The silence in the room was thick, almost stifling, as Imoen's voice fell silent. So many more people had gathered there than had ever been expected. Heroes from every continent, dignitaries from every city . . . every life Duran had touched in her all-too-short time with them.

Her sister, the thief who had brightened her days with a cheery smile or comment, was crying, sobbing gently into the parchment that had been found on her body. She couldn't bear to look up, to see the sympathy and haunting grief echoed on each face around her.

There was a soft sob from the corner, and recognising the voice, Imoen found her gaze drawn upwards to see Jaheira crying. The sharp-tongued druid obviously felt the loss of their friend keenly, shaking in suppression of the violence of her grief. Duran had comforted her when they had stumbled across the body of her husband, Khalid, braving the storm of her tears to hold her close. But this time, no one could hold her, so caught up in the grief that they all shared.

A chair creaked, and every eye turned to where Anomen Delryn stood, his arms around the shoulders of his young children. Duran's children.

'She . . .' his voice cracked, and he took a moment to compose himself. 'She was a wonderful woman, as I am sure you would all agree. The only person I ever knew to take someone's problems and make them her own, to forcefully make things right. Even if she did sometimes get things wrong.'

He smiled, an odd faint smile that was echoed in the faces of those who had been on the receiving end of her well-meant advice with tragic consequences.

'There is nothing I can say that would do her memory justice,' Anomen said softly, releasing his children and moving to where his beloved wife's body lay, still and unmoving, in the shroud.

He knelt beside her, lifting one pale slender hand to his lips as his pain returned, moistening his cheeks with salt tears.

'Perchance now, you have found worthy companions, my love,' he murmured. 'May Helm, Torm, and Amaunator guide you, my lady Duran.'

With that, he returned to his children, taking them in his arms to comfort and dry their heart-breaking tears. Another gentleman rose, his features taut and stern, though they knew it was an effort to remain so composed.

'I know I am thought to be mad, but my heart, too, aches for the loss of my friend. She was the greatest companion a man could need, next to my own best friend.'

He turned to the shrouded body.

'Minsc and Boo miss you already, Duran, and we are proud to say that we knew the hero. I never did get you that ice weasel,' he added as an after-thought, stroking the hamster that peeked from his jerkin. 'But you never needed one to be the friend and woman that you were.'

'You know, for once, I have no tale to tell,' declared Jan Jansen, standing slowly. 'It seems that there is nothing I can say about her except this. That, like Minsc and Boo, I am proud to be able to say I knew her, and even more to say that I was her friend.'

Everyone nodded, feeling the loss deep within themselves, the pain that the sunny bard's voice would no more be heard in the clearing outside her little cottage, that no one would see again that beautiful smile that had made her so many friends in her lifetime.

They each had something they needed to say, and yet the words would not come. It was as Anomen had said; no words could truly do justice to her memory, the memory of a wonderful woman who had touched so many lives.

The party drifted away, slowly, each lost in their thoughts, to return to homes that bit less warm and cheery in reflection of the events of the day. Harder still was it for a husband to return to an empty cottage, children to return to a motherless hearth, but still they went, their goodbyes said and witnessed, heartfelt and heart wrenching.

And so it was that the body of Duran, the ward of Gorion and saviour of Baldur's Gate, was left to keep the lonely vigil through the night, till the morning, when she would finally be put to rest. But she was not entirely alone.

A dark shape slipped from the shadows where he had watched the proceedings and approached the forlorn shape. Cloaked in shadow as he was, no one could have told who he was, and those who saw him took his bent form for that of her husband, returned to keep the vigil himself.

The night crawled on, and still the dark figure said nothing, kneeling beside the hero's body with a stillness to match that of the corpse. An owl hooted in benediction of the night, but never did the silent watcher lift his head and acknowledge any presence.

His hand fell to that of Duran, and the fingers tightened convulsively on the still fingers, clutching to the last desperate hope that there could still be some way to restore her. But no, the life and essence had fled the mortal plane, and he knew that she now walked among those who had loved and protected her from childhood. Not even he would wish to tear her from that happiness.

The sky turned dusky in anticipation of the dawn, and still the kneeler knelt, his head bowed close to that of the shrouded figure. He raised his head as the birds burst into song, filling the cool air with their joyous voices.

'And so it ends,' he murmured. 'In a few hours, you will be buried and gone, and I, who am already forgotten by those I would have love me, will be many miles from here. It was I who set you on the path you took, and I who constantly plagued you. Were it not for me, you would not have carried so many cares, but you would not have been the person you were. I salute you, Duran. May your soul travel light until you meet once again with the ones who made your heart whole again.'

He rose, glancing about in the dawn light, before bending close once more to plant a simple kiss on the smooth forehead that would never know the lines that would have come with age.

'Farewell . . . sister.'

He slipped into the darkness, letting the shadows that had haunted his lifetime reclaim him once again. She truly had been his light towards the end, and now there was no reason for him to stay. He would join her before too long, a sad desolate man, too proud to seek aid from those who would help him for her sake.

And so, in the morning of a cold dull day, when the autumn leaves fell thick upon the ground, the beloved body of Duran was committed to ashes and buried within the grounds of Candlekeep, the place that had always been her home. The place where it all began had become the place for it all to end. Beneath the earth, near the grave of her beloved foster father, Duran slumbered on, peaceful at last.