Farewell My Loved Ones

I buried them in a shared grave beneath the family three, next to my brother and sister.

After all… they were family…

The guards had come running the moment I came in view of the city-gates, thought I was carrying a wounded. But they stopped in their tracks when the light from their torches fell on us, their shouting stopped, too—I don't know what was bloodier, the cloth I had covered them in, or me? They didn't ask as I walked past them, they simply moved aside to make room. I didn't pay attention to their faces, honestly, I didn't want to meet their eyes—seeing my tears was enough, didn't need them seeing my sorrow.

Thankfully, the dark streets were empty. Even if they hadn't been, the guards following us would've cleared the path for us. Some of them tried to help when we reached the stairs, but when I didn't stop to let them, they quickly backed off.

They felt so light in my arms… she always had.

I took them to the only place I could think of—my legs led us there anyway—Jorrvaskr. Tilma and Vignar had been waiting all night, half asleep by the tables. They woke the moment the doors shut behind me, lifting tired faces that softly awakened to apprehended dread and shock. No words were needed—they had eyes of their own.

Tilma had her fingers stuck to her lips the entire time as I sat them down on the floor, remaining on my knees by the bodies. Vignar's clenched face said ¨sorry,¨ but ¨my condolences¨ was more in his character—it didn't matter which, both meant the same. I couldn't bring myself to explain the wrapped package on Ysolda's stomach to them. If they figured it out, then so be it, if they didn't, perhaps it was for the better.

"Let's take her to the Hall of the Dead," Vignar had gently interrupted the moment.

¨The Hall of the Dead.¨

His words had stung hard, gripping at my heart to the point I hadn't been able to respond. But where else would I have taken them? It had felt as if my body moved on its own when I lifted them back up, as gently as I could. Vignar was already holding the doors open as I had turned.

There had been no guards to accompany us this time, and so we walked under pained silence after Vignar's flickering torchlight. My drawn-out steps had been slow, yet too fast—I wanted to hold her in my arms longer.

I had never been to the Hall of the Dead before. But sightseeing was the last thing on my mind, so I ignored the divine statues and lighted altars, decorating the stone walls, as Vignar led me to a large stone table—meant for preparing the dead.

My breath left me as I stood before the table—heart felt heavy. I couldn't put them down on it. For placing them on a table, meant for the dead, would mean I accepted them as such; dead. And in my heart, I had yet to accept them as such. I couldn't.

But they were dead… And one of them never even got to live.

A soft hand on my shoulder as Vignar stood beside me, his hand urging me to act. The quicker the better. He didn't speak, but I knew that's what he was telling me.

Something tore from me as I finally managed to place them on the table. As if I was giving away more than their bodies, something inside of me left my arms with them. I had never believed love could hurt—but it did.

It hurt so much, I couldn't breathe…

It hurt so much, I couldn't feel…

It hurt so much, I couldn't think, move, see, taste, smell, touch…

It hurt so much, I could barely manage to be.

I never noticed Vignar had left to get the Keeper of the Hall. And I never noticed them enter until they approached the opposite side of the table. The Keeper had looked tired, he wore sleeping garments—awakened in the middle of the night. But more so, he had looked indifferent as he began examining her. I should have been offended, but at that moment, those emotions didn't exist in me anymore. Besides, I couldn't blame him, he was used to these kinds of things. When he brought a bucket of water to clean her, I found myself reaching for his rag—if anyone was to clean her, it should be me. He hadn't objected.

Vignar had read the room as I began removing the cloth I had wrapped around her. They had both left shortly after. Even when they had been present I had felt alone, I didn't feel much different after they left. As I picked up the wrapped package from her, it felt horrible. It tore at me. There was no good spot to place it—no small table, no cleared altars. So I left it on the only place I could, a chair, lonely in a corner. Staring at me from the dark.

The water was cold as soaked the rag in the bucket. And for every streak of blood I wiped off, the pit in my stomach only grew deeper. But compulsorily, I continued; wiping away the blood from her face, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach…My hands stopped—shaking. I couldn't bring myself to go lower than that—how does one clean muscle and flesh?

The water was tinted red as I squeezed out the rag and dropped it in the bucket.

She was beautiful. Even in death, she was beautiful. I had always liked her hair, carrying all the colors of fire. I had never met anyone with hair like hers. Her amber eyes, they had always looked softly at me. I wanted her to open them one last time and see me—but I knew they would forever remain shut. Her soft lips, they always wore the cutest of smiles. And her smooth pink skin, cheeks, she always did blush easily. Rarely took more than a kiss. But her skin was paler now, as if bleached by the sun. Still, she was beautiful.

By Ysmir… I had always felt pathetic crying in front of her. This was no exception.

The Keeper returned with the sunrise. Tilma came, too. I'll take you to the Temple, she had said. To see the Healer. And taking my arm, she gently pulled me away. And heedlessly, I had followed.

The temple smelled of candles and light, incense and flowers. The Healer sat me down, and, with Tilma's help, removed my armor, fursuit, and tunic. There was an altar in front of me, a statue of Kynareth—Kyne—on in. I couldn't take my empty eyes off it as Tilma cleaned the blood off of me. How befitting; that the Goddess who leads souls to the afterlife would stare me in my eyes as I grieved, teasing me her moniker of 'Kiss at the End.'

I hadn't noticed it until the Healer placed her hands on my shoulder—golden light of warmth spreading from her palms. My transformation had accelerated the healing, leaving behind a pale white scar the length of a palm over my shoulder. But the wound had still been made by silver, and it seemed werewolves heal faster on the outside than on the inside—don't we all?

Torn trapezius… Broken collarbone… Severed tendon… She had mumbled as she moved her hands over my shoulder. I'm surprised you could carry anything at all. Did you pour a healing potion on this? You need to drink them for internal injuries. If that's how she had rationalized my healed skin, I wouldn't correct her.

The pain was… comforting? Bodily pain doing it's best to distract me from my mental one—it only worked as long as I kept my mind on it.

It took the entire day, but she eventually mended my bone, did her best on my muscle. But she told me the tendon had to heal on its own as she wrapped up my arm.

Surreality was the definition of my upcoming days—sleepless nights and drawn out days. I spent most of them in the Hall of the Dead, staring at nothing, locked in a hollow world between apathy and lethargy. The Keeper cared for her while I was there. Never seen anything like this, he had said. I believed him. He explained the preparations for me. He spoke to uncaringly, but honestly. He told me more than I needed to hear—I stopped listening the moment he spoke of ¨removing the organs to avoid decay.¨

I don't know how he prepared the wrapped package—didn't want to know. That he handed me a small clay-urn was already more than I could take. Once I held it in my hands, I couldn't let go of it. But neither could I look at it—I was too afraid of what would happen if I did.

Tilma had brought me food over the days. Us werewolves were always hungry, but I didn't have much of an appetite. It all tasted so bland. As if the food was missing its colors.

The others returned from their contracts over the days. First came Athis and Njada, giving mute apologies with dark expressions. They had seemed so distant. But then again, to me, everything felt distant; like trying to remember forgotten memories. Ria and Torvar had been louder. Ria cried harder than I ever did—she always was the sensitive one.

My condolences, young one. We all grieve for your loss. It sounded rehearsed, but I doubt anything Kodlak would say wasn't. Still, how typical of him to speak for all of them. I hated how every time he did, he actually did—speak for all of us. He knew us too well.

A lot of ¨shield-brother¨ had been thrown around when Farkas and Vilkas came. Farkas always was too honest for his own good. I knew he meant well, but he used the word ¨dead¨ more times than anyone ever should outside of a threat—though he also used the word ¨sad.¨

Vilkas had stayed with me. I thought he'd try to comfort me as he sat down beside me; tell me everything will be alright, apologies, speak of vengeance, come with some ridiculous ¨wisdom.¨ Anything really. But he remained silent, just like I wanted—he always did see right through me. And his silent company brought more comfort than any words ever could.

The Keeper had taken the liberty to prepare a place for her in the Hall of the Dead. Said it was time for the funeral. But I had never intended for them to rest in damp hallways of stone and death, amongst strangers and dust. They deserved sunlight on their tombs.

I… I want to take them home.

Those had been the first words to leave me in almost two weeks. He understood.

Vilkas made most of the preparations; hired a carriage, travel-chest, gravestone. Cruel how carriages always charged extra for transporting dead bodies. I didn't want to know how much of our treasury he used on them, but I had the feeling the others didn't hesitate to pitch in with their own pocket-coin.

White skies. There was no wind in the air, but heavy snow fell softly around us like a silk curtain sailing to the ground. The chickens we owned kept quiet, cowering from the snow in their huts. But the cows showed no embarrassment as they kept mooing in complaint for the cold.

I gently placed their bodies in the grave my father had helped me dig. I had asked to do it alone, but he wouldn't let me—don't know if he didn't want me to be alone, or if it was him who didn't want to be alone. Not that it mattered. Even if we didn't speak, his company had been good—been years since I spent any time with him, could have been for a better reason though.

I lay the urn on Ysolda's chest and wrapped it in her arms. She had looked beautiful at Skjor's funeral—but I never thought she'd wear this dress to her own. I wanted her to wear her blue dress, but that one didn't cover up her feet, and I wasn't about to show what had been done to her to my parents.

My mother had placed mountain flowers around their grave; coloring the surrounding snow with red, purple, and blue. Those were the only flowers that bloomed even in winter. She had also lit candles all around the grave, though the candles had already gone out by the snowfall.

Along with my parents, every companion was present.

Kodlak looked his usual self. But I knew it wasn't because of indifference, he had simply seen too many funerals to have any sorrow left to share.

My heart weeps at the grief in your own, was how he had introduced himself to my parents.

Farkas wore uncomfortability on his face. Vilkas, like Kodlak, poise and respect.

Again, Ria sobbed worse than my mom, Torvar too.

Like Kodlak, Farkas, and Vilkas, Athis and Njada stayed true to the ¨face of a companion¨— willful honor decorating their stance.

I leaned down to move aside some stray strands of her fiery red hair from her face. She was so pale now. Hard as it was, I lovingly brushed my fingers over her face and mentally took farewell of her. The thought of it being the last time I'd touch her made my hand stay on her cheek. She was so cold. And the snow was already dotting her face.

I had avoided this moment for days, almost weeks. But it had to be done. It had to. I couldn't breathe as I pushed myself to look down at the tiny urn in her arms. Our urn.

I placed a kiss on my fingers and touched it to the rough clay urn—it felt like the right thing to do—but as I did, my heart became so heavy I no longer knew if it was beating or not.

Did I really have a child?

I carefully took Ysolda's hand in my own, touched her cold stiff fingers, and removed her wedding ring. Eorlund had given me a small chain before we left—prepared in the Skyforge—and I had a feeling this is what he had made it for as I pulled the chain through her ring and placed it around my neck.

The ring felt warm against the skin on my chest as I tucked it inside my tunic.

As I stepped back to join the others, my father grabbed the shovel and began burying them. I could feel every spade of snow and dirt that landed on them. Pain.

This was the second time I heard him sing 'The Hymn of Kyne.' This time, in pain, I joined in the song. Kodlak did the same… Didn't know he could sing.

As the last spades fell, Vilkas grabbed my shoulder and gave me a look.

"Don't look at your parents," he whispered.

Yes… I could feel it.

I had seen what my wolf had done when I had gone back for their bodies and my armor. My wolf hadn't just killed them. He had slaughtered them. Mutilated them. Some of the Silver Hands had even been left to die by their wounds—not something he usually did: leaving prey to suffer.

I held no anger nor rage towards the Silver Hand. I knew they weren't to blame. Like so many others, they had been nothing more than her toys. There was only one to blame. But she hadn't been there. Of course, she hadn't been there. She had never intended to face me, she had intended to break me. And in a sense, she had.

Krev… Krev…. Krev…

No matter how many times I summoned her name in my mind, anger was beyond me. Only sadness and sorrow—pain and grief—remained. No… there was no anger within me. Yet my eyes had taken to glow.

Seems even my wolf was attending. But in a way I understood…

It was his family, too.

After all, he had yet to use them against me in my fading dreams of horror.

I crossed one arm over my chest and lifted the other, pretending to rub the tears out of my eyes to hide them, a foolish thought—there was no need to pretend. But with no anger to calm, there was little I could do but to let him watch.

My father stuck the spade into the ground and kneeled down by the blank gravestone. He brushed the layers of snow that had formed on it and gave me a wave to join him.

With a heavy sigh, I walked forward, still covering my eyes. As I kneeled down beside him he placed his hand on my shoulder and reached out his other hand in front of me.

He was holding a chisel and a small hammer.

"This honor is for you to do, my son." The hollow weeks ended. Reality struck. Mara's mercy, how could I ever? "Do you have a name?" He asked.

A name? By Ysmir… a name?

My heart tore. Tears starting to run down my cheeks. Why? A lump in my throat.

I had a child.

He held the tools in front of me, waited, took all the time I needed, until I accepted them and leaned forward, placing the chisel against blank stone.

"Yes…" I answered as I lifted the hammer.

- HERE LIES YSOLDA SHOAL -

- MOTHER AND WIFE -

- AND -

- JIDA SHOAL -

- WHO NEVER LEARNED OF LIFE -