The second death: also called "what happens in six out of the seven Origins".
Although they are not superstitious by nature, the elves of Clan Sabrae skirt warily around two saplings, one a birch and the other slightly younger, an elm. There is nothing dangerous about the replanted trees or the accompanying planes of recently upturned soil, nor is the area filled with an unseen sinister presence. Quite the opposite, actually. Tamlen, though brash and impulsive, had no trouble bringing laughter to the evening campfire and the young Mahariel had been the pride of her clan: an impeccable hunter and blossoming leader with unwavering determination and a fierce loyalty to those she called kin. Dalish elves are not naturally prone to skittishness, but there is something so very wrong about the two graves and even though the entire clan will be heading to the Free Marches the following morning, even the most stalwart hunter is anxious to leave their summer camp behind.
Swiftly do stars burn a path across the sky,
Only Merrill can bear the heavy aura of loss. She is heartbroken, yes— she had grown up with them and had watched from afar their burgeoning friendship, only recently mustering the courage to speak up midst the two strong personalities— but she is also curious, so very curious. She remembers tired, glossy green eyes that had once been so clear and focused. She remembers Mahariel's screams cutting through the night and she remembers heavy days of watching her friend descend into madness, frantically pleading for the singing to stop. Merrill both respects and fears whatever did this to her clanmates.
Hast'ning to place one last kiss upon your eye,
Fenarel, however, cannot bring himself to stand closer than an aravel's length to the graves, let alone linger around them. He had been the one to discover Mahariel's fevered form hours after she and Tamlen were due to return to camp. He had been the one in charge of the failed search for Tamlen's body and later, he had assisted in digging both graves. He, more than anyone except for the Keeper, recognized how much the clan had lost. More than two hunters. More than two of their own. An elvhen relic had done this. Not shemlen or dwarven, but something of theirs, corrupted and tainted by some foul presence. Their past couldn't be trusted, not anymore. So he breezes through the funeral rites and distances himself from the pain. With Mahariel's firm voice in his mind, he stands tall and reminds himself that Dalish hunters, above all else, dealt with what they were given.
Tenderly land enfolds you in slumber,
Hahren Paivel sits at the fire, lost in bittersweet memories of an indignant five year old girl with choppy pigtails and a perpetual scowl firmly insisting to practise with a bow twice her height. The same girl, who, a little more than a decade later, sat unflinching as he tattooed the symbol for Andruil across her forehead. He tries to distract himself by reciting the Fall of Dales to the children around him, but halfway through he hears himself explain that the loss of the homeland felt like "losing your favourite bow" and he lets out a huff that is half-sob, half-laugh. With a deep breath and a quick glance at the tears brimming in Ashalle's eyes, Paivel chooses to remember that girl, not the fever-ridden woman whose soul he had just guided to the Beyond.
Softening the rolling thunder.
Ashalle is not ashamed of the tears in her eyes. She is not ashamed to admit that she is in pain. She wished she could remember the better moments: Ellina's first bulls-eye, her first successful hunt, or her first elvish word, but at the moment all she could remember was the quiet baby with keen eyes the morning after Narahel vanished. The laughter and stories and triumphs would come later, as the saplings over the graves took root and grew into the tallest, strongest, wisest trees in the land. Ashalle takes a long look at the forest around her, at the elms and oaks and pines and firs and wonders how many of them contain the spirits of her fallen Dalish kinsmen. Even worse, how many parents sat in her position, staring at all that was left of a beloved child, knowing that their son or daughter would not be last. A mug of tea appears in her hand and she takes a sip, whispering a prayer that the roots of Ellina's tree may one day find the oak and willow of her mother and father. One hadn't needed to be Aran's best childhood friend to see his presence in Ellina and to Ashalle it felt like she was losing him all over again.
Dagger now sheathed, bow no longer tense.
Keeper Marethari sits in her aravel, finishing a day-old poultice that will no longer be needed. Dalish couldn't afford to waste resources, after all. She adds the last drops of Foxglove root oil with methodical precision, so consumed in her thoughts that she barely hears the steady plip, plip, plip. Despite how baselessly optimistic it sounded, she had always hoped to guide Aran Mahariel's daughter to a better life—beyond the sorrow and pain that had plagued her parents. The Gods, it seemed, had different plans. Marethari sighs the sigh of a woman who has seen too much death even in a lifetime as long as hers and silently urges her aching heart to move on. She has a clan to guide.
During this, your last hour, only silence.
