A Death in the Family
Events before the meeting in Avamar and... well, today.
There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven
Hrafn was staggering through the battlefield, wounded, giddy and lost, trying to find a trace of lucidity amid the chaos of the battle that was still going on around him. He had just some notion of his own wounds, unlike the first few times when he just fainted and woke up times later with fragments of what had happened. This time he was awake. He was there, lost in the confusion, the noise, the mud and all that blood. All around him were the dead and agonizing; allied and enemy soldiers in a profusion of red and brown, in agonizing sighs and cries for help or indefeasible mercy. Even with his eyes and senses dull with blood, beneath the chaos and disgrace, he spotted Captain Rita. He listened, but it was as if he was asleep. Halfway up he woke up with a mental alarm. She was not just fainting. She was not just lying wounded and bleeding in the mud. His legs insisted on running toward her, but an unexpected cold blood kept him calm. He could not falter. He had to solve that for her. Closer, with open eyes lost in time and an open mouth that had let the last breath of life escape and flow, Hrafn could not help but think she looked like a dead cat. She loved cats and it was always thus that they died, in a moment, in a misfortune of their last life. Stubborn tiger. He searched for her breath, for her heart, for her wrist. He needed to attest to what he already knew. They lost her. The crow pushed the last feather from his wing and placed it between her hands on her chest. He reached the Captain's horn and didn't hesitate to call the retreat cry. Those cursed inexperienced last soldiers would die along the road, but the last one would still live until the last part of the way, because that was what they were... danm loyal bastards. A family.
***
When they entered Krimml after another incursion, Captain Bartolf didn't dare to put his eyes on Hrafn. He didn't know if that terrible eyes was because he was alive or because he hadn't died. Yes, contradictory in essence. Ten Stormbringers marched with them and they still didn't feel proud of the name. Hrafn had tried to motivate them with that honor after discouraging others. Now he only blamed himself while he walked ahead to the funeral. He tried to keep his mind in order even while the aerial voices danced in a borial of warm and cold colors. His mood a confused amalgam trying to find balance in vagaries of rival feelings. As if he needed to say something, his way of trying to calm his subordinates was not very encouraging.
Hrafn: "They don't really care about us..."
The Sacred Grove was as dead as its temples once magnificent. As dead as she was, magnificent as she was in her glass coffin, covered in red roses in contrast to the white skin carefully prepared for the sepulchral event. The hall of the old tavern was filled with family members: banners, scribes, scouts and soldiers. Bureaucrats and stewards of small estates. Merchants and smugglers. Rebels of regions that Sirion forgot. Priestesses and whores. Old eunuchs and concubines. Priests retired by obligation. They were the cracks, the forgotten pieces of Sirion. They were Erik when he said "I'm Sirion". They were his legacy, scattered and huddled together to keep that damn memory of a Republic still alive and breathing. Respectfully, they waited and veiled while the paid mournings cried loudly. Hrafn didn't interrupt them when he approached the icy glass to whisper his last words.
Rise up this morning
Smile with the rising sun
Three little birds
Pitched by my doorstep
Singing sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Sayin': This is my message to you
Saying, don't worry about a thing
'Cause every little thing
Gonna be all right...
Then he ascended like the fire of a funeral pyre and took the crystal eye from his pocket, pointing it at the guests, at his family, at those who had their eyes on him. He didn't need a black turban, 'cause his eyes lit up with the fire of a thousand hells. The flames burned in his eyes until fade by a black vortex into a misty void. His voice echoed like a thunder, letting the static crawl into his watchers.
Hrafn: "I'm Mir Atal, Avatar of Destruction and Power, Lord of the Deepest Depth, Ruler of the Crevasse of the Void! Now you'll sing and you'll dance. You'll drink and celebrate. You'll feast her death until she dance in my vortex and returns beyond the afterlife reincarnated as a goddess among us! This is my command and you will obey!!! My word is Law. I'm Sirion!"
Like a torrent, he almost dropped the crystal ball. Hrafn was not accustomed to these stronger and sudden outbursts. However, as in his letters, he didn't let his shyness speak louder and made his order be obeyed. She deserved, if not for her own, for all the others who deserved to be recognized before her.
