Hadespera

The 17th of Thargelion

The Year 4631 in the Era of Mortals

The dwarven wake began at dawn, at the first bloody sight of morning sky. The bodies of the honored dead were clothed in finery and draped in glittering stones. Their kin made their grief known to the world, lifting voices in a dirge while beating their chests for rhythm.

Others in the village came to show their respect. Friends and strangers became one in the face of grief. Lyssa stood with Grimmolt as he led the dwarves in their dark song. As the leader of Myriatos, she had a responsibility to honor the sacrifice of all her people. Especially when it was by her order.

Grimmolt bore his lamentations before all. He beat his chest along with the other dwarves and sang mournful songs in his native tongue. His tunic was torn and, a sign of grief above all, his beard was shaved away. The other dwarves had followed in their leader’s footsteps, tearing their clothing and shaving their beards. Their custom was strange, but their grief was as familiar as the first drops of spring rain.

The elves had no internment for the dead. They held no wake to pay respects, there was no procession, and there was no final rest. Once an elf died, they were gone, and the body was reclaimed by the forest to nurture life. Twice, Lyssa had witnessed a reclamation, and both times it was done without ceremony or weight. Both times it had been wrong. She was to blame for the death of her brother, Gregorinandiir. Her people were right to blame her, but they were wrong to act like he had not existed. Gregori had done more with his life than lose it, and to have his existence summed up by its termination was a dishonor to his memory.

To see the dwarves bear their grief so openly tore at her heart. They did not hide from the pain, they greeted it with song that shook the ground. They did not lock the pain away, holding it to be released in bursts in quiet, dark spaces, it was proclaimed in front of all, for all, and for all to join. The song drew on, at times low and sad, at times high and fervent, a testament and memory of the lives that had been stripped away. Lyssa raised a hand to the jagged edge of her ear. Her blood price, her token to his memory. Tears slid down her cheeks, dripping to the ground below. She could not mourn them like the dwarves – but she would not ignore their deaths like the elves.

There were other elves in attendance. Vik was nowhere to be seen, but the few others in Myriatos were gathered in a small group, not more than ten, standing slightly apart from the crowd and watching on in confusion and interest. They were not Children of the Forest, these elves had come from the city or beyond. They knew mortals, had been around them for years. Their confusion seemed directed at her, her reaction to the wake, but the day was not for them or their understanding.

The wake lasted all day. While the sun soared through the sky, there was no peace for the dwarves and no peace for Lyssa. Others came and went throughout, offering respect in their own ways. As the sun fell past the horizon, the dwarves went to their fallen dead and carried them away. A pyre waited for them, constructed from the hewn wood of the forest, filled with tinder, and decorated with carved stones. Grimmolt stepped forward, holding a torch high. The rest of the dwarves surrounded the pyre with torches of their own. As the last glimmer of light disappeared from the dusk sky, Grimmolt finished his dirge and spoke in a voice that was raw and tired.

“Here lies the fallen of Clan Sidergrothia. Boder, sound of sense. Velir, sweet of voice. Gern, clever of mind. Today, we lay them to rest. Brothers, sisters, parents, partners. We know not where they go, but we know what they have left behind. When the world forgets…”

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The dwarves answered as one.

“Stone remembers.”

“When the world breaks…”

“Stone remains strong.”

“And so shall we.”

Grimmolt placed his torch in the center of the pyre. The dry sticks and grass caught quickly, aided by oils from animal fat, and the flames roared. The other dwarves placed their torches one by one, then stepped back, heads bowed. It took an hour for the pyre to burn down to a smolder, for the bodies laid there to become dust. The dwarves stepped forward and filled three urns with the ashes. Then they relocated themselves to the long, meal tables, and began to set it with food. There was a place for everyone and everyone took their place. The long song of the dwarves was over and the feast to the memories of the slain began.

Lyssa watched them from her position by the pyre. Though her stomach ached with a hunger that had been denied all day, it didn’t feel right to join in. Grimmolt stood beside her, watching the rest of his clan through hooded eyes.

“Your participation in our rituals is appreciated, Lyssa, but my clan will not reenter the mine.”

“I’m not asking you to. I am here to grieve with you. Nothing more.”

Grimmolt grunted, his eyes not leaving the feast.

“Who did you lose?” his voice was surprisingly gentle, for once.

She swallowed before answering.

“My brother.”

“Kin always hurts the most. Was it a good death?”

“He died saving me from a situation I caused. His blood covers me.”

“Then I am sure he died proud, protecting one he loved.”

Lyssa stared at the grass beneath their feet.

“It does not feel that way.”

“Do you think so little of your brother?”

Lyssa flinched. Her fists clenched and her mouth curled into a snarl.

“I loved my brother.”

“Then do not dishonor his memory by discrediting his sacrifice. Come, we will break bread together, you and I.”

The dwarf stalked off toward the feast while Lyssa, frowning, followed behind.

The tone had turned jovial. The dwarves played the largest role in lightening the mood, as the other villagers were, initially, uncertain how to act. Once the music played and the dwarves began singing happier songs and telling stories, laughter suffused the air.

With their freshly shaven faces, the dwarves could almost be mistaken for halflings, if not for their oversized proportions. It was a strange sight, to be certain, though one dwarf had reassured a boldly curious child that dwarven hair grew quickly, and that the beards would be back within the month. During the meal, Lyssa spied Elpida eating with Gigator at another table. The guardswoman did not look at her and, if she was honest with herself, Lyssa didn’t know what she’d do if Elpida had. She could feel the tension between them, even at this distance, but had no idea how to respond to it. She didn’t yet know the words to say, so she held her tongue. She listened to the stories the dwarves told, ate with them, and withdrew to her room as the hour grew late.

It was the first time she could rest in days. The previous night was spent helping the dwarves prepare their funeral rites. Though sleep ensnared her mind, she was covered in the stony muck of the mine, so she drew a bath and washed it all away before crawling into bed.

Sleep was a restless thing, plagued with dreams of the darkest sort. Dreams of her brother calling out to her, of the dwarves dying in front of her, and of the basilisk fixing her with its deadly stare. When she woke, some hours later with her heart racing, it was almost a relief. Almost.

Because that’s when she heard the screaming.