Having gathered up their papers, canonreeves and other advisors started filtering out the doors of the Council Chambers within Alinor's Royal Palace. After a brief conversation with a vicereeve, Queen Ayrenn was able to make her own move for the door. A meeting had been abruptly called upon Razum-dar's return to the city from investigating reports of strange Daedric activity witnessed around the island. She bid Alwinarwe a good rest of the evening and turned down the locked hallway that led to the Royal Wing part of the palace.
Between meetings regarding the increase in Daedra sightings as well as addressing local matters that had arisen during her time away from Summerset, Ayrenn had been kept busy. Kjoret accompanied her when battlereeves wanted to discuss the lingering problem of dealing with the Ebonheart Pact and King Jorunn. Other than those few-and-far-between occasions, the couple hadn't had much time to themselves. Ayrenn encouraged Kjoret to explore the city so she wouldn't feel trapped within the palace's walls. Kjoret befriended the local blacksmith, Snabazkur, and was granted access to use his forge. Even after years away from the forge, Kjoret still had the keen eye for detail, style, and practicality that she had honed back in Windhelm. Kjoret clearly enjoyed blacksmithing and working an anvil seemed to rekindle the passion she had for it. When they had time together at night, Kjoret would happily go on about whatever her current project was. Still, Ayrenn was worried that her lover had seemed stressed and distant recently.
Her bedchambers were dimly lit- several sconces and a handful of coals in the fireplace cast soft shadows up the walls. Ayrenn still made out the shape who sat on the floor, leaned against a couch, and faced towards the remaining flickering coals within the ashes of the fireplace. Kjoret didn't turn or give a greeting, even though she certainly would have heard the heavy door open. Wordlessly, Ayrenn made her way over to the couch and sat on the floor next to her lover. It was then she realized Kjoret's face was tear-streaked, eyes still puffy, bloodshot, and swollen.
"Love," Ayrenn murmured, taking one of Kjoret's hands into her own. "The only times I've seen you cry have been from laughter, and because Raz and I were both in that damned meeting, I can deduce that something weighs on your mind. What troubles you, dear?"
The corner of Kjoret's mouth twitched. She was amused by the comment at least, Ayrenn thought. "It's…" She sighed and gathered herself after a shaky breath, "It's a hard time of year, I guess."
Ayrenn cocked her head, "How so, Kjor? Talk to me. I'll listen, I'm here for you, whatever it is."
Kjoret stood on a small, crude, wooden stool in front of one of the windows of her Windhelm home. From the second floor, she could look out and get a view of the forge up the road, sometimes catching glimpses of her father while he worked. When she was older, Reggvar promised to teach her the skill. Until then, all she could do was watch as he bent glowing metal into the deadliest of weapons.
The windowsill was her usual spot for watching Reggvar work, but at the moment her mother had ordered her to stand on the stool. Kjoret's ragged shirt was pulled over her shoulders in the back while her mother tended to the fresh wound. She was always rebellious- trying to climb the city's stone walls, play swordfights with sticks… her mother was Windhelm's best healer and was quite accustomed to Kjoret coming home with scratches and bruises that could easily be healed. Today's injury was from a tumble she took while chasing other young children her age through the cobblestone streets.
The deeper parts of the wound were healed, but the new skin that had healed over it was still pink and delicate. Kjoret's mother applied a salve to serve as a skin protectant. She pulled the back of Kjoret's shirt down and offered a sip of a healing potion. Hafka was good with magic and alchemy. The potion was sweetened with snowberries to make the taste more bearable. Her mother, despite scolding her for being reckless, was tender and patient with Kjoret. The two were close, a good mother always looked over her children. Always.
'Your mother's journey has begun.' Read the letter. A courier had ridden hard from Windhelm on horseback to find Kjoret. She had been away just several weeks with other soldiers that were posted to Fort Greenwall, which protected Riften, should the Akaviri army head south. They had begun a relentless attack in northern Skyrim and Windhelm was the primary location of much of the fighting. Kjoret's mother, selfless as ever, had put herself at risk to help some other families get to safety when the city was under siege. She helped get some to safety and had healed countless more. The one person who she couldn't save… was herself.
During the attack, Kjoret's mother had been inside a home when it was hit with a catapult's flaming oil bomb. It had crashed easily through the roof and exploded. Oil went everywhere and flames erupted violently within the log home. Burns were something her mother had treated before, but her magicka pools had been depleted and these burns were too severe to make a complete recovery.
The incident had happened several weeks earlier. The city of Windhelm had fallen quickly after the siege, in less than a week. Many were killed if they put up resistance, while others were lucky to be alive with the Akaviri occupying and controlling the city. Like the remaining residents, Kjoret's mother also had limited time, they knew. She had lost the use of her legs from the severity of the wounds and was restricted to lying in bed. Her mother could no longer use the staircase that led upstairs to the parents' bedroom, so a cot had been set up on the first floor of their home. The weeks in bed had not been kind and left her thin, boney, and weak. With help, she was able to sit up to eat or drink. Every so often, Kjoret's father would help her mother roll over or change positions in order to avoid bed sores. He couldn't work the forge as often as he normally would, but his wife required his attention now.
Kjoret had enlisted to fight and was immediately sent south to prevent the Akaviri from sacking Riften as well. She was extremely reluctant to leave her mother but other than physically being weakened, Hafka seemed like her normal self when she left. Circumstances had declined rapidly apparently, otherwise Kjoret would not have been sent the urgent message from her father. Family called- and for some, so did Sovngarde.
Windhelm was a depressing sight to behold. The walls that Kjoret had run around and tried to climb as a child were crumbled. Battering rams still stood near where the city's wooden gates once had. The sky was a dark grey, a mix of clouds and the smoke that rose from buildings which had been destroyed. Kjoret's home had been badly damaged and was in poor condition, but it functioned with the makeshift repairs her father had made.
Kjoret did her best to clean up her face before she entered- her eyes swollen, and nose reddened from crying nearly the entire horseback ride to Windhelm. Her mother was in enough pain already, there was no need to make her feel worse by seeing her daughter completely distraught.
The grieving process had begun weeks prior- Kjoret knew her mother could not make a complete recovery. Time was limited, but how much time, nobody could say. Her mother could be mentally sharp and aware one day and the next would tell a completely different story as her body succumbed to its wounds.
Mages Guild healers were in and out of the house throughout the days and nights, doing their best to ease the pain and do what they could to heal some of the burns. Alchemists stopped by with pain-relieving potions that numbed both the mind and body. It came to the point where Kjoret's mother decided to dismiss the alchemists. Their potions couldn't fix anything, they just alleviated pain and the stiffness in her skin from the depth of the burns. A consequence of the potions was their effect on mental awareness. These potions dulled the senses, causing Hafka to become tired and confused- not fully comprehending the events or world around her. In a final act of bravery, Kjoret's mother decided to forgo the medicine. If the potions couldn't reverse the damage, she decided to face death at least with the mental capacity to enjoy her remaining days with family as best as she could.
A priest of Arkay was called upon to perform a blessing. While Kjoret's family was not particularly devout, her mother had grown up on a farm in Ivarstead with a family that worshipped the Eight. While she was too weak to voice coherent sentences, Kjoret and her father knew that a blessing was something her mother appreciated. A knock at the door broke the silence within the home and alerted the family of the priest's arrival. They welcomed the elderly man inside and he greeted them in a quiet, hushed voice.
"Blessings be upon your family," offered the robed priest. "Kjoret, I have not seen you in many years, it is good to see you. You as well, Reggvar." The priest greeted the two and clasped a hand to Reggvar's back. He pulled his hood back and revealed a wrinkled face that had been worn by sharing the burdens of loss with families. He was bald but had a long, wiry grey beard that was streaked with bits of white. Using his twisted walking stick, the priest hobbled over to the cot where Kjoret's mother rest. "I am saddened to see Hafka in this state. A wonderful woman, a wonderful healer. She kept many warriors from entering the Halls of the Dead I watch over."
Kjoret had taken a seat on one of the benches by the fire. Hot tears streamed down her face already. Grieving a living person. It was perhaps the most twisted emotion she had ever felt. She inhaled a shaky, silent breath- determined to cry discretely. Kjoret had often kept her feelings bottled, fearing of placing hardships on others. Her emotional withdrawal was something that had irked her mother. She wore a tough, hardened façade that made Kjoret appear strong but distant. It was a regret she carried with her- it was difficult expressing the love she had for her mother.
"I offer your family a blessing in this time of difficulty," said the priest. From underneath the fabrics of his brown robe, he withdrew the necklace that had been tucked away. On a chain hung a ring shape that was made up of two metal bands that were shaped to twist around one another, representing the cyclic nature of Arkay and the domain He ruled over. Bowing his head, the priest held one hand to his heart, the other in the air with the palm facing Kjoret's mother.
"When life is almost over,
Like a candle burning low,
An oil lamp running empty,
Or a river that has lost its flow,
There is one thing remaining,
One final act is left,
Preventing us from seeking
The welcome arms of death.
Before we seek eternal slumber,
Drift off into the ether,
Information, Dissemination,
Lost in the boundless forever.
We must pray and kneel,
To the guardian of our soul,
To Arkay, Lord of Seasons,
The Keeper of the Wheel.
Anchored to this coil of strife,
A monotony of endless night,
Arkay is our guide,
When we exhale the last of life."
Night had fallen. The priest of Arkay had finished his ritual earlier and left the family to be together during Hafka's final hours. The pain she was in overwhelmed her. She was mumbling nonsense, sometimes becoming restless and speaking incoherent sentences in her waning voice. In an attempt to comfort her mother, Kjoret had taken her hand into her own. She gently gave three squeezes. I. Love. You. It was something they had done when Kjoret was a little girl- a simple, silent way to convey their love.
Kjoret's heart broke further when the act confused her mother- panicked, Hafka's weak voice questioned, "What are they doing? I sent… alchemists away."
She stifled a sob, as her mother could no longer recognize her. "It's me, mother. Kjoret." It didn't matter. Mentally, her mother was gone- only her body to follow.
The house was dark with only several tealights casting light against the walls. The air felt heavy and quiet, only filled with the occasional sniffle from Kjoret or a ragged breath from her mother. By this point, fluid began to fill Hafka's lungs, leaving her breaths garbled. Kjoret hated the sound- it wasn't even human. She laid back on the bench, eyes tracing the lines in the logs that made up their home. Soon, she prayed. To which god, Kjoret didn't know. She wasn't even sure the Divines existed. Why would they be so cruel and take such a gentle, benevolent soul before her time? She wasn't sure praying even felt right- she wanted her mother's pain to end… but that was also the equivalent of praying for her mother's death.
Reggvar rose from his seat and approached his dying wife. He whispered into her ear, "Hafka… close your eyes. It's ok. Think of the summers. Think of when our family took that trip west… travel there." Kjoret cried harder, seeing her father coax her mother into an eternal rest. "Let go," he finished.
The disjointed breaths quieted before stopping altogether. Kjoret clenched her jaw, fighting back a cry. Nothing came out, after an entire day of tears, nothing more could come. She rolled to the floor, facedown, and pounded a fist against the floor. "No!"
"Kjoret… I'm sorry," were the only words Reggvar could get out through his own tears. He helped Kjoret to her feet and they embraced. "I'll send for the priest of Arkay."
The funeral ceremony was not a typical burial within the Halls of the Dead. Hafka had been a lover of the outdoors and everything they offered. She had reveled in the beauties Kyne had gifted the world. It only seemed right that her body was returned to the goddess of elements and nature.
The remaining citizens of Windhelm had gathered and contributed what little they could. The local woodworker had built a raft that was shaped like a small boat. Hafka's body laid inside, surrounded by what flowers and plants the villagers had scrounged together. She looked beautiful again, at peace.
The group that had formed stood on the icy shores where the White River met the Sea of Ghosts to the north. With a nod from the priest of Arkay, Reggvar gave the raft a push, sending it out to sea. Soft ripples followed behind as the boat sailed forward, captained only by the will of Kyne. The priest of Arkay began the final prayer.
"Blessed Arkay,
Those who die still live in Your presence,
Their lives change, but do not end.
Blessed Arkay,
Your power brings us to birth,
Your providence guides our lives,
And by Your command, we return to dust.
In Your name, so let it be."
He gave a nod to Kjoret, who withdrew an arrow from her quiver. A mage lit the tip aflame and took a respectful step back. Aiming to the heavens, she let loose the arrow. It arched and flew like a shooting star in an otherwise lightless night sky. The arrow lodged itself into the raft's frame and lit up the dried flowers around her mother. With the small boat serving as a floating pyre, Hafka was returned to dust.
"Kjor," Ayrenn started while rubbing the small of Kjoret's back, "You've mentioned your mother has passed, but… why haven't you talked to me about it before?"
"I-" Kjoret was interrupted by a sniff, "Both of your parents are gone… and more recently than the passing of my mother. I didn't want to trouble you."
"My dearest love, grieving has no time limit. And simply because I have lost my parents doesn't mean you can't talk to me about losing your own," she offered soothingly. "I understand what you've gone through. The loss of my parents and now my brother as well is difficult for me too, but I have allowed myself to accept help from other people."
Kjoret sighed, knowing Ayrenn was right. "I love you, Renn. I can't lose you too."
"Enjoy our time now. We have decades ahead of us. I have you, and you have me." Kjoret leaned into her lover's side and Ayrenn pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I love you more than anything, Kjor. Forever and always."