What Is Left To Bury

1505

     Erlend stood outside the sturdy stone walls of the Fort, flanked by his brothers, a silent collective bearing witness to the solemn rite commencing before them. A hushed reverence enveloped the air as everyone, heads bowed in unison, formed a somber aisle, each holding a wooden weapon—a solemn guard of honor for the procession that was to come.

Amid this sorrowful congregation walked Veerle, Erlend's sister, her steps heavy with the weight of grief as she traversed the aisle, cradling their departed brother in her trembling arms. Her tears had been a constant stream, an unyielding testament to the profound loss they all suffered. Erlend, his heart heavy, wept silently, sharing Veerle's pain as if it were his own. The ties that bound their family were not merely of blood; they were woven from a spiritual connection, not of an actual family. 

     Their clan. Hfnar, had thrived—a close-knit tapestry of lives intertwined. But cruel and unforeseen fate unleashed upon them with monstrous entities ravaged their home, leaving naught but devastation in their wake. Only a handful remained, a stark testament to the tragic decimation that had befallen their kin.

     With measured steps, Veerle reached the waiting vessel, gently placing her brother's lifeless form inside, placing his wooden ax across his chest—a symbol of honor and farewell. Her gaze lingered, a heartbroken vigil, until Alvis, a steadfast figure in their shattered family, approached Veerle. His touch upon her shoulder conveyed silent solace, whispered words of comfort meant for her ears alone. Together, they moved aside, granting space to those who sought a final communion with the departed.

     Erlend, the weight of sorrow evident in his voice, was the last to bid his farewell, his words a heartfelt tribute to the lost soul. "Goodbye Endre, may your spirit find solace with your true sister beyond." With reverent gestures, the younger ones, save for Alvis and Veerle, pushed the boat into the water, ushering its silent voyage into the unknown.

As the vessel drifted, Alvis drew his bow with practiced precision, releasing a flaming arrow that soared into the cerulean sky, finding its mark upon the vessel. The family of eight stood in a silent, mournful vigil, watching as the flames danced upon the boat until they vanished from sight—a bittersweet beacon guiding their departed kin on his final journey

 

1508

     Another mournful gathering unfolded—a departure unlike any they had experienced before. Ylva's absence was palpable, replaced only by the tangible remnants of her presence. Instead of the weight of a body, the collective sorrow manifested in her cherished belongings—a poignant assemblage that spoke volumes of her essence and the life she once shared with them.

     Each member of the Hfnar family bore a piece of Ylva's life. Calder picked a wooden toy that once elicited her laughter. Frode had a tenderly crafted drawing that mirrored her creative spirit. Finally, Clo chose a blanket that provided comfort to Ylva in times of need. 

     As the procession unfolded, questions linger about the absence of Ylva's body, whispers shrouded in uncertainty. Burdened by the knowledge of her fate, Erlend held the truth close to his heart: she ran away.

The bitter cold of winter veiled traces of Ylva’s solitary journey, rendering the search party's efforts futile. The Hfnar's keen senses faltered against the harsh landscape, erasing any remnants of footprints in the relentless snow. Veerle chose to halt the fruitless search, acknowledging Ylva's decision. 

     Erlend, bearing the lightest yet emotionally weighty artifact—another drawing depicting Ylva's original family—folded it meticulously, placing it beneath the blanket, hoping to shield it from the wind's cruel grasp. This family she'd drawn, a distant memory, stood in stark contrast to the fractured one now assembled in mourning.

     Veerle, carrying Ylva's unwieldy sword, the unfulfilled promise of her training, approached the solemn gathering. Alvis, a stalwart figure behind her, bore witness to her silent anguish. With a gaze that conveyed volumes, Veerle added the sword to the pile, a silent tribute to the dreams unfulfilled, her restrained emotions simmering beneath the surface.

Desperate words lingered on Veerle's tongue, a scream that begged release. Yet, she swallowed her anguish, preserving the fragile composure veneer in this moment. The untold stories, the unspoken words, and the silent lamentations echoed through the desolate landscape, carried away by the biting winter winds.

     The amassed relics, a testament to Ylva's existence, now lay upon the boat—a somber offering to an uncertain journey.
 

1511

     Clo had been a constant, his jests a respite from the lingering grimness. Despite his playful facade, Clo possessed a heart as resilient as a bear's, a truth evident in his unwavering dedication to training and his remarkable prowess with his mystical weapon. This spear effortlessly replicated itself at his will.

     But when Clo, driven by an audacious promise, ventured forth on a perilous quest—a vow to return bearing the head of a Soulhag, a feat met with hesitant belief and cautious hope from the Hfanr. Hours passed, and the dreaded Soulhag, accompanied by Clo's mangled and twisted form, emerged. The beast met its end swiftly, overwhelmed by the Hfanr’s might. Yet, Clo's body lay before them, a grotesque semblance of his former self.

     Alvis mourned the fate that befell Clo. The disfigured remains, deemed unfit for passage to the Kosmic Realms, invoked a decision—Clo's body would be consigned to the flames. Everyone gathered to set up the pyre except Veerle, who watched from the confines of her room.

     Erlend, Calder, Frode, and Folke, their hearts heavy with sorrow, carried Clo's contorted form upon a wooden bier, placing him gently upon the pyre. His face now bore a macabre visage, a twisted landscape where features interchanged—a nightmarish canvas of exchanged ears, eyes, nose, and lips. Yet, most unsettling were his teeth, arranged grotesquely as if nature itself recoiled in horror at this aberration.

     A circle formed around the pyre, veiled in mourning, as Alvis ignited the wood, releasing Clo's body to the searing embrace of the flames. Minutes turned to aching moments, the crackling pyre once again danced across their faces. Amidst the flickering fire, Veerle emerged for the first time since the tragedy, striding resolutely towards the pyre.

She surged past her brothers, summoning Clo's once-proud spear into her grasp. With a heartbreak and anger, Veerle broke the spear, unleashing a wispy surge of Kosmic Energy that ascended skyward in a hauntingly beautiful display. The fractured spear was thrown amidst the consuming flames, carrying with it Clo's legacy. 
 

1518

     Calder, Frode, and Erlend, now seasoned in the ways of their world, laid to rest the fallen comrade, Folke. The customary farewell they afforded him was a fleeting nod to tradition.

     "We do what the locals do, say some words, then move on," Frode remarked, his gaze shifting towards Erlend, who stood lost in his thoughts. Their journey now led them beyond the confines of their familiar terrain, traversing the lands to Ephoris, a separate continent. Training awaited them, a quest to glean knowledge about the monstrous denizens that prowled the alien landscape.

     Guided by compassion, Erlend lingered a moment longer, bidding his brother farewell in whispered tones. "Folke, may you finally find peace," his voice carried on the wind, a silent tribute to their shared camaraderie. Crouching, he pressed his hand against the soft earth, a final connection to the departed soul.

     Holding the same gloves Veerle had worn during Clo's ceremony, Frode gripped Folke's ring, crushing it within his closed fist. As the ring splintered, a mist rose from the shattered remnants, the fragments cast into the waters of a nearby lake. 

Calder remained fixated on the grave, his thoughts ensnared by the loss. Erlend, seeking solace for his brother, tenderly touched Calder's shoulder, offering silent support, a gesture met with a wordless shrug.

     A rustle in the nearby woods shattered the stillness, prompting the trio to prepare for a potential threat, weapons poised for imminent danger. However it was Veerle who directed her gaze towards the grave, her voice commanding in its firmness.

     "Is it done?" Her inquiry hung in the air, Frode offering a subtle nod in response.

     "Good. Let's get going then," Veerle asserted, her tone leaving no room for hesitation or further delay.
 

1543

     Erlend, accompanied by his son Hakon, traversed the vacant halls of Hemel. In his grasp, Hakon held an item of Veerle's. In the innocence of childhood, he transformed it into a plaything, filling the desolate air with youthful chatter and imaginary explosions.

     Emerging from the hollow fortress, they treaded the familiar path leading to the solemn site where Endre's departure had been mourned. The crowd had gathered again, encircling the boat, with Veerle already aboard, bidding their final farewells. Gunborg, Erlend's wife, clung to Veerle, an embrace that spoke volumes.

     As Erlend approached, he found Calder, a silent pillar of support, gently guiding Gunborg aside, making way for Erlend's moment with Veerle. Their eyes met, bearing the weight of unspoken words, a shared understanding of the impending departure. Veerle extended her hand, a gesture of farewell, which Erlend grasped firmly in a parting shake.

Amid this emotional farewell, Hakon, embodying warmth, offered Veerle her cherished wooden toy. Veerle, touched by the gesture, crouched down, accepting the toy raven, her gaze momentarily tinged with both hope and sorrow. Yet, with a bittersweet smile, handed the toy back to Hakon, patting his head gently.

     Her gaze locked once more with Erlend's. "Tell Alvis I..." Her words trailed off, veiling the unspoken in the sanctity of their shared understanding.

     Erlend nodded in silent acknowledgment. "I will," he affirmed. With that exchange, Veerle boarded the vessel, sailing off toward Ephoris

     As the boat faded into the distance, each family member dispersed, seeking solace in their tasks. Erlend remained, seeking a moment of solitude, until the presence of Alvis loomed behind him.

     "She'll be back. One day she will," Alvis asserted, his voice carrying an unwavering certainty.

     Erlend's protest was a testament to the gravity of Veerle's intentions. "No, she won't. She wanted me to remind you again."