Chapter Text
On Earth, it was customary for people to wear black for funerals.
Kara didn't understand that decision, but then, she didn't understand many things on Earth. Humans wore all sorts of colors, for seemingly no reason, and in many ways, it was an eyesore. She never knew what a human did based on their look alone, nothing like it was on Krypton, or rather, Argo City. Her cousin said it was a part of humanity's charm, but she couldn't comprehend the need for singularity and told him so. He only replied that someday she would.
Today, she stood with a group of mourners, donning a suitably drab dress, and, under the beaming yellow sun, the black-dyed cotton only absorbed more light, granting her greater vitality. It felt disrespectful, a mockery of what was meant to be a solemn event. She gently clutched the soft fabric and wished for the mourning-white robes of her childhood.
The previous day, when it was time to stare upon the corpse, she did not stand. She kept her head down and eyes closed, her traitorous mind conjuring the last image she had of her mother, draped in a gown stitched with the deep red leaves of the ize tree, one of the few that managed to thrive despite the dire conditions of Argo City's contaminated soil. It was bad enough to be included in this mourning of a stranger, but to be reminded of the differences between these clashing cultures was draining.
Eventually, they realized she would not move, and so the next group of mourners was summoned, and she let out a sigh of relief. She did the same now as the secondary service began.
Their priest spoke of one of Earth's gods and his child, and it only worsened her foul mood.
Nothing about this was right to her.
If she somehow died before her time, would anyone perform her funerary rites the proper way?
No, they wouldn't. Not even her cousin, who knew nothing of their customs, who would not understand the importance of the diseased being dressed in red and of mourners dressed in pure white.
She must explain it to him. He needed to know, even if he, himself, did not wish for it.
Even if he was her only mourner, adorned in white—so unlike the image she had of him that prevailed in her mind, dressed in his colorful suit that bore the symbol of their house upon his chest.
If he memorized anything of their mother tongue, let it be the hymns that welcome her journey back to the stars—to join Rao like every Kryptonian before her.
She would write every verse phonetically for him, give him the rhythm, and then teach him how to combine the two while correcting his pronunciation. He would learn, and like the good man he was, he would comply, and when she died, her funeral would be right and not like this sham of one.
"Clark, will you learn this for me?" Kara asked him the next time she saw him, sliding sheets of paper to him.
He smiled, dimples deepening, as he took them. "Of course, Kara!" He paused, staring at something he would be unable to parse through. He could barely speak what was meant to be their language; he wouldn't be able to put together the syllables meant written in English. "What exactly is it?"
"A song," she settled on. "It would mean a lot to me if you memorized it. You don't have to be quick about it, just knowing that you could perform it would make me happy."
"Oh, Kara."
Suddenly, his demeanor softened, and he reached across the table to clasp her hands. His hands were much larger than her own, and warm too. It made her stomach twist as it reminded her of someone else, despite his lack of calluses. She didn't pull away, though, only closed her eyes as he squeezed them reassuringly.
"Yes, I'll learn it. I'm sorry that I'm not better at languages and don't have time to commit myself, but I can do this much," Clark said sadly. She believed him, especially since she knew he was a busy man, juggling his work and school and still making time to visit her. He didn't have to do this, any of it, but he did, and she didn't deserve it. He didn't need her bothering him.
"Thank you," Kara replied earnestly, a weight lifted from her shoulders, even as another replaced it. She withdrew her hands and folded them on her lap.
"Can I ask what it means to you?" He asked after a moment.
"It was sung… as a welcoming."
"Oh, like when people visited?"
"Sometimes," she answered cryptically, aware that he probably wouldn't like the connotations of her decision for him to learn this song out of the many she still remembered by rote from her childhood, the ones that might ease her homesickness, even for a moment. This one was more significant in the long run.
"That's nice," Clark said, for a lack of anything else to say, yet he sounded genuine. She nodded and grabbed the cup of tea set on the table; it was unbearably sweet to her taste buds, but she drank it down anyway.
"It was," Kara murmured, remembering the way the convergence of voices sounded in the temple. It had sounded beautiful, and the first time she had heard it was for her mother—a proper send off to the stars. "I'd like to hear it again, but it doesn't have to be now. Please take your time."
It wouldn't sound right with only one voice, but it would have to be enough.
One voice was better than nothing.
Kara faintly wondered if anyone had sung for her father before dismissing the thought.
She had tortured herself enough about his end over the years. He wouldn't appreciate her self-flagellation, no matter how good it felt.
Kara would have Clark, if nothing else.