every fifth year, Minarin Studios began Rookie Season - a massive application process for new and upcoming musicians. Training rookies looked fun; in fact, he officially joined in 2000. He climbed quickly to the top positions, not because he was the CEO’s son, but because he learned quicker than most.
This was the final pile of paperwork. Matt was tired of paperwork, but once he finished it, he was free to go home and shower. Then, the real work began in the new year.
He checked his smartphone for any messages. There was one from Karu Hanaki: “We made it to Kerangi without a scratch.”
That reminded him he couldn’t shower yet - the Eastern Queen’s funeral was about to begin this morning. Matt texted back: “Glad to know. Don’t irritate the new king and queen.”
“I won’t ;)” Karu replied immediately.
Matt marvelled at how Karu could text at all hours of the night and not get tired. Something to do with his eating habits. But he didn’t fully understand how the meal he ate and the absent need for sleep connected. It wasn’t normal.
In regards to Queen Meina Sumesun’s death, he breathed easier. But his mind offered him two futures: one where the new king commanded peace between East and West Bung’ke, and one where those in favour of Meina rioted for what they called justice. But what he learned from the last civil war was that each side showed their true colours. Those who favoured peace couldn’t avoid self-defence, and they lost their own plot that time.
He watched the clock as he finished the paperwork. With fifteen minutes to spare, he raced to the staff room where his colleagues already turned on the TV.
The march was on its way. For now, everyone drowned out the commentary by boiling instant coffee. Aaron, his father, folded his legs on a chair and took up most of the couch. Matt sat beside him and allowed his father to lean on his arm.
“Good sleep?” asked Aaron.
“I feel better after coffee,” Matt answered.
Aaron lifted his body to face the colleaugues behind him. “I had a question for you all and I forgot until now. What did you all think of Meina?”
The room fell quiet, apart from the solemn voices on the TV.
Finally, one colleague poured her coffee and faced Aaron. “Is there a wrong answer to this?”
“Tell me first, and I’ll consider if it’s wrong.”
A man at the corner table looked up from his laptop. “She was kinda extreme.”
The woman scratched her head. She considered Aaron’s Eastern ethnicity, but also considered he raised Matt to not be a bad person. “I think she was a terrible leader.”
“Why do you think my family fled,” Aaron answered.
The march began at Kanati Square, the pallbearers shouldering the casket. When the camera pointed at Karu and Jo, the room cheered. The famous stonework and greenery didn’t matter now, even in an age where Western youths warmed to the architecture.
Aaron laughed upon the new royal uniforms. “Meina hated white. I know it’s a funeral tradition, but she must be rolling in that casket.”
“He wasn’t set to play music, was he?” asked the man.
“Not on your life,” said Matt, his arms crossed. “If he had a choice, he’d play Good Riddance.”
“Not for the monarch,” Aaron explained.
Time came for the monarchy to enter the Malaki Beren temple - one of stone, with accents of marble and paintings of their saints. Beautiful, but Matt had to remind himself of the beliefs those saints portrayed. It didn’t translate well in the modern day. Those saints were based on Tormekian mythology - they should’ve had green skin instead of blue.
The screen showed a minister clearing standing at a timber podium, clearing his throat to speak. With each sweep of the camera shots, Matt lifted his eyes to pick out famous faces apart from Karu and Jo. But he read the faces to closely. Behind the minister was a sour old woman with dark blue hair. Then, she turned and disappeared.
“Did everyone see that?”
“See what?” asked Aaron, who had his eyes glued to the screen.
“An old woman behind the minister.”
Aaron shook his head. “Only priests backstage. You know they still don’t allow priestesses in major Beren chapters?”
Matt sighed. “I guess I was seeing things.”